Pork roasted over a stone basin, glistening on bamboo skewers. Through the murk of the flame I see the lush forests of Tengchong, deep in Yunnan province. Miles away are coffee trees that supply 99 percent of China's Arabica. We emerge from the trees and take a short ride to a local cafe, where we sip on espresso shots resting on cold milk and eat dried mango so fragrant it blooms in your nose.

In Tengchong I found out that hot air balloons inhale and exhale, just like the rest of us. They heave flaming air and move up and down to catch the right wind currents. If you squint hard enough, you can see the rope tying each balloon to the ground. Sometimes it's so thin that you think you're seeing a fracture in the sky.

I fly four hours back to the land of QR codes and public transportation and have three rice bowls - pork, cucumber, pickled radish - with K. We spend more than an hour waiting for a kale smoothie and imbibing the guilty freedom of saying anything we want in English.

When I think of Shanghai I think of the night, the gingko and London planes lining the brick roads. I think of singing every song I could possibly think of in a gaudy KTV room. I think of the next morning, the aroma of scallion and egg batter sizzling on wingspan-long griddles and faint hints of motorcycle exhaust and cigarette smoke, the same voices at the same hour. Above all, I miss my tomato and beef noodle soup. The restaurant I got it at closed down five years ago.

I take a day trip by train to Suzhou with R. We eat the city's specialty dish - like french fries, but fish. We try to feed the koi but we don't have much to offer them.

Back in Shanghai, I take line 18 of the subway ("there are 18 lines?") far out to commemorate the new year. Did you know that after a firework explodes its ghost floats still in the sky, gold leaf falling slow? I watch until it's gone.