“Getting to know a city starts with its museums”
2019.2.10 Luoyang, Henan
"There is little idle land at the top of Beimang Mountain, filled with old tombs of Luoyang people."
After typing this sentence on the note, I got out of the car. It was a rainy day and there were very few pedestrians on the street.
Beimang Mountain is the remnant of the Qinling Mountains and a branch of the Yaoshan Mountains. The ancients said that one was born in Suzhou and Hangzhou and died in Beimang. Su Qin, Zhang Yi, Lu Buwei, Liu Xiu, Li Yu, Du Fu, Yan Zhenqing, etc. were all buried in Beimang. The loess was thick and thick, and many famous people were buried there.
"Turn right fifty meters ahead. The destination is on your left. Navigation ends."
Following the navigation guide and walking into the Luoyang Ancient Art Museum, I felt a sense of awe and coldness that invaded my bones. As the world's first tomb museum, it displays representative tombs from the Western Han Dynasty to the Jin Dynasty. The original tombs were moved and kept in order.
Spectacular, cold, dead, yet warm and beautiful.
Here is the towering mausoleum of Emperor Xiaowen of the Northern Wei Dynasty, the tragedy of three generations of Pei and Zhuan being buried together on one day, the almost fresh murals hidden in the mezzanine of the wall due to etiquette, and the lingering of ordinary anonymous people on ordinary moments in life.
Marvel at the unique white jade cup that came from the ancient tomb of the unknown person, and the painted ceremonial pottery figurines that once stood in such darkness and tranquility. Through the mottled murals, we can see with our own eyes the complex emotions of the ancients who both longed for the afterlife and were obsessed with the world. In the mural hall, I like the elegant feathered man the most. He almost wants to fly into the sky in the strong wind, and carries the soul of the tomb owner to the paradise. It is particularly free and easy.
I sneezed twice in a row and felt the coldness of the underground palace. In the coldness, I lamented the entanglement and reconciliation between human beings and their surroundings and themselves in the experience and understanding of the complex world.
No matter what era, whether emperor or ordinary people, all you can see here is the ending. One's thoughts on life and death, one's ending.
I strolled to the old town at night. It was raining heavily, a wet dog ran past me, and there was a sea of restaurants selling cups and cups. I remember one noodle shop very clearly.
Passing by a tavern with lights on all night long, the cotton curtains were lifted, and the bright yellow light cut through the shadows and poured into the street, followed by heat and fragrance.
This shop quietly grew up in the corner of the old city. I heard that the treasure of the shop is the old man who cooks the soup. The young man who cooks mutton soup next door has been cooking noodles here since he was born. Over the years, the neighbors have changed again and again, but he is still there. Cook noodles.
The reputation of the restaurant spreads, and the queue time is too long. It is said that some famous people have been there before, but there are no seats, so they eat standing up. I stood in front of the door and stared blankly. The old man was at the door, crossing his arms and looking up at the rain.
I sat down and flipped through the menu hesitantly, feeling huge annoyance in my heart. I had already eaten all the way before, and I didn’t have the energy to have another meal. I didn’t want to have the heart to leave, so I finally ordered a bowl of porridge and a bowl of noodles. It's a signature.
I thought to myself: If I really can’t eat it, then just lick it. A fucking lick will do.
The waiter brought tea and water, and the old man pulled the noodles with both hands. He put a dab of lard in the soup bowl, poured a ladle of hot soup, and took a mouthful of noodles.
Really, just one bite, the thick porridge is served in a small bowl. Oh my god, is this the magic of this store? Just throw it away like this, and if you feed it to a dog, the dog will cry till the end of the leash.
I didn't dare to say anything because I was on a pilgrimage, but I heard the old man say: Make some more and pack them for this young man.
Looking back, I saw the old man starting to make noodles again. Two portions are full, and the noodles are specially made to be slightly cooked, so that when I return to the hostel, the hot soup will be cooked just right without swelling.
I secretly guessed that this old man had become an immortal? How does he know all my needs? Eat small portions for dine-in, I want the original taste, and pack the rest for fear of causing trouble to the store.
The old man said to me: It's past meal time, and if you don't speak in a hurry, it means you're not hungry, so you're here to try something new. I ordered two signature dishes, but actually a bowl of porridge was enough. The noodles were added to take care of business.
He understands all my thoughts, so he handles it in a way that is good to me.
The old man's beard and hair are all white, and it's hard to tell how old he is. The reason he understands must be because of his experience. Only after experiencing hunger can you understand what to order at that time; only after experiencing curiosity can you understand that you need to provide a variety of choices.
Sometimes I feel that fate is wonderful. I have always believed that if history is a vertical extension of five thousand years, then an individual's life is a horizontal extension. What happened in the past is traveling at the speed of light, traveling freely, vastly and casually throughout the entire universe. And now I am standing on the same land, completing a crossover in time and space.
This is the true meaning of walking.
