春风一舸绕明珠，雾作钗鬓浪作趺。 楼阁参差花正发，客来不复羡仙居。- 谢觉哉, 《乘轮绕鼓浪屿》
The aftermath of clean air, morning runs, meandering adventure, food and family, is the computer screen’s eerie glow, desperately trying to conjure productivity as the mind wanders to a certain island of the south.
We spent a total of no more than five hours on Gulangyu, a tiny island in Xiamen known as “Drum Wave Islet,” or alternatively “The Island of Music.” The ferry from Xiamen took less than five minutes, the additional half an hour we spent being shepherded with the rest of Gulangyu's hundreds of tourists waiting for a ferry. The island is home to about 20,000 residents, but during the peak tourist seasons, some 10,000 people visit it per day. This is precisely why I’d originally opted to douse my mind in tea and book at my favorite cafe, surfacing only for air and an occasional conversation with a stranger. But the island called in unexpected ways, particularly through a conversation with said stranger, who mused:
“It’s worth going after five, when tourists dwindle, and you can have a drink after dinner. It’s worth spending a night, and wake up before the herds arrive again.”
The stranger is a banker with the heart of a sensitive artist. He works every other day of the year with no weekends, and only gets four consecutive days off during the Spring Festival, where for the past three years, he spent traveling alone. He talked about politics, history, linguistics and how modern Chinese is like “grass grown on cement.” He made references to books I’ve never heard of, and spoke in idioms I didn’t understand. I’m sensitive these days when people ask, “do you understand,” or “does this makes sense?” but he only searched for simpler expressions to explain heavy ideas.
His advice seems to be the trick for successful sightseeing in China. Five years ago another traveler told me to see the ancient town of Lijiang, it’s best to wake before sunrise at five. Three months ago, a friend said the Forbidden City is ravishing at night.
When we made it to Gulangyu after five, I was faintly reminded of days spent on Governor’s Island, when friends would converge for art events and jazz emsembles. How far away those carefree days seem when I’d travel from D train to Court Street and waited patiently for the small ferry among bikes and strollers. In Gulangyu, no bikes or cars are allowed. When you get on the island, you’re almost immediately greeted by a labyrinth of windy paths, exotic plants, and gorgeous architecture.
We picked the route least traveled, ducking tourists left and right until by some miracle, an alley or nook seemed untouched. Father berated that I should “understand guoqing (the Chinese condition)” and I retorted that there should be limits placed on how many tourists can visit the island per day. I took photos of wrappers and garbage on an island that was renowned for cleanliness and father suddenly announced he wished he had a Weibo to post the photos.
But even among chaos, fruit hawkers, and tourists, Gulangyu threads beauty among its paths and plants, and when all is quiet, the stillness of this beauty consumes you. You begin hearing piano notes among the green, and the wind carry smells of eternal spring. Every photograph transforms to a painting, but no painting can capture the song of drums and birds, and longings of writers and artists who fell recklessly in love here. This is a place for die hard romantics, music fanatics, poetry lovers, and dreamers. This is a place worth living for, where dreams are stolen while you’re beating 9-5 in big cities. This is where you lose a little bit of yourself, and you keep coming back not for anything else, but to find that piece you lost, the part that means well and dream big.
My sister (cousin, who is like a sister) and I started the hike to the mountain peak after eight, when darkness wrapped its black silk around the island and not a soul was around. We passed the bell tolls of Buddhist temples and handsome rocks etched with calligraphy. My sister, a mighty professional tennis player, is somehow afraid of heights. So when we arrived on top of “sunlight peak,” she was on all fours while I zoomed around like a lunatic exclaiming “wow!” “wow!” I grabbed her by the arm until we stood together at the tallest point of the city.
She said, “let’s shout something together.”
We felt like nine-year-olds all over again, the days spent playing dress up, hiding go seek, and pretending we were characters from TV dramas.
On three, we screamed to the wind: “我们一定会幸福!!!” (We will surely be happy.)
When the echoes died, I added, 我们已经很幸福。