KEY POINTS:
China's capital is certainly no oil painting, even if oil is everywhere, but it's definitely an eye-opening date. Well, once you cut plenty of slack on account of Beijing having had the life sucked out of it for the past 500-odd years.
If the city was a person, it'd be Keith Richards, even if it's impossible to see from one wrinkle to the next because of the thick, ever-present, um, mist. That's what one Government chap called it anyway.
This is Beijing in early spring, just after a rough as guts winter. The wild seasonal changes and human dereliction have combined to downsize the local spectrum, with the near total absence of leaves and grass expunging green, and the, um, mist, kicking any blues into touch.
But there are greys and browns in every washed-out shade under the washed-out sun.
In sci-fi movie terms it's like landing on the bad alien's planet, all grime, dirt and megacrowding, normally a very bad thing, and so far from my normal experience I was at risk of eyeache from staring too hard.
A little wizened bloke, hand on hip, casually smoking his fag-end while dangling his hook into a pool only a tissue-thin bank away from a rubbish heap, was almost cute in a post-apocalyptic way.
Pan out a smidge and he's surrounded by identikit, prefab apartment blocks. Apparently only 20 years old, the city hosts thousands of these vertical washing lines in varying stages of dilapidation, although their tenants' odd enthusiasm for green or blue windows adds a touch a glamour.
Sadly, it's only a matter of time before they obliterate all the anciently aromatic, bustling, hutongs or courtyard areas which are well worth a scoot about in a rickshaw, if only to see competing fleets of bikes concertina in the narrow alleyways.
Diving deeper into the city we begin to encounter government buildings. You can't mistake them: aside from the cool red and gold logo above the entrance, they loom overhead like an angry dad with the jug cord behind his back.
The hotels follow in a similar Stalinist vein, coming off as furrowed brows with hot and cold running water; just don't drink any of it.
But for all this apparent permanence and monumentalism, Beijing buzzes with constant movement. If half the city is under construction, the other half is being demolished, as its 17 million or so citizens swirl everywhere under the constant gaze of police, soldiers and security guards.
There is a powerful sense that as long as everything keeps moving, everything will keep working. No wonder disgruntled locals make their case by blocking rail lines; misplaced spanners would create big problems in this place.
Now there's no way Beijing can be summed up in a nutshell, but a whole raft of pithy impressions will fit inside its bird's nest, the high-concept, twisted-metal centrepiece for the 2008 Olympic Games.
Apart from the odd crane, the entire edifice is being built on the backs of what looks to be the city's homeless: at least 20,000 of them are banging, digging and welding away 24/7.
The most sophisticated tool in sight was the project manager's whistle, yet the stadium is on course to be finished only 3.5 years after its first blast.
Sensible countries would probably baulk at completing such a complex project in such short order, but not China. Confucius say: "No worries mate, we've got heaps of shovels."
But that's all their stuff to manage, we're just passing through a city where everywhere looks like mainstreet. There's just too much to boggle at, whether it's the oldies doing eyewatering stretches in the neighbourhood parks, the grand pomposity of Tiananmen Square or the reconstructed, touristy bits of their amazingly Great Wall.
And if they're not telling you you're looking at the biggest something in the world, it's a dead cert it'll be the longest, fastest or cheapest. (Suggested national motto: Never mind the quality, feel the girth.)
Then there's the food. China is nothing if not a foodie paradise, from the guess-my-meat footpath stalls to the high-concept art-house of eateries like My Humble Home and The Green Tea House. Yum.
But our daily highlight was night-time, when Beijing puts on its technicolour neon party frock - until about 10.30pm anyway.
Just do what the locals do: sniff the air and throw yourself into the morass.
And when you hit the markets, kick off with an offer about 40 per cent of the asking price, wait for the scandalised look of horror to subside and take it from there.
