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    The airliner touched down on the foggy, wet runway and slowly taxied to a halt. It had arrived at the airport outside of town at 6:50. A student of art history, it was my first trip to Xun county in mainland China, a place famous for its ancient temples.
    I looked out of the small cabin window at the props as they slowly spun to a stop. It was early winter and the white floss of the reed flowers was already gone. A large patch of straight and barren stalks stood on the nearby riverbank.
    “We ask for your patience as the ground crew readies the stairway,” announced a stewardess in mandarin with a Beijing accent. She was dressed in a white blouse and blue skirt, her


Winter in Pei Chern Village 北辰村之冬, woodcut by Chen Chi-Mao 陳其茂, 37 × 53 cm, 1973. Courtesy of Prof. Ting Chen-wan 丁貞婉.

hair in two shoulder-length braids.
    I unfastened my seatbelt and took a deep breath. So close to my destination, I should have felt relaxed, but I was in fact somewhat nervous.
    I shouldered my bag that was filled with photo equipment and, like the other passengers, made my way slowly down the narrow aisle toward the exit.
    I wondered if my father’s cousin, whom I had never met, would be at the airport to meet me.
    A gust of wind hit my face. I pulled my scarf tight and turned up the collar of my overcoat and stepped out onto the iron stairs stretching out before me.
    Old Zhu, who was assigned by China Travel Service to look after me, was a tall, thin man pushing fifty. He was dressed in a blue people’s suit with white cuffs. His collar was opened, revealing a white shirt underneath. When he talked, his irregular, yellowish front teeth bespoke a heavy smoker. But he was quite frank and reminded me of a devoted Party secretary or a grassroots unit cadre that I had read about.
    When we arrived at the Liqun Hotel, it was not yet open for business. Old Zhu rang the bell at the side door several times, and a young man with closely cropped hair answered almost at once. Seeing us, he hurriedly stepped forward and took the luggage Old Zhu had been carrying for me.
    “The County Commissioner’s office notified us yesterday,” he said politely with a friendly smile.
    Following him, we entered a small courtyard through the side door. The honeysuckles, azaleas and Chinese cypresses were all lush even in winter. Only the daylilies under the white chalk wall had withered and yellowed. Through an arch shaped like a plum blossom, and behind a row of pines, was a corridor along which lay the rooms of the guest wing. In a regular order, the wooden windows of gloomy reddish nanmu wood, carved in a flower pattern, followed one upon the other.
    When the hotel attendant, who was called Little Chen, unlocked a room at the end of the wing, I half expected to see purple-cloud gossamer and other traditional Chinese sandalwood furniture of the sort that one reads about in classical novels.
    Inside were a wooden bed and a desk, far simpler than I had expected. But they did look a bit like what would have been found in the home of a squire or public official a long time ago.
    “Someone will bring you a thermos of hot water every morning and evening, and three meals a day will be provided at the dining hall. If you need anything, let me know,” said Old Zhu frankly, showing his yellow teeth. “Time is tight, so grab some rest. We’ll start the visits this afternoon.”
    Standing in the doorway, he turned and shook my hand and said, “Welcome back. Look around and you’ll see that great progress has been made.”
    His hand was quite strong and the additional pressure he applied seemed to further affirm what he had just said.
    The schedule was indeed very tight. Within three or four hours,...