Time in Beijing
China Trip Series #3
It’s hard to say whether Beijing consumed us or we consumed Beijing. During the three full days we spent there, we covered a lot of ground. I joked that although we didn’t achieve the main mission — obtaining a U.S. tourist visa for my sister — we managed to accomplish plenty of other things.
Unfortunately, the bad news is that my sister’s visa application was denied, without explanation, as is often the case. While the U.S. embassy reports a global tourist visa approval rate of 70%, we estimate the approval rate for Chinese applicants is much lower, likely less than half. On the way to the embassy, we met two retired Chinese women who were part of a tour group planning to visit the U.S. They seemed well-established in China and posed no obvious risk of overstaying their visas — yet their applications were also denied. Knowing others have had similar experiences made the rejection feel a little easier to accept.
The way U.S. visas work, the assumption is that every non-immigrant visa applicant intends to immigrate unless they can prove otherwise. But how exactly do you prove such a thing? The general consensus is that the current geopolitical climate — marked by the U.S. presidential election, tensions with Taiwan, and conflicts in the Middle East — has made the U.S. more reluctant to issue tourist visas to Chinese citizens. Personally, I’ve stopped trying to make sense of it and have come to accept it for what it is. The last time I was in China, I helped to apply for U.S. visas for two of my aunts from the orphanage. Their applications were nearly identical, yet one was approved, and the other denied. I’ve come to believe the process is more arbitrary than anything else.
We later found out that our uncle was denied a U.S. visa back in 1996! Somehow, just knowing we weren’t alone was surprisingly healing. Our uncle even joked that he’s waiting for the day when visas are no longer required to visit the U.S. While I doubt that day will come anytime soon, I admire his optimism.
In moments like these, I feel especially grateful that I’ve already navigated the hardest parts of my U.S. immigration journey — student visas, OPTs, and eventually a permanent residency. But it makes me wonder: what would my life be like today if my first student visa application had been denied 12 years ago?
On the topic of gratitude, I want to express my appreciation for my husband. Though I’ve often secretly wished he would try to fit in more, my time in China has given me a new perspective. Here, where social identity often eclipses individual identity, I’ve come to value his uniqueness and his unwavering sense of personhood. “Anything but ordinary”, he always says.
In China, it’s hard to distinguish one individual from another. This person is the delivery driver; that one, the waitress; and another, the security guard. Not once did a waiter or waitress introduce themselves by name. Why bother? As long as one fulfills their social role, who they are as individuals or how they feel seems irrelevant. This might explain the sense of harmony and belonging I felt — my social identity felt nurtured in a way I hadn’t realized I needed. There is comfort in anonymity, in not having to question, but simply being part of a flow that makes sense.
But after some time, I began to wonder: what happens to a person’s inner world in an environment like this? Is their inner life as indistinguishable as their outward appearance? Are their thoughts and feelings also focused on staying within the norm to avoid trouble? Walking the streets of Beijing, I passed countless delivery drivers — each in similar outfits, on similar electric scooters, carrying similar backpacks. How does one distinguish them, apart from the ID numbers on the slips they carry? What kind of husbands and fathers are they? How do their wives and children see them as distinct from others?
Beyond the sharp cultural contrasts between my adopted country and my home country, I simply want to sing a praise for these unsung heroes. They don’t showcase their individuality, but collectively they accomplish extraordinary things. Without these ant-like networks of people working in unison, how would a city as vast and complex as Beijing function?
A friend once told me that as he got older, he no longer enjoyed traveling because it disrupted his routine. But for me, that’s precisely why I love traveling. Familiarity can breed contempt — routines can become so monotonous that they start to grind you down. Travel, on the other hand, introduces new dimensions within unfamiliar scales of time and space.
When I woke up after my first night in Beijing, a wave of disorientation washed over me: What am I doing today? There was no dog to walk, no tea to make for my husband, no meetings waiting on my calendar. I had six luxurious hours to myself before my sister arrived. Then a small voice whispered in my mind: Create scaffolds for yourself — this is how you orient yourself in a new time and space. I heeded the call and quickly made a to-do list: familiarize myself with the environment, eat breakfast, call my husband, write and publish the second post in this series, and finalize details for the days ahead.
