I arrived here into one of the many centres of the irresistible economic explosion that characterises the modern corporate colonisation of Asia from Beijing in April of 2000, on an efficient train packed close with curious friendly strangers, just as the last big snow was drifting down.
Changchun has an urban population approaching 4 million, almost everyone with a cellular phone it seems.
Pure white hid the dirty frozen earth and the mounds of winter's refuse that clung to it among stubborn war preparations of long ago. I saw well-equipped, well-trained soldiers mindful ever of their duty to the future.
Near the Changchun central train station I thoroughly enjoyed my first real Chinese meal and considered further my plan for being here in the political and geographical heart of influential old Manchuria, the cultural centre of the three northeast provinces, the recognised home of standard Mandarin, the official language of China.
Besides the expectation that given enough time and a little luck I could eventually set up shop, a life-long interest in all things oriental was reason enough to settle here for a while, but there are other inducements.
It is possible to live without working too hard.
I might find my muse.
Here, in a foreign land, a foreigner has no duty to offer opinions
that challenge accepted government policy. In another country far from
home, one that is not even a democracy as it is commonly understood,
one is free of that particular duty.