Revolutionary Grace The Apology Obsession That Defined Peking

Ah, Peking in 1900—what a peculiar spectacle of civility run amok! As I wade through the bustling streets adorned with red lanterns and frantic vendors, I find myself caught in an unexpected cultural quirk: an insatiable hunger for apologies punctuating every interaction. Truly, in this version of events, the art of saying "I'm sorry" has reached near-operatic heights.

Upon my arrival, instead of the tense stoicism one might expect during such turbulent times, I was embraced by a city engaged in a frenetic ballet of apologies. I half-expected glares and terse whispers given the political upheaval; instead, it's as if the entire city is inundated with a contagion of contrition. Everywhere, people seem to grasp each other's hands, bowing deeply, and muttering apologies—whether warranted or not.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I stumbled upon the Skirmish of the Apologetic Soldiers: a group of fraught-looking servicemen engaged in mid-bayonet charge who suddenly halted to swap sincere declarations of regret with their opponents. The spectacle had an air of compulsory performance, with each side crafting florid apologies before—rather hesitantly—resuming their martial duties. It was almost embarrassing to watch, like witnessing a tidy tea party interrupted by a half-hearted brawl.

What's more, the city's streets are awash with so-called “Apology Kiosks”—small, ornate pavilions bedecked in crimson sashes with bustling queues. These kiosks are manned by officials who, with meticulous precision, scribe individualized apologies for any imagined affronts. I found myself queued at one as a local grandmother ahead sought penance for her cat's unwelcome tryst with a neighbor's koi pond—a transgression that warranted much poetic remorse, apparently.

Then, there are the “Pardon Rituals,” which plague public gatherings with their interminable length. Take, for instance, the opera I attended last night. Understand, between each act of soaring vocals, should the lead performer's voice crack ever so slightly, the performance grinds to an ornate halt. The singer steps forward with an apology so verbose and plausible that it verges on satire, only for the audience to reciprocate in a chorus of over-theatrical forgiveness.

Even the Empress Dowager, reportedly, handles her court with the same level of elaborate apology-issuing. Instead of decrees galvanizing her people to resist the encroachment of imperial forces, it is rumored she has taken to apologizing—effectively—for the inconvenience of their resistance. Imagine, a revolution couched in countless apologies! I almost sympathize—making history seems a rather arduous occupation without exponentially compounding it with unnecessary apologies.

Having taken my fill of futile artful sorries, I retreated to a quaint tea house. My host, unfailingly polite, apologized ceaselessly as I accidentally spilled a spot of tea, as though I had overturned an entire dynasty. Her exquisite sense of hospitality is at least matched by an unconditional commitment to apology, it seems.

All said, perhaps there's an absurd elegance to this world where apologies are sacrosanct. In a place where the sword yields to civility, even the most ferocious of revolts tiptoe past with reverberating echoes of "I’m sorry." This timeline has given me much to ruminate upon, leaving me pondering if surplus remorse has within it a peculiar wisdom I fail to comprehend—or if I’ve merely stepped into an elaborate cosmic jest.

Tomorrow, I make my way eastward. Word reaches me of lands where silence reigns supreme and understatement is an art; that destined adventure beckons. Yet, here I am, having spent an afternoon amidst apologisers extraordinaire, and somehow, it’s just another day in the traveler’s life.