Changchun

It was generally observed by the forces of the Republic.

On the 15th of April, however, there was a resounding breach when the Yenan Reds laid siege to the important city of Changchun in Manchuria, which lies on the railway from Mukden to Harbin.

Three days later, the Reds had Changchun.

That day, General Marshall returned to Nanking.

Chang, finding the truce broken to his disadvantage, ordered his forces to recapture Changchun.

A month later, the Nationalist forces defeated the Reds in a battle south of Changchun and, with the Reds in flight to the northward, the Nationalists easily retook Changchun on the twenty-third of May.

At this time, the advantage lay with the forces of the Republic.

This was before, mind you, the Yenan Reds had been able to train their conscripts with the new weapons handed them by the Russians.

It is heavier, wetter, clinging to the skin like a damp cloth that refuses to dry even when the sun breaks through the cloud cover.

I arrived here yesterday evening, moving south along the Harbinjilin Corridor from Changchun, a journey that felt less like a crossing of provinces and more like a descent into a different atmosphere entirely.

The road was long, roughly 230 kilometers, taking nearly three hours as we navigated the familiar gray stretches of infrastructure that stitched the Northeast together.

By the time I pulled into Wuchang, the sky was already bruising with the promise of rain, and the temperature had settled at a steady 17 degrees Celsius.

It is late September, and the air outside carries that specific crispness you only find when summer finally releases its grip on the northeast.

I am sitting in my small flat in Chaoyang District, watching the water trace paths down the glass, knowing that today is my last full day in Changchun before the high-speed rail takes me north toward Harbin.

There is a quiet melancholy to leaving a place that has offered such cool relief from the heat of the capital, especially as the first autumn colors begin to stain the wide boulevards with gold and rust.

Before I step out into the drizzle, I want to take a moment to thank those who have been following this journey.

I am sitting in my modest one-bedroom flat in Chaoyang District, watching the drops trace slow paths down the glass, thinking about how quickly time moves when you are living somewhere rather than just passing through.

This is my last full day in Changchun before the high-speed rail takes me north towards Harbin, and there is a quiet melancholy in packing boxes that feels less like leaving and more like pausing.

I have spent the morning sorting through the small accumulation of objects that make a space a home, folding shirts, stacking books, and deciding what is essential enough to carry across the province.

The rent for this place was about one thousand three hundred yen a month, which is roughly one hundred and eighty dollars, a figure that still surprises me with its accessibility, especially when compared to the cost back home or even in the southern cities.

Yet here I am, relying on the local shop near the station for my top-ups, a habit born of necessity rather than preference.

Stepping out into the street, the temperature is a brisk eleven degrees Celsius, cool enough to require a light jacket but warm enough to walk without rushing.

The boulevards of Changchun are unusually wide, a legacy of the Soviet-era planning and the Japanese colonial grid that laid out these avenues with an arrogance of space that few other Chinese cities possess.

I walk towards Jinjiuetan National Forest Park, the vast expanse of artificial pine forest that serves as the city's green lung, its ninety-six percent forest cover standing in stark contrast to the concrete sprawl surrounding it.

The light in Changchun has a particular weight to it now.

It is late September, and the air has shifted from the humid warmth of summer into something crisp and clear, carrying the faint, dry scent of pine and fallen leaves.

I am on day 10 of 12 here, settled into this northern city with its unusually wide boulevards and forest parks, watching the first hints of autumn color begin to touch the edges of the trees.

As I rode, I noticed the first turning leaves, patches of yellow and orange breaking through the green, signaling the approach of winter.

The silence here is profound, broken only by the sound of tires on pavement and the occasional call of a bird hidden in the branches.

Changchun is a city built on contradictions, a place where Soviet-era planning meets Japanese colonial architecture, and where heavy industry sits beside serene nature.

It is known as both Auto City and Film City, home to the first automobile works, which produced China's first domestically built car, the Hongqi, and the Changchun Film Studio, the birthplace of New China Cinema.

I had visited the studio earlier in the week, seeing the preserved workshops and props from classic films, but today I felt drawn to the natural spaces instead.

When we think that we filmed with Peter O'Toole on the harbor side in, uh, in Dalian.

We were shot in Puyi's old palace, which we rebuilt in Changchun.

Yeah.

Where there were no hotels there.

The three-stall in Huifang, China.

The three-stall in Changchun, China.

The three-stall in Shenyang, China.

The three-stall in Xian, China.