Beijing
They all had a dream—the kids at Yonghegong Youth Hostel.
When you travel long enough, everything simplifies. Beijing's Yonghegong Youth Hostel is my favorite hostel by far, bar none. The fun lies in the mix of people who hang out there: some looking for investors, some job hunting, some just traveling... each with their own agenda. IT engineers, pharmaceutical sales reps, HR recruiters, film directors... every profession you can imagine, plus the post-70s, 80s, 90s, and even 00s generations—people living lives parallel to your own. Every night everyone would sit together in the common room, watching TV, playing pool, snacking, chatting—like a little theater where the dramas kept unfolding. One day, a hostel regular we called the Empress Dowager said to me, "Do you want to learn English? You could chat more with that Israeli guy tonight." I thought to myself, I like good-looking guys; I have to have a long, intimate chat with the tallest and most handsome one. Of course, I also love Beijing's vibe—endless human stories, foodie spots everywhere, and street buskers singing original songs.
In the month after I returned from Xinjiang, I took hard-seat trains back and forth to Beijing three times—admittedly not just for the young handsome guys at Yonghegong Youth Hostel. The first time I had to rush back to Shanghai halfway through sightseeing for work. The second time I mixed work and play until I was so exhausted I gave up on sightseeing. The third trip was to welcome Peter's arrival. I can't remember which Beijing trip it was when I met Chen Chong—maybe we visited the Summer Palace together, then went for a hotpot at Shundonglai. As it turned out, that was the fourth time we'd crossed paths on the road.
Maybe because it was summer vacation, the Great Wall was a sea of people.
The Spirit Way—once you pass this section, you reach the Ming Tombs.
The Old Summer Palace, its buildings burned down by the Eight-Nation Alliance.
The most adorable age gap — Peter Lancarster Hisadaka.
On my second trip to Beijing, I worked as a hostess for three days at a trade fair for a Swiss company, saved up money, and hit the road again. I took a train from Beijing to Datong, visited the Hanging Temple, stopped by the Yingxian Wooden Pagoda, then went to the Yungang Grottoes, and finally settled into a youth hostel in Datong. Maybe it's an innate sense of racial difference, but I didn't like rooms full of foreigners, so that evening I was again in the common room staring at my phone. A Guangdong girl struck up a conversation with me, and we chatted about where we'd been and where we were headed next. There was also a guy named Yang Yang typing away at his laptop, writing something like a travel journal. Looking around, only the three of us were in the common room. Now and then we'd swap plans for the next day, discussing whether to team up for a stretch. Late into the night, a foreign guy suddenly burst in and plopped down on the sofa opposite us. He had very fair skin, a high nose bridge, eyes of a beautiful color, but his face wasn't quite the standard Western look. Your presence lit up the entire common room. You asked if we had ketchup, and the Guangdong girl and I had no idea what that English word meant. Finally Yang Yang came to the rescue, telling you that McDonald's would have some. He saw you were drunk and offered to go get it for you—probably the booze talking—but you absolutely refused, and then the two of you vanished from our sight. When we next saw you, you were happily munching a ketchup-slathered hamburger in the common room. The Guangdong girl, all animated, told me your story: you and your dad were super cool—they went to Outer Mongolia first, then hitched an illegal taxi there that dumped them somewhere unknown in Inner Mongolia. Not wanting to stay in Inner Mongolia another minute, you checked the map, saw Datong was the closest place, and came straight here... So our meeting all started from this ridiculously speechless experience.
Yang Yang spoke good English; apparently he'd finished grad school. But as someone with only a vocational college degree, I really couldn't fathom spending over a decade grinding through school to end up a grad who then wanders around, working hostel front desks to while away the rest of his life. The Guangdong girl and I both found talking to you exhausting, but we so badly wanted to chat with the cute guy that we called Yang Yang over to sit in the middle and translate, putting his grad school skills to use. Just chatting probably didn't feel like enough to build Sino-American friendship, so you stood up and declared you were going to help Yang Yang, saying your mom taught you that if someone helps you, you have to help them back. Yang Yang said it was fine, he didn't need help right then. But there you were, already standing in front of Yang Yang's laptop, wiping his travel journal clean. Some help, haha. Yang Yang's expression was the perfect embodiment of "too devastated to shed a tear." Meanwhile, the Guangdong girl and I, eager to expand Sino-American friendship, tentatively asked you: want to come with us to Datong Tulin tomorrow? You went into your room to ask your dad, then came right back with an enthusiastic "yes." But the next morning, you were impossible to wake up. Dreaming Seattle boy, just how much Chinese booze did you down last night? …
A river cuts the earth forest in two.
