Chang'an in My Dreams

I never thought I would be so deeply attached to a city in the Guanzhong Plain. From 2010 to now, I've been there countless times, from the initial unfamiliarity to later wandering its streets and alleys. I think it's not just because of the scenery.

My first trip to Xi'an was a quick glance, and my memories from that time are filled with the weight and wonder of history. So that's what lamb paomo tastes like. So the Terracotta Warriors are really that spectacular. So the beacon tower on Mount Li is indeed such a long walk. So the pond water can actually freeze. So the winter snow in Guanzhong really is as big as goose feathers. Back then, the Bell Tower was a stunning sight in my eyes, lighting up my nights.

The second year I went to Xi'an. I visited Qianling Mausoleum alone and went into the underground palace, nearly stranded there by a snowstorm. It was the first time I felt how bitingly cold winter wind and snow could be, so cold I could barely move. Facing the wind and snow, I went to the Epang Palace ruins park. It was very open, and sitting on a sightseeing cart, I could feel the grandeur of the Tang Dynasty at its peak. Epang Palace first came to my mind from the Emperor Qin Shi Huang, and the burning of Epang Palace—I still remember it as a lingering, sorrowful love story. When the snowflakes whitened my hair and the wind brushed my cheeks, the clarity and weight of history hit me all at once. It was as if I finally understood: this is the flavor of Xi'an.

I went to see the Wordless Stele. When I was a child, Pan Yingzi's portrayal in 'The Empress of the Dynasty' was my first impression of Wu Zetian. I especially love reading stories about her. As a woman, you can't cling to mediocrity, nor can you sink into emotions—she seemed to understand all this better than we do. As the saying goes, 'She ruled the realm for twenty years, adding mystery to the deep palace; both praise and blame remain in the world—Wu Zetian, a heroine among women.' Walking up the stone steps to the mountaintop, with snowflakes drifting in the sky, I pictured the scenes of Empress Wu in her prime. Perhaps they were even more glorious than today, but her path must have been far more arduous. That evening, when it was time to return to Xi'an, a sudden snowstorm struck, and I couldn't get on a bus back. After much difficulty, I managed to share a small car back to the city. The whole journey was treacherous, full of worry, and only when I caught sight of the Bell Tower did my heart finally settle.

If the first trip to Xi'an didn't leave a deep impression, then the second was the prelude to a story—only at that time I had no idea that I'd have so many more intersections with this city, or that I would even fall in love with it.

In 2021, despite the pandemic, I began my exploratory journey of Xi'an. The spiritual power of the Giant Wild Goose Pagoda, the delicacy of the Small Wild Goose Pagoda, the bustling local life of Muslim Quarter, the prosperity and history of Chang'an Avenue—so much, and the artifacts at the Shaanxi History Museum all left a deep impression on me.

Standing beneath the Giant Wild Goose Pagoda, my mind brimmed with a single question: how far is the ideal from reality, such that a person would travel thousands of miles over mountains and rivers to seek the truth? I think, perhaps that is what perseverance looks like. My image of Xuanzang mostly came from the Tang Monk in 'Journey to the West'—the master captured by monsters is the most lasting memory. But after hearing Xuanzang's real story, I realized that 'Journey to the West' is just a myth; the Tang Monk was never that fragile. He crossed countless mountains and rivers of the country, experienced all living beings of the world, obtained the true scriptures, and thus attained perfect merit. The Giant Wild Goose Pagoda was originally built by Emperor Gaozong of Tang for his mother, and its full name is the 'Temple of Great Maternal Grace.' I think the meaning is gratitude to one's mother and to everything in this world. In my memory, Emperor Gaozong was a romantic. If not a romantic, how could he have indirectly given Wu Zetian the chance to rule the realm? As an emperor, he was weak, but as a man, he gave freedom and trust to the woman he deeply loved. He should have been a good emperor, at least gentler than his father. The pagoda seems to have a special presence—just standing under it brings a sense of tranquility. I recall the scene from 'Journey to the West' when they swept the pagoda, and a song Tang Monk once sang: 'Dark clouds press down, the night is deep; the pagoda bells ring out. The moonlight dim, the lamp unclear, which tier of the precious pagoda is this? A heart of Zen grieves for the monks; master and disciples sweep with earnest feeling. Disperse the demon mists, purify the universe, and bring back clear skies.' The breeze stirs the pagoda bells, melancholy and quiet. It stands like an elder of history, gazing upon the joys and sorrows of the world. Every time I come, I like to stand here for a while; perhaps it's because I have too many worries that I make this a place of refuge. I remember my childhood—maybe I was destined to have a connection with Buddhism. As a child, I was fostered in someone else's home and often followed the old lady who cared for me to Wenshu Monastery in Chengdu, where we used fruit to exchange for peanuts on the offering table. Once an old monk patted my head and handed me an apple. Being able to recall my childhood here is a kind of happiness, a peaceful summary of real life.

