Washington Notes｜No Long Road to the Fairy Mountains 🏔️

It is unusual for Washington to cool only by mid-November. I must have been careless, for I caught a cold after a sudden rain 😷. The drive from Capitol Hill back to school was clogged for what felt like forty minutes. Outside the window, the Washington Monument stood enveloped in rain, the park surrounding it blurred into a haze of green 🌧️. Joggers ran side by side in the drizzle, and cyclists sped past like swallows. Since coming to America, I’ve grown accustomed to not carrying an umbrella ☂️. The rain here is soft, like unbroken threads of silk. When the sky dims, a damp chill seeps into the bones, sometimes turning my hands bright red. Yet as soon as the clouds part, the sun bakes me warm again ☀️. Whenever raindrops touch my forehead, I am reminded of the rain in Guiyang—a fine, needle-like cold that pierces deep into the flesh. Most memories from my youth have blurred 😌. What remains clear is sitting at my desk, peering through the half-open screen window into that small, rain-drenched world outside. The room was small, a near-perfect cube. A few languid succulents sat on the windowsill, while the floor around the desk and bedside table was piled with exam prep materials, comic books, and the MP4 player I used for English listening practice. Below, large magnolia blossoms flourished, their waxy leaves gleaming with a glossy green 🌸. Nearby stood a few young apricot trees, newly planted the year before. Raindrops fell like scattered pearls onto a neighbor’s awning. A dog barked fiercely somewhere 🐶, startling a stray cat that knocked over a food bowl and darted into the bushes, whimpering softly 🐱. Beyond the magnolia branches stood a hill, often hidden by the leaves. Stray cats and monkeys fought for territory there, and the wild greenery grew in such a messy, almost ugly way—certainly no dwelling for gods or immortals 🙈. Perhaps because of the mild, humid climate, the mountain never seemed to fade. In the rain, it grew even greener—deeper, almost overwhelming. My gaze often lingered there, even as the physics test on my desk grew damp from the drifting mist. But I didn’t really mind 😅. It wasn’t as if struggling harder would have helped me solve those problems anyway. It wasn’t particularly high, but it was enough to block my view of what lay beyond. At times, a sudden fear would seize me—that this hill would forever stand in my way, and I would remain trapped inside that little box of a room 😰. The thought was suffocating. Outside, the rain grew wilder, until even that already frail pot of succulents was blown over. I finally closed the window— Outside now is the grassy courtyard of my apartment. The trees have shed nearly all their leaves 🍂. A few graduate students are smoking by the wall, and others are murmuring in small groups. All at once, the world turns quiet. My playlist loops to "Childhood" by Lo Ta-you 🎵. My father once told me how he used to catch cicadas as a boy, shooting sparrows with a slingshot; my mother recalled rarely getting to eat chewy peanut candy, but how her father bought her many books instead. Their generation's memories seem to be fading from our collective consciousness. After six years, that once-fearful thought resurfaces: It is the best of times, it is the worst of times; it is an age of unwavering sovereignty, yet also of rampant skepticism. Some revel in extravagance in this era, while others languish in poverty. I am not superstitious, nor do I preach belief. But sometimes I still wish a deity lived in that hill—that it would visit my dreams, lift me up to that ugly mountain I once feared, and let me look back at the girl by the window, timid and lost 🥺. In that space, "escape" would no longer be a failing, but a form of utopian realism—letting one live, conflicted yet whole, in both past and present. "No long road to the Fairy Mountains, only the bluebird's faithful flight." 🕊️ If such a messenger exists, fly across the oceans, and tell my family: All is well here. 💫 #WashingtonDiaries #Nostalgia #ImmigrantStories #CulturalReflection #MemoryLane #RainyDays #GrowingUp #GenerationalStories #LifeAbroad #WashingtonLife #Essay #PersonalReflection #Transcultural