These small actions laid a solid foundation for the great time my sister and I had later. It was the conscious intention to build those scaffolds for my new routine that made everything fall into place. This is also why I love camping — every new location requires fresh scaffolds, inviting me to adapt, explore, and settle into the moment.
We had a wonderful mix of tourist activities and visits with family and friends. They afforded great opportunities for both my sister and I to know each other better.
We explored Qianmen Pedestrian Street and Nanluoguxiang, two of Beijing’s oldest streets that now offer some of the city’s most modern commercial attractions. We shopped, window-shopped, and enjoyed a crosstalk show by one of the most famous contemporary groups, which we thoroughly enjoyed. I waved to the shadow of my younger self, the one who could never have imagined affording such luxuries. She seemed pleased with where I am now, and appreciated the healing energy.
We also took a boat ride along the river system surrounding Beijing, which brought us to the Summer Palace. That visit took half a day, and I regretted wearing the new shoes I bought in Qianmen — my left heel was bleeding by the end. It reminded me of an old piece of wisdom: New shoes need time to break in, so don’t put them to the test too soon. Lesson noted for next time.
One of my high school friends traveled all the way from Tianjin to see me, and we spent the whole day at Da Guan Yuan, the garden built for the TV adaptation of Dream of the Red Chamber, one of the four great Chinese literary classics. I also reconnected with an old middle school friend and his family, as I had during my last visit to Beijing. Catching up with friends and hearing about their lives is, to me, a far better way to learn about what’s happening in society than reading the news. After all, everyday concerns tend to be more universal across cultures than we realize.
Our visit with our uncle was especially meaningful. It was the first time both my sister and I went to see him together — I had always visited alone before. When he met us at the metro station, he remarked, “Wow, the two of you look quite nice together.” That instantly put me at ease, as I’d been apprehensive about the visit due to some past unpleasant experiences. But my uncle was different this time — likely because he had just retired from a long career in the central government. He seemed far more relaxed and approachable. He jokingly called me a “fake American” and shared his candid views on the current state of relations between China and the U.S. I admired his insights and wondered if he would have spoken so freely while still in his career.
It struck me how family gatherings, much like other social spaces, often revolve around appearances. There were no mentions of difficulties in retirement for my uncle, no health challenges from my aunt, no struggles at school for my cousin, and the reason for my visit was simply framed as: I could afford a vacation, and I had come to celebrate my sister’s birthday. This realization dispelled any lingering illusions I had about family being a perpetually warm and nurturing space. It also reaffirmed my commitment to social spaces like coaching circles, where vulnerability is safe and empathy is abundant.
Still, I deeply appreciated this visit with my uncle. For the first time, I saw him as a whole person — with his hopes and disappointments — not just as someone connected to me through bittersweet family memories. Perhaps this shift happened because there’s now a fully grown person within me, ready to meet him as he is.
Some Other Fun Observations:
Modes of Transportation: During our time in Beijing, we used the metro, buses, taxis, private vehicles, and did a lot of walking. I was especially impressed by the abundance of shared bikes, which made it easy for people to quickly travel from their apartments to metro or bus stations. We took the high speed train back to our hometown.
Surveillance: The level of surveillance enabled by technology was quite astounding. I discovered that almost everything requires a national ID, making it uniquely tied to each individual. To buy tickets for tourist sites, we had to submit our ID numbers, and to enter, all we needed to do was scan our IDs. It made me wonder just how much of a person’s movements and activities are tracked.
There was also a noticeable security presence throughout the city, with guards stationed in many public areas. I learned the hard way about one of the metro rules: no open food allowed. As soon as I tried to take a bite, a guard immediately stopped me. The rules were clear, and the enforcement strict — something I’ve always associated with the Communist Party.
Food and Service: Since arriving, I haven’t felt hungry once — there’s just so much delicious food to enjoy, and endless invitations to meals. I’ve also been pleasantly surprised by the level of service in China. One waitress even asked if I wanted her to lay a napkin on my lap. Another went above and beyond by taking excellent photos of us and guiding us into different poses.
What’s especially interesting is that tipping isn’t part of Chinese culture, which made me reflect on the assumption that tips are necessary to motivate good service. It seems that people in service roles are driven by the need to maintain their establishment’s reputation. With intense competition and the ease of spreading reviews online, high-quality service feels like an expectation rather than a bonus.
