Django in Hang-Zhou He is waiguo ren: foreigner. When he walks to the market his dark head sees over theirs as if he were a child, held on his father’s shoulders. They point at him and stare. He is twenty-one, and empty as a thousand-year-old wine jug. He is also in love, not with what is foreign in Hang-Zhou, but with what is most himself-- the cold and ancient lake, the blue mountains, and in spring with the puffs of dust that followed the galloping carts of emperors. I think he was among the watchers that lined the streets when these trees were small. I asked him once, Why is it that Mandarin’s so easy for you? Because I’m a musician, he said, which was like the doll, that still has many dolls inside.