Hongcun
Carrying my backpack, I set out alone. I crossed three provinces and passed through fifteen cities, searching for what my teacher once spoke of in class—Hui-style architecture, the ink-wash landscapes of Jiangnan. I stayed in Anhui, seeking fragments of civilization, hidden treasures yet to be unearthed.
Here, I kept to my habit of speaking with people, and discovered lives and aspirations unlike my own. These were lessons no school could have taught me.
On a rainy day, I stayed indoors and chatted with the innkeeper. She sighed: “Suzhou and Hangzhou may be the best seasons, but Anhui and Jiangxi are the true Jiangnan.” Born in Zhejiang, she had long known the misty charm of the south, yet she remained in Hongcun—settling here for half a lifetime, witnessing the village’s growth and change.
Later, at an abandoned opera stage, the emptiness was striking. As I turned to leave, an elderly man pulled me aside, flustered, struggling to explain. He called out his wife, who held a tablet showing WeChat. Piece by piece, I understood—they wished to video call their daughter but did not know how. Their urgency eased once I showed them. They thanked me warmly, offering to make me tea.
But the road was long, the path remote, and I kept walking, toward the next stop.
Shexian Ancient City
I once thought that my journey to Huangshan would be the most moving part of my travels.
But now, words fail me—I can no longer fully articulate my feelings.
In this poverty of expression, I owe an apology to all the Chinese teachers who once taught me.
The solemn weight of Chinese history, the grandeur hidden within Hui-style architecture—step by step, they washed over my soul, again and again.
To take a different path is, indeed, to find something different.
I wandered into Doushan Street, a place where tourists seldom go.
A street that can be walked in ten minutes, yet holds within it much of China’s modern history. Disorderly, yet never chaotic; its order lies in the dignity of history itself.
The old residents here wear time upon their faces. In the rainy season, they simply move a wooden stool beneath the eaves and sit quietly, gazing with unclear eyes at a past long judged by others.
And softly, they shared with me stories of what once was.
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Chengkan
In Chengkan, I visited the home of two villagers in their seventies. Their life stories left a deep impression on me.
The grandfather had grown up in Shanghai. After high school, he followed his parents to the countryside as a “sent-down youth.” His mother was once a student of Tao Xingzhi and later taught physics at a school founded by Tao. His father had served with the New Fourth Army, which allowed the family to retain some foundation during turbulent times. Almost everyone in the family became a teacher—even his sister, nine years his senior—yet he chose a different path, entering business and sales. With a laugh, he called it “being unconventional.” I thought it was perhaps that era’s small allowance for freedom, coupled with his family’s tolerance, that gave him space to become the person he wanted to be.
The grandmother was a humble farmer who had lived in the village for more than forty years. She now works as a local guide for twenty yuan a tour—that was how I met her. Warm and kind, she once noticed my injured knee and walked ten minutes with me to a distant pharmacy. The next time we met, she invited me to her home.
They showed me their courtyard and garden, and offered me a cup of their homemade “rough tea.” To me, its meaning far surpassed the finest Huangshan Maofeng or Qimen black tea.
They remembered the legends of their elders and created wonders of their own. Despite upheaval and decline, they still raised a daughter who became a PhD in physics. Their resilience and achievement filled me with admiration.
Stories like theirs could go on all night in conversation. Yet in this brief journey, to meet such people and hear such stories—I could only feel how truly fortunate I was.
