Winter in China

It was cold. Not the kind of cold I experience at home, but a sharp, biting kind of cold. The wind seemed to find the holes between the fabric in my clothes and tear right through it. But there was nothing to do inside, so we decided to go out and explore.
 
The wind snapped in my face turning it a bright pink in contrast to my natural paleness. I couldn't help but feel amazed at myself, on this late winter's afternoon, wandering down back alleys in Jin Zhou, China. I imagined all my friends sitting at home in Canada, comfortable in their heated homes, maybe eating dinner or having a nap. And here I was, half a world away, in a place that many foreigners will never see.
 
Surrounding the alley were crumbling brick and mortal walls, some topped with jagged pieces of glass, aquamarine against the greyish sky. Periodically, a noisy blue or black motorized bicycle would clatter by, or a huge, blue government issue transport truck. In the winter, the peasants had harvested the last dried hay and bundled it up in huge piles. Stacked on top of the little houses, the bundles looked like something out of an old movie. In the frigid air, smoke danced and coal dust billowed, as black as night. Against one old wall, by a dried up and dusty tree, some fat brown chickens strutted through the grass. The were as large as a small dog, and we watched them calmly mosey about for a few minutes.
 
As the sun began to sink, the cold also began to sink in. Attempting to avoid the thin, crispy ice on the gravelly road, we picked our way back to the school, with visions of hot cha (tea) and our insanely hot rooms dancing in our heads.