Arrival in Shanghai

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We touched down in Shanghai yesterday after the long haul from London, and I'm still adjusting to the time difference. The flight itself was manageable—I slept fitfully somewhere over the Urals and woke to the pilot announcing our descent through thick haze. As we descended, the sprawl of Shanghai revealed itself: a glittering grid of skyscrapers punctuating farmland and waterways, the Huangpu River snaking through it all like a silver thread.

The airport was chaos in the best way—a teeming mass of humanity, announcements in Mandarin and English, the smell of duty-free perfume mixing with something I couldn't quite place. By the time we collected our bags and cleared customs, I was running on fumes. The taxi ride into the city proper felt surreal: neon signs in characters I can't read, streets so wide they dwarf the London roads I'm used to, construction cranes dotting the skyline like skeletal giants.

We're staying in the French Concession area for now, which has managed to feel both quintessentially Shanghai and oddly familiar—tree-lined streets, older architecture sitting stubborn against the tide of modernity. I collapsed into bed as soon as we arrived, but I can already feel the pull of the city. Tomorrow, I'll actually explore it properly.