I remember one day last summer taking a few twists and turns down different alleyways near Beijing’s Yonghegong Lamasery in a deliberate attempt at getting lost.
Walking down one nameless alleyway, I came upon a small group of people relaxing outside in the heat of Beijing’s late summer. As I passed them, I gave a quick smile. They smiled back and asked me to stop and take a seat.
The seats seemed an appropriate collection of chairs and stools dredged from those cast out from elsewhere - one an office chair with rolling wheels, another a simple wooden chair, and two stools that swayed when sat upon and stood a chance of collapsing at any moment.
With a touch of courtesy, a man about 40 years old offered me the office chair, the choice seat of the group. We lightheartedly struggled a few minutes over who should take the seat.
"Please sit," he said.
"No, no. I am younger than you, I can stand," I replied.
"But you are a guest. You’ve been walking." He said as he pushed me into the chair.
"Ok, ok."
I took the chair, humble in most circumstances but honoured in this one. We chatted for about an hour. I can’t remember much of the conversation, but the content was not the point.
As we tossed words around, the conversation took on the character of a game of hacky-sack - no aim except to keep the flow of a lazy afternoon. Nothing was there to pull us away and the talk turned from person to person, with some leaving their seats and others returning, then changing once again.
In the warmth of that company and falling afternoon sun, I decided I would trade in my high rise apartment and move into the hutongs - old Beijing’s alleyway communities. The problem then became how to do it. How could I find a room and fit into a world so different from everything I had ever experienced?
From that point on, I dedicated each Saturday and Sunday to the pursuit of a hutong to call home. Initially I tried inquiring at the small shops that line the neighbourhoods around the Yonghegong Lamasery and the Drum Tower about places for rent.