Beijing Dream

There are journeys that resemble dreams. Some places feel so surreal that you only fully realise you have been there after you have left. Beijing was one of those places and I could barely imagine it as the plane was taking me further East one summer. Seven hours of my existence vanished when I landed and looked at the clock. Maybe it was the price to pay: I had to lose some time of my life to gain the experience of a lifetime.
When I stepped out of the airport, I was greeted by the heavy moisture of the air that hugged me by surprise. I could feel rain on my skin although it wasn’t raining. Beijing was being warm but shy, hiding in a yellow mist. The air was still, so still that the ventilation of the hotel relied entirely on air conditioning.
When the evening arrived, I ventured out in order to explore what only the night reveals. I walked along Chao Yang Road where red paper lanterns were hanging bright between posts and shabby shops, which looked like temporary stalls between four walls, were lit up. At times, I spotted a mattress lying on the floor inside; the homes were clearly as improvised as the shops.
I decided to stop at the terrace of a restaurant that seemed quite popular, one of those places only locals know of and only locals go to. I bought a red can of what I believed was iced tea and ordered some skewers by pointing at what was cooking on a grill. I had no idea what it was. For all I know, it could have been dragon meat but it smelt delicious.
A little girl, who must have been 7 or 8 years old, came to sit with me. She had short jet-black hair and was wearing a wavy denim skirt and a tank top. She seemed so comfortable with the customers that I suspected her to be the owners’ daughter. She stayed with me most of the evening as we played various games that I created on the spot to entertain her. She was my little Chinese angel and I really wanted to know her name. Suddenly remembering a way to ask for it in my rudimentary Chinese, I introduced myself before adding “and you?”, wondering if the strange sounds that I had just managed to articulate would make any sense to her. “Yinda”, she answered with her little angel voice. I felt happy; I had managed to communicate with her in her language. At that instant, Yinda became China. She became what travelling is all about for me: making a connection.
Wherever you are, stop somewhere unexpected on your way, somewhere local. And then, the unexpected, the magical might happen.