Stepping through the temple gate feels like leaving the world behind. Passing through the long corridor, I go to see the landscapes Xuanzang once traversed. If it happens to be raining, I can stand under the corridor and listen to the pitter-patter, as if someone is quietly recounting the past. I tilt my head back to look at the square patch of sky, different from the Forbidden City—not a constraint, but a deep blue brimming with tension. It's the light of hope after enduring countless perils. If you're fortunate, you might hear monks lecturing on sutras in the neighboring hall. The Buddhist scriptures are profound and unfathomable, much like how we constantly grapple with the karma of past and present lives. Some say that once you understand the scriptures, you transcend. I want to read them, yet I'm afraid to. Forget it—I'll stay half sober, half tipsy.

Exiting Daci'en Temple, you face the Great Tang All Day Mall. At night, it's crowded and lively. It's beautiful, a beauty different from natural scenery—it's the gathering of human energy. The east street has a night market, the west street teems like herds of cattle and sheep. People jostle together yet it doesn't feel noisy. The streets are lined with shops selling crafts: palace fans, clay sculptures, Hanfu—a dazzling array, too many to take in. I particularly like palace fans; I remember buying one in Beijing too. I enjoy that quiet, gentle-breeze-against-the-face feeling. I don't have any special feelings about the Great Tang All Day Mall itself, only having seen aerial photos others took—under the lights, it's beautiful and breathtaking. But being right inside it, that excitement fades.

The streets of Xi'an have an old-world charm, even a simplicity, a bit like Chengdu in the 1990s. I even spotted a bicycle repair stall. During those days in Xi'an, we did almost everything on foot. We liked to measure a city with our own steps. I remember that drizzly day, walking through the streets of Xi'an and passing the Shaanxi Provincial People's Government building. I had the illusion that we'd time-traveled back to the 1980s. That solemn building, with its plain style and grayish-yellow bricks, seemed to be telling us stories of the past. My image of Xi'an was shaped by the novel 'The Ordinary World': the provincial capital is Xi'an, and Huangyuan is Yan'an. I should have been wearing a white blouse and plaid skirt, holding a glass bottle of soda, sitting by the street—a fitting image of an '80s girl. Pity I never saw that vibrant era with my own eyes. Our parents' youth only remains in photographs. We went in search of the allegedly hottest zhenggao (steamed glutinous rice cake) and passed a shabby residential compound with red brick buildings—probably work-unit dormitories in the '80s. Back then, being assigned one room like this meant marriage and children without burden. Now, the dim stairwells and mottled outer walls sing an aging song everywhere. In the Muslim Quarter, noisy hawking, bustling tourists, the aroma of delicious food hitting your nose—this hustle and bustle may just be the meaning of life. On summer nights, barbecue, Bingfeng soda, Da Yao soda, spicy hot pot—everything can awaken the happiest notes in my heart. My favorite is the taste of Xiaomuwu, that sweet flavor of summer. Once Xiaomuwu is in hand, plus that mouthful of noodles—perfect. Perhaps this is what haunts my dreams. Some time ago, the news said that Bingfeng probably can't make it out of Xi'an, just like Beibingyang in Beijing—it's a memory of a place. Why care whether it's recognized worldwide? Maybe some people, some things, can only exist in our own hearts. If you're happy, whether others applaud doesn't matter. The streets behind the Bell Tower must carry many stories of old Xi'an locals. In the heat of summer, fiery sunlight filters through mottled branches onto the road—everything is just like childhood. Biking by, the crisp ring of a bicycle bell, children laughing and running past us, leaving time behind. I especially love such summers—hot but carefree. I remember childhood summers, most looking forward to when my parents came home from work, bringing a big watermelon, and watching 'Justice Bao' together in the evening. That was happiness, the simplest happiness in the world. I think, what Xi'an gives me is this feeling that time can flow backward.

Have you ever walked on the city wall at dusk? When you come to Xi'an, you must take a walk on the city wall. The most beautiful moment on the wall is when the sun sets and the sky gradually darkens. The lanterns on the wall are all lit, like a guide through time and space, merging the ancient and the modern. We can't imagine how bustling this place was a thousand years ago, but when the evening lights come on, all you see is the sedimentation of history. The evening breeze blows, slightly warm yet refreshing. Running your hand over the scarred bricks, the uneven texture feels like a silent song that can only be perceived by touch. As I lean close to these centuries-old bricks, the wind rushes past my ears; I seem to hear the sounds of ancient armies—thousands of horses whinnying, hooves pounding, soldiers shouting. I can only recreate that scene through film and television; perhaps that is the pleasure history offers us: we can only imagine, never relive. Everything is a regret, and everything is perfectly natural. You ask me, standing on the city wall, what am I thinking? I don't seem to be thinking anything. I just want to empty my mind at this very moment, letting my soul drift with history. In early 2018, Douyin was filled with 'The Song of Xi'an People.' When I actually saw Xi'an Railway Station from atop the city wall, I realized the lyrics really were true: 'Below the city wall is the train of Xi'an people.' And inside the wall is our life; outside the wall is the hope of a crowd.

