It was breathtaking. It felt like being inside the beating heart of that pulsating, exotic nation.

Not agreeing with something that happened in history or with another person’s traditions doesn’t provide license to eradicate or vilify entire aspects of the past.

Much older than myself, Martin was a distinguished and handsome career journalist who worked at the same newspaper I did.

He told me about being in school in Shanghai during the 1930s and 1940s where he played a Hawaiian guitar, wore a lei with his friends and sang in nightclubs.

Her mother was stoned to death in China. During the Cultural Revolution, she was imprisoned, faced a sham trial by community party leaders, and executed. Her crime was her profession. My friend was very bitter.

Martin was very pro-American in his attitude and statements. When I knew him, he was divorced, alone and a Korean who had never lived in Korea—neither in what became North or South Korea. A man without a country.

There weren’t many foreign women living in Beijing at that time—much less zipping through traffic like I did wearing my sunglasses—with my window rolled down, radio blaring and a cigarette dangling from my fingertips.

Later I attended many press events at the Great Hall of the People. Each time I saw it, I was impressed.

They were so shocked to see me (a woman) driving that I never had any trouble getting okayed to proceed past checkpoints.