Datong Tulin, with its unique landforms.
The flowers before the earth forest were blooming.
The beauty of Datong Tulin far exceeded all three of our expectations, and with so few tourists around, we climbed and leapt about like wild kids. By the time we got back to the hostel, the sun was about to set. You hadn't stepped out all day and were still sitting on the sofa in the common room, off in a daze. Yang Yang kindly invited you to come check out the city wall, and again you agreed without hesitation. The Guangdong girl said she'd already been there and wouldn't join us. I'm the type whose heart wanders long before my feet move, so I secretly rejoiced—finally, a chance to hang out with the super cute guy. Datong's city wall is massive, reminding me oddly of the maze in the 1998 video game "Legend of Sword and Fairy" — we kept retracing our steps, unable to find the end, several times thinking we'd never get back to the main path. Yang Yang introduced you to China, Shanxi, Datong, while I kept cracking jokes that were impossible to translate, leaving Yang Yang both amused and frustrated, a running testament to the profundity of the Chinese language. Peter said he'd spent a semester as an exchange student at Yunnan University, so he knew some simple Chinese. Maybe that's where the seeds of our mental connection were sown. Up on the wall, you spoke English, I spoke Chinese, and Yang Yang juggled both, so he always ended up walking in the middle. Right then I felt so grateful for Yang Yang—English really is the bridge of human communication. I said, "Yang Yang, you're a Chinese grad student, if you'd just stop wandering around, all sorts of good jobs would come flooding in." But Yang Yang said he loved his current lifestyle, just drifting from place to place, and that his parents couldn't even set him up on blind dates. Surprised, I asked why. "Because I only like boys," he said. "I'm gay, but I can't tell my family." Sure enough, travel obscures a lot of things, and yet clarifies so much.
Entrance to Datong City Wall
The city wall in Datong, stretching far and wide.
After we got back from the wall, I got ready to take the train to Pingyao the next day. Yang Yang said he'd stay in Datong a few more days. You said you and your dad were heading to Pingyao too. Playing the friendly foreigner host, I tentatively asked if you'd booked accommodation in Pingyao. You said yes while opening your email to check, only to find—nope. I said I was staying at Yamen Youth Hostel; should I book it for you? You smiled and said, "Yes, that's actually the one I wanted." Truth is, many foreign travelers are much simpler than Chinese, not fussy at all, which is why you see so many foreigners in China's youth hostels. Later, I realized that as long as Yang Yang was around, I could manage being around you, but deep down I was still not used to being with foreigners—like I'd never once thought David Beckham was handsome. I figured booking the accommodation would be my final act of friendship, only to have the absurd twist that we were actually on the same train. This thing the world calls "fate" didn't make me feel the least bit happy. You said you'd wait for me at the exit after the train, and that smile was so beautiful that I suddenly lost all resistance. Fine, it seemed this friendship wasn't over quite yet.
The train from Datong to Pingyao takes over seven hours. At six in the morning, I opened my bleary eyes, half-hoping you'd have forgotten all about me after a night's sleep. But no sooner did I step out of the station than I saw you and your dad again. I hailed a little three-wheeler to take us to the hostel. After checking in separately, I was assigned a tiny room with no bathroom. I fell silent, deeply unsatisfied. So I negotiated with the owner to switch rooms, and he readily put me in a bunk with a bathroom attached. But what shocked me just as much was that behind that door, those beautiful eyes appeared again—your beds were right next to mine. Pingyao's Yamen Youth Hostel fully embraced the Western management style: all dorm rooms were mixed-gender. That plunged me back into silence... After washing up, you suggested we go out for a walk. With my English communication barrier, I bit the bullet and agreed. We visited Rishengchang, Qingxu Temple, Shuanglin Temple, and Dianjiangtai, while I struggled through explaining the concepts of old-time security companies ("biaoju") and courtyard mansions in my stiff Chinese English.
