After our two-day break in Beijing, we took the bullet train once again to go to Shenyang, Feng’s hometown.

We stayed almost a month in Shenyang in 2014. Still, I don’t feel I know the city well—Mark wasn’t even two years old, we shared an apartment with Feng’s mum, and a bunch of relatives were constantly taking us to various places even though we were saying “no, no, thank you!” twenty times in a row.

This time, we rented our own place, Mark is older, and… well, there are still plenty of relatives around to visit but (hopefully) on our terms.

It was only a 3.5-hour train ride but we stepped into another world in Shenyang. It looks like the government forgot to put the Northeast on the five-year development plan—it’s chaotic, with construction underway everywhere (night and day, I’m typing this at 2 a.m. and I can hear the road being fixed again outside), and Stalinist (or maybe Brutalist) architecture.

And of course, you’re greeted by a massive statue of Chairman Mao in the middle of Zhongshan Square, the centrepiece of downtown Shenyang.

“Is he telling us to go this way? I’m lost here… and we need food.”

Yes, I’m a bit lost in Shenyang. It doesn’t help that 90% of locals stare at me and wonder out loud what the hell I’m doing here because no foreigner ever comes to Shenyang. Nor that they all speak “Dōngběi huà“, the local dialect—just add “er” to every word and don’t bother pronouncing most of them.

I find it all very entertaining. Eh, I can speak Dōngběi huà too!

Now, can I figure out Shenyang?