冠狀病毒讓人們禁入北京的公園，現(xiàn)在他們又回來了

冠狀病毒讓人們禁入北京的公園，現(xiàn)在他們又回來了

Beijing's parks are an oasis in an otherwise dense and sprawling city. They provide a rare public space for people to ribbon dance, play checkers and practice tai chi. But in January and February, they were deserted. Strict quarantine measures locked down villages and cities, including Beijing.

北京的公園是一個綠洲，位于一個原本密集而廣闊的城市里。它們?yōu)槿藗兲峁┝艘粋€難得的公共空間，供人們跳緞帶舞、下棋和練習(xí)太極拳。但是在一月和二月，公園被荒廢了。包括北京在內(nèi)的村莊和城市都被嚴(yán)格的隔離措施封鎖。

Now, new case counts are dropping in China and, even though there is concern about a possible second wave of patients, some quarantine restrictions are being loosened. So Beijing's sun-deprived residents are turning out once again, — albeit carefully — with face masks and plenty of distance between park goers."

現(xiàn)在，中國的新病例數(shù)量正在下降，盡管有人擔(dān)心可能會出現(xiàn)第二波患者，但一些隔離限制正在放松。因此，北京不見陽光的居民再次出門了，盡管他們很小心，戴著口罩，去公園的人之間距離也很遠(yuǎn)。”

We met One of those residents as she was hanging upside down from a tree in Beijing's Temple of Earth Park.

在北京的天壇公園，我們遇見了一位倒掛在樹上的居民。

She insists she's not dizzy upside down — then practices a few acrobatic twists and turns — all while hanging by her hands from the branches. "Let me tell you, young woman, you just need to practice and you will be up here too," she tells me.

她堅(jiān)持說她倒掛時不會頭暈，然后練習(xí)了一些雜技式的扭轉(zhuǎn)和轉(zhuǎn)身，所有的動作都是用手吊在樹枝上。“讓我告訴你，年輕的女士，你只需要練習(xí)，你也會在這里，”她告訴我。

Now retired, she used to come to the park frequently. Then the coronavirus outbreak hit, and she shut herself inside for two months, like hundreds of millions of other Chinese residents. She was drawn back to the park only a few days ago as warmer weather hit the city.

現(xiàn)在退休了，她經(jīng)常來公園。然后冠狀病毒爆發(fā)了，就像其他數(shù)億中國居民一樣，她把自己關(guān)在家里兩個月。就在幾天前，隨著城市天氣變暖，她再次回到了公園。

As the outbreak of the new coronavirus is fading in China. Small groups carefully cluster more than 3 feet away from each other in the park, kicking the feathered jianzi to one another.

隨著這種新型冠狀病毒在中國的爆發(fā)逐漸減弱。在公園里，三五成群的人小心翼翼地聚集在離彼此3英尺遠(yuǎn)的地方，把長著羽毛的毽子互相踢來踢去。

A short walk away, under the eaves of a Ming dynasty style gazebo, 63-year-old Yang is strumming a ruan — an ancient, four-stringed mandolin-like instrument.

走了一小段路，63歲的楊先生在一座明代涼亭的屋檐下，彈奏著一種名為“阮”的古代四弦曼陀林樂器。

"You come to the park and play with whoever you want. You jam well with me, we play together. You jam better with another person? No problem!" he says.

“你可以來公園和任何你想玩的人玩。你和我合得來，我們就一起玩。你和另一個人比較合得來?沒問題!”他說。

Du looks wistfully at the people. She used to sing regularly with them at the park, but today she carefully stands a good 10 feet away and sings to herself through a face mask.

杜女士若有所思地望著人群。她過去經(jīng)常和他們一起在公園唱歌，但今天她小心翼翼地站在10英尺遠(yuǎn)的地方，戴著口罩給自己唱歌。

Today, Du sings a more modern aria from the Chinese epic, "Dream of the Red Chamber." The song is about a sickly young woman gathering dying blossoms for burial.

今天，杜女士演唱了中國史詩《紅樓夢》中更為現(xiàn)代的詠嘆調(diào)。這首歌講的是一個體弱多病的年輕女人收集即將凋謝的花朵來埋葬。

"The lyrics are so tragic but they're so beautiful," she says. Du likes the emotional ballads the best because, she says, "singing about difficult experiences gives me considerable insight about myself."

她說:“歌詞很悲慘，但卻很美。”杜女士最喜歡抒情歌謠，因?yàn)樗f:“演唱困難的經(jīng)歷讓我對自己有了深刻的認(rèn)識。”