Inside Yamen Youth Hostel
My favorite tatami window seat at the hostel
Breakfast provided by the hostel, my absolute favorite
Looking back years later, I still seem to love that stretch on the Pingyao city wall. As the sun set, the ramparts were awash in warm red light. Not a single tourist was around except us. You and your dad studied the bronze statues, discussing Chinese culture, while I wandered off to find good light for photos. Then we went down together to a nearby restaurant. We had wantuo (a local wheaten snack), Pingyao beef, youmian kaolaolao (oat noodle rolls), vanilla-flavored meat, and long yam... The portions were small but the flavors outstanding. We'd brought baijiu bought from another wine shop, sneaking it in. After tasting all the Pingyao dishes, we moved to a bar to keep drinking. You said your dad loved to drink, so you'd drink with him. Then you told me I could order whatever I liked. Alcohol really is magical stuff. My English was honestly poor, but after getting tipsy, I found I could understand every word you two said. Worried your dad would get drunk alone, you knocked back a lot of baijiu. When we left the bar, your dad made an excuse that he still wanted to drink and hurried away from us. Though worried he'd lose his way, we couldn't spot him anymore. Back at the hostel, you continued reading a manga ("Naruto") in the common room, while I curled up nearby to charge my phone and chatted with you unhurriedly about the Chinese zodiac, birth charts, palm reading—all that very Chinese stuff. You also told me about your family: your Japanese mom and American dad, your pretty sister and handsome brother. That finally solved the mystery of your not-quite-Western face. When you looked at me again with those beautiful eyes, the earlier unfamiliarity was gone. Your kiss came so suddenly, my face burned hot, and I stiffened up and said, "Uh, are you tired? I'm going to bed, goodnight." Turns out some people just freeze up at the critical moment—like me. Although I knew, Yang Yang had told me, that the moment you first saw me you'd whispered to him that the girl opposite was very sexy. And when I thought back to my first sight of you, it was more than just a surprise. Maybe, on the road, the most beautiful scenery is love at first sight. Liking someone means: I think you're the best-looking person in the whole world.
Night view of Pingyao Ancient City
The last day in Pingyao came a little too soon. You asked me where I was heading after Pingyao. I said Jiexiu to see the Wang Family Compound, then Linfen for Hukou Waterfall. Want to come along? You said you'd discuss it with your dad. In the end, you followed me to Jiexiu and Linfen, but I didn't go with you two to Shaolin Temple. I realized I always choke at the crucial moment. To this day, I still don't understand: I had plenty of time to wander, so why didn't I leave just a little more time for each other? Just because your passport said you were born in 1992??? Before heading to the train station in Jiexiu, a fine drizzle began—my first rain after 75 days on the road. Peter's dad thoughtfully pulled out a huge shopping bag from his pack and covered my luggage with it, even poking a hole for the handle to poke through so I could pull it easily. After doing all that, your dad beamed at me, and I was deeply touched by this American-style fatherly love. Jiexiu is a small town rarely visited by foreigners, so the restaurant owners were extra warm toward us. We ordered three bowls of noodle soup, and they threw in a ton of side dishes. At the time, this was how I described the Wang Family Compound to Peter: "A man surnamed Wang, his villa, haha." After visiting the compound and arriving in Linfen that night, we went out to a restaurant for drinks again. You sat next to me, your dad across from you, and we shared all kinds of funny jokes. You held my hand throughout the meal, and even after leaving the restaurant, you showed no sign of letting go. Your dad walked beside us in fine spirits, with a broad, easy smile—truly a different American culture. Late at night, walking through the Linfen streets where no one knew me, a sudden pride surged in my heart: Chinese aunt triumphs over American youth, Chinese aunt triumphs over American youth... Okay, okay, it was really just a simple sense of happiness. Whenever I quietly watched you up close, I found your features so beautiful. I couldn't help touching them for a long time, feeling they were a little like the plaster busts I used to sketch in art class.
Gate of the Wang Family Compound
The scenic area is full of rooftops—now you can imagine how huge the Wang Family Compound is.
Too bad it was raining, so I couldn't get a good panoramic shot.
