The only time I’ve been to WuZhen before was when I was little. I don’t remember much of it other than the traditional Chinese architecture and the rain. The constant, soft drizzle. Not much has changed.
We stayed overnight in the west town. Every step lining every street is an individual stone, each one uniquely patterned. The dense alleyways criss-cross one another, each one looking just like the last and the next. We strolled as we pleased, lured by turns here and there. The two main riverbank streets are lined with cute shops on one side, and restaurants and street foods on the other.
It was an escape, the best of escapes. It was the kind of tranquility that accompanies. Its complete unfamiliarity elicits every passer-by’s curiosity, but in turn offers them utter belongingness. The permanent veil of fog mystifies the town without making it cold and aloof. You’re always expected, and welcomed.