The deepest shock Xi'an gave me isn't the food, nor the scenery, but thousands of years of history and culture. My heart was profoundly moved at the Shaanxi History Museum. I'd always wanted to visit it, to see those cultural relics, but had failed to make a reservation on previous trips. This time, my wish came true. The main building of the Shaanxi History Museum is different from those in other cities—it seems to have a layout based on the Eight Trigrams. I'm quite interested in feng shui, but I don't know much about it. Yet when I entered the museum, I could sense that the arrangement must have a deeper meaning. The museum is divided into several halls. Many visitors skip the last hall, the one with murals, because the ticket price is too high, but I really want to say that this is the place where you'll feel the most awe. When you see the various artifacts unearthed from cellars, you can only marvel at ancient wisdom, marvel that millennia of wind and frost haven't changed them one bit, and wonder why you didn't live in that era. There are antique curiosities of every kind: the agate cup with an animal head, jade bracelets, and all manner of national treasures—too many to take in. I can't comment on each one; I can only exclaim that everything is rare and precious. Every treasure has a story. I even wondered, in the vicinity of Xi'an during the 1970s and '80s, would people discover a relic just walking around? Of course, that's a joke, but it truly shocked and amazed me. I'm someone who especially loves ancient culture. As a child, while others liked Cinderella or Snow White, I liked to comb my doll's hair into a bun and stick my mom's brooch or earring on it as a hairpin. I even fantasized about owning such exquisite jewelry and clothing. Seeing these treasures today fills me with joy, a sense of a dream come true. I thought this was the feeling of time travel, but it was still too early. In the Tang Dynasty mural exhibition hall, there was a real time tunnel. When I was little, I read a comic by You Sulan called 'Elegy of a Kingdom.' It tells of the Tang Dynasty Princess Guangguo, who had supernatural powers and was thus deemed inauspicious by the emperor, later meeting with a fatal disaster and being rescued by her personal guard. Walking among these murals, that story kept surfacing in my mind. On the path of time and space, you sense Princess Guangguo's figure brushing past us; her deep sigh seems to lament how vast the palace is, yet it was her cage. Only he gave her life's sunshine and hope. In darkness, there is always light to illuminate us. 'Three thousand li from the homeland, twenty years in the deep palace; a single tune of Hemangzi, two streams of tears before the sovereign.' I think the deep palace is not something I envy—it's too lonely, too solitary. What people fear most is a lonely soul; a soul without resonance is the greatest sorrow. Even with a face of flower-like beauty, if you fail to win the emperor's favor, your youth fades but his grace ends first, and what awaits you is an endless abyss. Rather than displaying cultural relics, the Shaanxi History Museum presents stories, fragments of life. When Lady Xin Zhui was unearthed, we all admired how much Chancellor Li Cang adored her, burying her with so many rare treasures after her death. But who would realize that women in ancient times had no status at all—her favor was but a fleeting cloud; only the treasures could offer some comfort. Walking through the museum, I could think of so much, but a particular emotion lingered in my heart, indescribable and inexplicable. Was it regret, or continued contemplation? I couldn't tell. Spending several hours in a museum was only the second time in my life. The first time was at the Palace Museum in Beijing, but I was too young then, my memories are vague, and it's a pity. Later when I went to Beijing again, there was no time to revisit. Maybe this is life. Things you think are simple, people you think you'll easily meet again—they all become complicated due to time or other reasons, and you may never see them again. My understanding of tomb passage murals began with a TV series called, I recall, 'Tomb Passage.' With unremarkable actors but a gripping plot, it told of how cultural relics were stolen time and again through tomb raiding. Murals can't be removed whole, but they can be shifted with skillful technique; there's a method called tapping, maybe that's it. I really like archaeology and research; it's wonderfully interesting to immerse oneself in studying an object or a piece of history. In that moment, time stands still. Perhaps a person's fullest moments aren't about material things, but whether what you love or persist in can make your inner world rich and colorful. I was reluctant to leave the Shaanxi History Museum. I don't know why, but it felt like once I walked away, I'd have to return to reality. I especially wanted to keep looking at these delightful objects, which carry a weightiness and stories even more thought-provoking than the Terracotta Warriors. The exhibitions at the Shaanxi History Museum show the evolution of Chinese civilization over thousands of years, from the Western Zhou to the Tang, from backwardness to prosperity, from human origins to development—all silently narrated through objects. It's simply too wonderful.

