A crowd of onlookers in a park gathering around a micro-drama film shooting.
There’s a lot to enjoy about travel. Novelty, leisure, adventure, food, culture.
What ends up leaving the biggest imprint, though, are the ways in which travel changes my perception of the world — to glimpse different ways of living and to peek beyond the edges of my own cultural lenses.
Nowhere has this been more apparent than my time spent in China.
While there is much to say (and learn/unlearn) about this fascinating country, one of the most notable characteristics of the locations I’ve visited so far is to do with the streets and the ways in which they are inhabited.
In my most recent trip, my partner and I stayed in her hometown of Xindu (a suburban district of Chengdu). Each day we’d spend many hours walking around and I got to know the sidewalks quite intimately.
While a good portion of the sidewalks had the familiar feeling of simply being a means of transportation (with many more delivery drivers zooming by than I’m used to), there were segments that transformed into vibrant hubs teeming with cultural life. Like being in a lush forest, even the shortest of walks presented an entire ecology of activity.
In these areas, it was as if the adjacent stores and living rooms spilled into the street. What was a cement or stone walkway became something much more — blurring the line between pathway and destination just as much as the line between public and private space.
A seller waits for customers with her spread of produce laid out on the sidewalk.
Many storefronts open up to the street not with a hinged door but either a garage door or sliding panels. The effect is a wide open space with no wall separating inside from outside. Especially when the store is a restaurant, there is no distinct point at which one “enters” the restaurant. Instead, there’s a continuous gradient of shared, multi-purpose space with the proportions of usage fluctuating throughout the day.
From afar, low dining tables line the road-side edge of the sidewalk. Servers shuttle dirty plates and patrons chit chat while eating. Up close, within the shop, you’ll usually be greeted with a busy site: towers of steaming buns at the front, a sizzling kitchen at the back, and a mix of servers and guests in-between. You may even see a kid or two (who I assume to be the children of the shop owner) studying after a day of school.
The opposite view is similarly buzzing with activity. An elderly city worker dressed in a high-viz vest sweeping the curb clean with a broom made of branches. The sound of a distant megaphone announcing snacks for sale approaches as a vendor bikes slowly on their mobile shop. Big city trucks spray the streets clean while tiny vehicles with rotating brushes beep their way along the curb. After hours, shop keepers will perform their own street scrubbing with hoses and mops.
Jasmine, myself and a friend enjoying some savoury 豆花 (douhua aka silken tofu) next to a mobile shop.
The result is a clean and tidy street tended to as one might to their own living room. And that’s really how it felt — the sidewalk was a living space.
Many other sights reinforced this feeling: A shopkeeper relaxing outside on a chair or step between client visits; residents of the above units sitting around portable tables, drinking, chatting and playing cards.
In some areas, the air filled with the distinct clattering and shuffling of mahjong tiles. Whenever these games took place outside, crowds of onlookers usually surrounded the players — wouldn’t you be curious about a game taking place in your own living room, too?
Spectators surrounding a game of mahjong or Chinese poker. Jasmine stepped onto the ledge for a better view.
Other areas opened up into clear plazas, usually at the corner of two streets. At night, these plazas transform into dance floors. The infamous square dances, often made up of middle-aged or senior women (though there are the occasional grandpas in the mix!) are a daily occurrence here. Usually a large wheeled speaker sits at the front of the group and the first row of dancers leads the sequence for those in the back to follow.
One of the bigger dance squares we saw in Xindu.
These dance groups are open to any passerby, the outskirts surrounded by spectators some of whom may be half dancing. My partner and I joined them on a few occasions (me much more reluctantly than her!)
While these are great forms of low-impact daily exercise and clearly a rich source of community bonding, there was something else about them that was hard to put into words. Dancing in these groups was transfixing and ecstatic. The longer I went to more I felt my own self fade away, replaced by a visceral sense of collective empowerment. Dancing is liberating, especially with others.
Finally, some sidewalks snake their way off the road and into parks. Parks that are scattered with outdoor gyms, play areas, ping pong tables, benches, people fishing or practicing taichi, and even mini dance squares (these things are all over the place and of any size). I remember one time hanging out by an outdoor gym full of seniors exercising together while taking care of grandchildren who were using the gym as a playground.
Older folks moving, dancing and exercising in the above mentioned park. Idk what I’m doing.
Though these experiences and observations are only a glimmer of all that I experienced on a day-to-day basis, they reflect a notably different culture and attitude towards shared public spaces than I’m used to.
Taken together, they animate the streets with a distinct aliveness. The streets act as an extension of the living room — or perhaps better put, the living room acts as an extension of the streets. Either way, the line between public and private space fades away.
Here, the sidewalk is much more than a means of transportation, rather, it is a collectively inhabited commons where the daily rhythms of life unfold.
I’m left hoping that one day my own streets will come alive in their own way — or maybe I just need to look again with fresher eyes.
The daily rhythms of life unfolding in the streets of Xindu.