A thousand wooden houses stacked up a hillside in Guizhou, a dawn that never arrived, and the eighteen per cent of the ticket price that keeps the roofs on.

A garrison town wrapped around an S-bend of the Wuyang River, a cliff with thirty-six buildings bolted to it, and a lesson about toll gates that cost me a hundred yuan.

Everyone tells you Chongqing is the largest city on earth. Thirty-two million people, they say. The number is real, and it is still the wrong number.

Three hours through the mountains from Xi'an, an afternoon in a restored Manchu garrison, and a 07:30 slot at the panda base that did nothing whatsoever to beat the crowds.

Farmers digging a well in 1974, a history museum where you fight for a view of every display case, and eight thousand clay soldiers in the rain outside Xi'an.

Three days in Shanghai: a garden built for somebody's father, a neighbourhood I reached ninety minutes late, and a mile of riverfront that everybody stands on with their backs turned.

A taxi collected me at half past eight and the next morning I woke up in Shanghai. There is a technical term for that, and it involves nineteenth century Portland.

The last night in Mumbai: a night market, a decision not to sleep, and a 2:25 AM departure. Seat 59D turns out to be a find. Home before noon.

Hollywood has the money. Bollywood has the numbers. A comparison of two industries that share a name suffix and almost nothing else, from someone who has spent time in both.