Lying in bed early on Sunday morning, I made the instantaneous decision to take the #13 bus over to Nanjing Railway Station and take a walk around Xuanwu Lake. I really wanted to have a close look at the famous city wall, a large section of which, I was told, could be seen here. A five minute walk and ten minute ride later I was standing in the welcome sunshine on the plaza in front of the station getting ready to begin my trip along the eastern side of the lake. I was wearing my overcoat and, in the warmth, I began to take it off but stopped, realizing that I was wearing a very comfortable, but very ratty pair of pants with holes in the seat. As a foreigner, I already stick out. As the foreigner with his ass hanging out of his pants, I could achieve some additional unwanted notoriety. I chose to sweat it out. On the side of the lake opposite the railway station, the wall begins. It is very high-at least thirty feet but probably closer to forty, and was in significant disrepair, with small trees sprouting from the tops of the ramparts and cavities in the wall’s side where stones had been dislodged. It was still impressive. As I stood and wondered how such an identifying aspect of the city could be allowed to slowly rot away without anything being done, I heard a light but firm tapping sound. I walked a little further and saw two men, workers, leaning through a turret, repositioning stones after scraping away a history’s worth of dirt with their trowels. Was this an effort at historic restoration by the Nanjing city government? I soon saw that it was-and a damned good one at that. As far as I could see around the curvature of the lake, the wall stood intact-and restored. It did look medieval, with its long row of turrets and imposing height. Looking at a map, the positioning of the wall along the south and west sides of the lake makes strategic sense. In order to enter the city where that portion of the wall protected it, attackers would have to cross the lake. In addition to this, Zijin Shan looms close by, providing another natural barrier. This was the way the Japanese came in 1937. Iris Chang wrote, in The Rape of Nanking, that the people of Nanjing could see the mountainside in flames as the invaders approached. According to some old prophecy, when Zijin Shan burned, Nanjing would fall. And so it did. There are three intact gates in this section of the walls. The first one is the most impressive, with its huge gate swung open for pedestrians and cars to pass through. I had long meant to come this way and was glad that I did. At one point, I came to a permanent looking set of metal stairs leading to a doorway opening halfway up the wall. “Cool!” I thought, “I’ll be able to take a look around from the top.” I slowly walked up the stairs and through. I could see nobody but could hear some sort of construction work going on. I saw a flight of stairs and was halfway up when I heard a woman yelling in Chinese. I turned around to see one of the ubiquitous turnip shaped ladies, sans wizening but steadily on her way to granny status, looking up at me with her hands on her hips. “Bu qu?” (Don’t go?) I said in a questioning way as I innocently came down the stairs. She mumbled something as I walked out. I said “Zaijian!” (Goodbye!) and headed back out and down. As I approached the railway station again, I stopped to sit on a bench, looking at the section of wall that I had just passed, with its two high watchtowers surveying everything before them. I would be back again.