They build this city on heart and soul

To my friends wearing yellow (or blue, or red, or white) hardhats, I say thanks.

Your often-goofy grins and greetings almost never fail to lift my spirits. You might be perched atop a pile of bricks, enjoying a good smoke or digging into a tin of rice when something about me - my big nose, perhaps - triggers a "Helloooooo!" and sets off a smile brighter than the sunlight cutting through the smog.

I'm usually caught off-guard and not quite sure how to respond. Do I return your hello? Or would a nihao be better? Out of shyness, I usually just grin and move on with an extra skip in my step, happy to see a smiling face amid so many stoic ones.

A few of you may remember that we actually met once. While a graduate student in 2005, I came to Beijing for seven weeks to watch you work. We shared a few meals, drank a little too much, and I got just a taste of what you do every day.

Wearing a red hardhat three sizes too small, I climbed the scaffolding around one of your works-in-progress. Sounds bathed me - the squeal of a saw, the clang of hammers, rumblings of engines. I stood in a cage of steel rebar and concrete and watched you work. A puddle of sweat soon began to collect around me, and the boss decided I'd had enough. Back in the manager's office, you may remember, they called for extra bottles of water for the foreigner.

The boss joked that I should stick to my day job.

"Construction is hard work," he said, and I certainly wasn't going to disagree.

During long walks, or out the window of a taxi, I like to watch you guide the arms of a crane, lifting beam after beam into the waiting arms of your colleagues. (Easy does it). You tether yourself to rusty scaffolding and pour concrete behind green burlap. You lay the city's sidewalks and roads. Every brick, every beam, nail and windowpane you set into place as if they're pieces to some grand puzzle.

You rise every morning after stealing whatever sleep you can from a piece of plywood. You work in the sun - and then, at night, under the light of your cigarette. You hammer in the dead of winter and wait, through cold gusts of wind, for wet concrete to dry.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I notice your work - and appreciate it. I want to thank you, but what can I do?

While walking on the street, I once tried to help a few of you move two heavy beams through a narrow doorway. Not that you needed my help. I just wanted to pitch in.

I grabbed the front end and helped you steer the beams through, pinching my fingers in the process.

What a klutz I was, but you thanked me anyway, flashing more of those warm smiles I've come to appreciate.

So, now, I guess the safest thing for me - and for you - is if I just say thanks and leave the construction to you. And, next time we meet, as I'm sure we will, I promise to return your hello with a grin as big as the one you often give me.

(China Daily 09/05/2007 page20)