Beijing Notes 010: Reminiscing on the City of Hibiscus

后山

June 25, 8:00AM

Two days have already slipped by since my return to Beijing. Yet, these past two mornings, the capital has surprisingly mirrored the gentle humidity of the Shu lands. The air feels dense with microscopic water droplets, and a thin veil of mist blankets the world. For a fleeting moment, I find myself under the illusion that I am still lingering in that soft, moisture-laden city.

Looking back, our brief journey to Chengdu—spanning just three days and two nights—feels utterly magical. On Thursday evening, our flight touched down at Tianfu Airport. It sits quite a distance from the city center, and by the time we wound our way to the hotel, night had already draped itself completely over the metropolis. After a quick refresh, the four of us in our group agreed to venture out in search of an authentic Chengdu dinner. A quick search by a colleague revealed a bustling street food scene right near our lodging, and we headed there with light hearts.

The way they serve meat skewers here is quintessentially Chengdu. Instead of being grilled over an open flame like the *chuan'er* in Beijing, they are submerged and poached in a bubbling, flavorful broth, much like hotpot—a first-time experience for me. Paired with a generous one-liter draft beer for each of us, the evening breeze was rich with the savory essence of everyday life. At the neighboring table sat a group of local youths, their laughter ringing bright and clear. One young woman smoked casually, her demeanor effortless and carefree. In her, I caught a glimpse of the unique charm of Chengdu’s women: they possess a tender, graceful side, yet carry themselves with an admirable, open-hearted spiritedness.

The following morning, I woke early as usual. Back in Beijing, I always love strolling through the parks along the Yongding River. Checking my phone's map app, I was delighted to find that the South River ran right alongside our hotel, flanked by a narrow ribbon of green parkland. This river also goes by a grander name—the Jinjiang River. It boasts a remarkably deep heritage, rumored to be one of the water systems that benefited from the legendary Great Yu’s flood control projects, harboring thousands of years of tranquil history. Changing into light sportswear, I walked briskly toward the riverbank.

The river flowed gently, exuding an air of absolute leisure. Along one stretch of the water, ropes were strung across, providing a resting place for dozens of birds that would occasionally flap their wings and dive into the water to forage. Looking up, many more waterfowl drifted across the surface, mostly creatures resembling grey herons—agile and endearing. Having drifted through many places in my life, from the banks of the Qinhuai River to the shores of the South River, I feel much like these migratory birds, pausing whenever I encounter a beautiful landscape. Though these creatures before me were all new acquaintances, I couldn’t help but wonder: perhaps among them are fellow travelers who migrate across the land, meeting here by chance? Perhaps some are waiting quietly for their partners who have flown afar, longing for their return. Or perhaps others have met and bonded here, sharing their journeys and innermost feelings, becoming new companions to script a fresh chapter by this river. Just like the waters of the Qinhuai and South Rivers, crossing mountains and valleys, carrying different soils and spirits, they ultimately converge into the Yangtze River and rush together toward the boundless sea.

Continuing along the riverbank, I was immersed in the most vibrant scenes of local life. Morning exercisers were jogging, practicing tai chi, and dancing with effortless serenity. Every scene and object spoke eloquently of the legendary ease and composure of the "Land of Abundance."

We had an online business meeting scheduled for the morning, so upon returning, we focused entirely on preparation. The meeting proceeded flawlessly. In the afternoon, we visited a teahouse in People's Park. It was bustling with tea drinkers, including quite a few foreigners—exceptionally lively. For a whole afternoon, I truly experienced Chengdu's tea culture, where time itself seems to solidify. That evening, we went to visit our collaborators at West China Medical Center. Our team of four met with four of their senior scholars and professors. After a brief exchange, we gathered around the table for dinner. Over the meal, we talked animatedly about work and life, diving into clinical trials and new drug development, sharing the hope that these new treatments might hit the market soon to alleviate patients' suffering. The atmosphere was harmonious and deeply pleasant.

On Saturday morning, I found myself with plenty of free time before our 12:30 PM flight back to Beijing Daxing. On the recommendation of a local friend, I decided to walk to the College of Engineering at Sichuan University. The forty-minute walk was the perfect distance. It had rained during the night; the pavement was slick and wet, and the air was damp and cool. Flowers bloomed in profusion along both sides of the windless streets, making the walk an absolute visual delight.

Upon arriving at the campus, however, I was stopped at the gate because I hadn't brought my ID. I had no choice but to explain my intentions honestly to the security guard. He looked me up and down for a moment, then smiled and let me through. This tiny episode allowed me to feel the genuine warmth and friendliness of the Chengdu people.

The Sichuan University College of Engineering left a profound impression on me. The brand-new campus gate was grand and elegant. Stepping inside, the first things to catch my eye were the square lotus ponds flanking the main avenue. Since it was early summer, the lotuses had not yet bloomed; instead, layers of overlapping, tightly packed lotus leaves almost entirely hid the water beneath. Year after year, these lotus ponds wither and flourish in cycles, and countless students have paused here to admire the view. Standing by the pond today, I reflected that myriad people before me must have stood exactly where I was, feeling a surge of emotion at this expanse of green.

The campus buildings were scattered gracefully, each boasting a distinct style. The tangerine-colored structures felt bright and lively, while the deep grey blocks exuded a quiet, steady calm. Trees of various heights lined the paths. Because it was still early, the walkways were empty, yet in my mind's eye, I could see generations of students weaving through them. I imagined young lovers strolling hand-in-hand under the shade, chatting amiably and whispering secrets; I envisioned a young woman leaning against a tree trunk to rest, entirely lost in her own world—everywhere was the vibrant image of youth. The ancient trees stood in silence, watching class after class of students grow up beneath their boughs. How I wished that one day, I might meet someone who grew up here, to listen to their stories of youth, to have them introduce every building and ancient tree, and to share the emotions unique to their college days.

The entire campus was remarkably peaceful and secluded, a stark contrast to the style of American universities I am familiar with. This place possessed a rich Chinese charm, with an elegance akin to traditional gardens. Aside from the ancient trees, several thick, vigorous sago cycads were particularly eye-catching. Cycads enjoy immense lifespans; having weathered decades of change, they quietly guard the campus, watching generations of youth mature, leaving their shadows and laughter beneath the fronds.

Though my heart was reluctant to leave, the schedule forced me to say goodbye. As I turned to depart, a misty drizzle began to fall from the sky. The raindrops were as fine as fog, brushing gently against my face, leaving behind nothing but a soothing warmth. I recalled a friend once saying that Chengdu never disappoints guests who travel from afar. At this moment, my state of mind was exactly that.

Back in Beijing, my thoughts still linger amidst the fragments of my time in the City of Hibiscus. The steaming poached skewers, the candid and uninhibited diners by the roadside, the gently flowing waters of the South River (Jinjiang), the uniquely charming local women, the teahouses where time stands still, and that campus steeped in greenery and academic spirit... This brief journey is like a tender brushstroke, adding yet another beautiful memory to the long scroll of my life.