When I'm asked why I like Chengdu so much, I always reply: "Chengdu is where I feel totally comfortable."
Elsewhere in the country, I have to constantly pause and reassess where I'm. Only in Chengdu can I sit anywhere and effortlessly feel at home.
I was 17 when I first visited Chengdu and sampled tea in Baihuatan Park. As I watched the stream murmuring among the giant nanmu trees, I felt the tribulations of my adolescent years melting in an instant.
In the 1990s, Chengdu used to have many teahouses. Farmers would put a few bamboo chairs and tables under a thatched roof and pour the tea into a bowl, for a mere 1 yuan ($15 cents). On my way home, I would crisscross piles of corn, fields of hot pepper, rice paddies and groves of eucalyptus.
But since 2000, these simple sheds have been taken over by villas. I had to turn to the city center so I coud take stock of my bearings again. It worked a treat - in the Kuanxiangzi and Zhaixiangzi (Broad and Narrow alleys) that date back 2,000 years. Distinguished families and prominent merchants have built enormous courtyard houses along the alleys.
Locals put bamboo chairs out in the open, so customers can lie back, sip tea at just 2 or 3 yuan per cup, chew skewers of kebab, and let their eyes chase the local beauties.
The locals have an expression for such a life: "an yi de ban". But, funnily enough, though "an yi" means leisurely comfort, "ban" describes the thrashing tail of a freshly caught fish. Maybe, the expression is meant to convey the joyful heartbeats arising from enjoying tea in a tranquil alley.
After the May 12 earthquake, many worried that this leisurely life would disappear. But I worried more about the reconstruction of the Broad and Narrow alleys, which I feared would become too commercialized and quasi-antique.
My recent trip there swept away these worries. Even more tourists seemed to be flashing their cameras at the small restaurants, cafes and bars operating from the renovated ancient courtyards. But I was overjoyed to find the old architecture and giant trees intact.
Most restaurateurs are local people who have spent decades studying the art of catering to picky tongues, eyes and ears. Even better, a good number of them are renowned poets. My close friend Zhai Yongming dubbed Number One Beauty in modern Chinese poetic circles, has opened a new branch of her restaurant, White Night.
A glass screen protects an ancient wall but keeps the water trickling in, so green moss thrives on its rough surface. The furniture and decor have been contributed by her fans. Inside the courtyard, two loquat trees embrace each other, flowering and bearing fruit, oblivious to the comings and goings of customers.
One of her poems is carved on a boulder: In the olden days, blue mountain existed solemnly / as green water lay drunken at his feet / We raised our hands in obeisance, knowing / we'd meet someday.
Post-quake Chengdu is still a haven of tranquility that I will always find inviting.
(China Daily September 23, 2008)
