Ruins of St. Paul’s Cathedral, Macau

The intricate concrete façade looms over the city, standing like a doorway to nowhere. As when visiting all ruins, I am overcome by the mutability of life—how the works of whole communities can disappear. Sometimes over the passing of many years; sometimes in the blink of an eye. The heat of a fire. The roar of a wave.

I am drenched in sweat. I wish I were not wearing a bra—it’s like a sweat receptacle and goes squish-squish when I move. Probably the only time my diminutive boobs will be doing squishing of any kind. Sigh.

There is a terrifying chatter coming from the trees above—terrifying because I know it comes from the collective hum of a thousand giant shiny black bugs that live there. Giant black flying beetles the size of half m closed fist.

The territory was colonized by the Portuguese, and the buildings are a delightful mix of European and Asian. The mosaics on the floor remind me of the undulating pattern on Las Ramblas in Barcelona. Macau also reminds me of rural Taiwan. I wonder if it is because of the mopeds, street food and papaya milk.