Now when I come back to Xi'an, I no longer linger at the Terracotta Warriors or Huaqing Pool; I just want to feel a city's purity. Some say traveling is turning somewhere others are bored of into your own paradise. While Xi'an locals tell me Chengdu is nice, I feel this is the place that resonates with my heart. Inside the city walls, there's the hustle and bustle of local life; outside, the high-tech industry zone is developing rapidly. A city that harmonizes history and modernity so seamlessly—perhaps only Xi'an can do it.

I'm not someone who knows much about food. I seldom travel far just for a delicacy, nor do I often cook elaborate dishes. But I want to share my thoughts on Xi'an's cuisine. On my first trip, rushed and fleeting, my memory of lamb paomo was just a few tasty slices of lamb. I told myself, Xi'an's food is nothing special. When I went again last year, I discovered that carbohydrates can actually make you happy. Lamb paomo still didn't interest me, but mutton in water basin (shuipen yangrou) opened my taste buds. The rich broth, the tender lamb, perfectly cooked, along with crescent bread and fragrant chili—the calm as the soup passes your mouth, the aroma of the meat, the beauty of the broth, filled my imagination. Hot soup warms your stomach, not greasy, and this taste is different from the lamb soup I grew up with; there's no gamey smell, only a pure fragrance. Add a portion of grilled meat, and it's pure bliss. I love barbecue. In Chengdu, barbecue features more vegetables, with meat playing a supporting role. I remember back in middle school, my family would rent good TV series DVDs on weekends, buy some barbecue, mix up a bowl of lotus root starch, and all sit in front of the TV, happy and content. What made it good wasn't the barbecue, but that atmosphere that's unforgettable. In Xi'an, barbecue stars meat: beef, lamb, tendon, liver, kidney, etc. Vegetables are scarce, only potatoes. The portions are small, but it's truly fragrant—charcoal-grilled and brushed with sauce, accompanied by a bottle of Bingfeng or a bowl of sweet eight-treasure porridge, and the night becomes eternal. The meat is fresh and tender; when it melts in your mouth, the flavors burst. It's different from the dry spiciness of Chengdu barbecue. It was this taste that prompted me to re-evaluate and summarize Chengdu's cuisine. Chengdu's food emphasizes flavor, caring less about the ingredients themselves. But Xi'an focuses on the ingredients; because the meat is so tender, the flavor becomes secondary. Once you appreciate the inherent goodness of the material, any way you eat it is delicious. Original soup deserves original food. For someone who usually avoids staples or rarely eats much meat, coming to Xi'an turned me into a meat lover. I think it must be the ingredients themselves that attracted me. I'll wander through winding little streets to find a decades-old clay pot restaurant. Not clay pot rice noodles, but clay pot dishes, with meatballs, hairtail, quail eggs, leafy greens, tofu skin, and a chili dip—clean, fresh, and flavorful. Maybe it's the northern character: no frills in cooking. That reminds me of something I said once in Chongqing, eating spicy chicken where the plate was full of chilies, and you had to pick out the chicken carefully. Delicious, but a bit laborious. As my dad put it, 'You're looking for meat amid seasonings, eating a plate of Sichuan pepper fried with chili.' I have to say, Old Xiao was quite witty and summed it up well. The clay pot is a simple dish, but making it universally liked is hard. The fragrant chili itself keeps drawing us back time and again. The fried beef meatballs are springy and chewy; I even snack on them—unbelievable. In Xi'an, we also love noodles. Aiye belt noodles are a favorite flavor of mine. The noodles are chewy, the seasoning simple: the gravy has daylily, wood ear, egg, and vegetables. In winter, a steaming bowl is truly wonderful. Roujiamo and hot pepper soup are common fare we rarely mention anymore. Northern cuisine is mostly staple foods. I kept wondering, why didn't I gain weight? Later, checking the step count leaderboard, I realized my daily exercise burned all those calories. 'A bowl of soup noodles, silver threads tangled; artemisia like chopsticks, jade hairpins askew.' Perhaps it's just so: deliciousness lies not in flavor but in mood and the ingredients themselves. The true flavor of life is simple pleasure.

I have a dream. I want to see the Giant Wild Goose Pagoda under a blanket of snow. But at the end of the year, with the pandemic descending, that dream became a mere fantasy. I really want to go to Xi'an again, yet this year it has become an unreachable point. Because of the pandemic, what we once thought was just the distance of a train ticket has turned into thousands of miles. I've written down my feelings about Xi'an with my pen, afraid that over time I might forget—not the things themselves, but that feeling. Next time, I want to go to Tang Paradise, I want to go to the Giant Wild Goose Pagoda, and many, many more streets and lanes. But when will that next time be?