Tuesday, May 6, 2008The Great Wall, Mutianu
Passing through the first guardhouse going west, we find the interior walls white washed, then covered with graffiti in every conceivable language. Not bad stuff. Not even marginal stuff. It’s names—the signatures of those who came before us.
With a big smile on her face, Holly whips out a green pen. I whip out a black pen.
And we become part of the Wall’s history.
(Beats the heck out of that time I nearly got kicked out of the original Hard Rock in London for signing a wall there.)
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