I take a glance out the window, and it feels like we are floating across the winter-worn countryside—defying space, but not too immodestly; this is one of China's slower trains after all. The snow, beaten hamlets and open land look like sliding pictures from our floating tunnel, where sore bottoms, chattering Mandarin, and hot, smoke-filled air make up the most immediate reality. It's so warm, in fact, that a man in front of me just rolled up half his T-shirt to cool off. A kid behind is complaining "it's too hot" over and over to the half-agreement, half-annoyance of those around him. Many, including me, are waiting for the next stop, not because we'll get off, but because the open doors will flush some this sweltering cramptness out, and bring some of that cool country in.
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