I’m walking through the station hall when I see a finger pointed at me. A little kid tugs at her dad's jacket, surprised to see someone with such a beard. Now I'm sure: not many tourists pass through this city.

The first time I heard about this place was a few years ago on the news. You probably did too.

The second time was a few days ago. A guy I met on a walking tour mentioned that it was the only stop on his trip that didn't feel like propaganda staged for tourists. I needed nothing more. Here I am, hijacking my plans again, adding one more stop to this last part of the trip: welcome to Wuhan.

I step outside of the station and I feel teleported to a barbecue party.

The air is pregnant with smoke, but not the one from fire. The one that comes from meat pouring fat on hot coals. I can almost hear the drops landing on them.

But none of that is happening, just taxis parked waiting for their next ride.

Only a few minutes later, I discover where the smell comes from. The city, on Saturday night, is packed with street stalls. Mostly skewers and grilled meat.

Now, everything makes sense.

Out of the blue, some spice in the air hits my throat and I start coughing. It seems it’s not only about meat around here.

I grab some food, then go back to what I do best: pick the darkest, sketchiest road and walk into it. A way to escape the crowd and the stalls on the main street, looking for some calm (not sure if that’s the right word) life.

Closed stalls, some veggie stalls, and some puddles. Yes, rain tagged along to Wuhan too.

The deeper I walk, the fewer the lights. I set my North Star on a bright light a few hundred meters away.

That light is the only witness to a group of friends playing cards. After some hesitation, I walk over and take a seat beside them. Money moves between hands. I have no idea what they’re playing, but it looks fun. They are all focused and one guy seems to be winning every hand.

Gambling is illegal in China.

That’s what they say.

As an echo of the kid in the train station, here I am posing for a selfie with a family that wants to keep a memory of my face, or just my beard. Who knows.

The lights in the skyline on the other side of the river feel familiar. The same scenario I witnessed in Shanghai. Showing off or entertaining?

That's when a guy asks me about the camera around my neck. His name is Leo. He’s a street photographer too. And he offers to show me how locals do breakfast tomorrow.

I'll never stop repeating it: people are nice.

Do you ever have this feeling that you are holding back from enjoying something fully just because you know it's temporary?

It surfaces now, in the taxi.

It comes from a tiny observation about my luggage. I realize I've stopped unpacking. I take out what I need and push in the dirty laundry. Regardless of whether I'm staying only two nights or five. I’m not enjoying the whole space because I will have to pack everything again soon, and I tend to default to optimising effort.

I know it's silly.

But then I think about life. In general. How many times have I not given 100% in a situation or encounter just because it was temporary? Not always, but it happens. Kind of a safety distance that protects me from... feelings? Maybe. The same effort optimisation, sneaking into other parts of my life? Probably.

If I'll never see this person again, or never come back here, why make the effort? one part of me asks. Why not give it everything, and forget about time? another part answers.

On this trip, with some stops lasting less than a day, I've faced these questions often. And even after all this time, I still catch that reflex.

It’s on me to recognize it, tear it down, and be fully present. Like I was this morning, having breakfast with Leo.

Till the next missive,

— M