China’s largest city. A contemporary megalopolis of 30 million inhabitants.
From this side of the riverside Bund looks like a whole world perched on the Oriental Pearl Tower. Endless lights, in the rippling reflections of the Hangpu. Voices that chase and confuse, until they become a new language. Can you feel it?

Venice of the East. Marco Polo described it in Il Milione. 350 stone bridges, 12 pagodas and 50 temples. But my destination is another: the Silk Museum. 6,000 years of history and processing of one of the finest fabrics in the world. This is where I see the Mud Silk, typical of the Guangdong region. Sophisticated, light, rare as a pearl.

Nanjing, a lost capital. . It lives in its contrasts. Cosmopolitan and commercial, with perfect and fast logic; millenary and stoic, in rites of gratitude and slowness.
It has its own rhythm, like the looms of seamstresses. Hundreds of hands in a row, under neon white lights, in the heart of an imperial culture.

Middle Earth closes here, in the dark loop of a macramé frog. A casket halfway between the head and the heart, where I feel the breath growing and sometimes missing. Of the East I love its meaning: to rise. Zhong Guo is rebirth, like dawn on a celebration day.