This series of articles documents my two brief stints living in Beijing. Originally written in Chinese, they are now made accessible to readers from other cultural backgrounds — thanks to the existence of ChatGPT.

This particular piece was written in early March 2018, just as I was about to embark on a year-long journey in Beijing — one full of uncertainties and challenges, but in hindsight, also rich with personal growth and unexpected rewards.

The high-speed train carried me across the boundless North China Plain, bringing me back to the city where I lived nine years ago — Beijing, the capital.

As I sped along at 306 km/h, a sense of melancholy crept in. Leaving behind my wife and child, saying farewell to friends and family — this didn’t feel like something someone my age should be doing. After all, I had a home and a car back there. Why insist on drifting through the hustle and dust of a big city life? I couldn’t quite explain it to myself. But jumping off the train was clearly not an option. A year might be long, or short, depending on how you look at it. “Well, since I’m already here” — that familiar phrase snapped me back to the present. I hadn’t even figured out where I’d sleep that night, so I unlocked my phone and resumed my apartment search.

I did have a backup plan. A friend lived in Xierqi and had already said I could crash there for a few days if needed. Worst case, I could stay at a budget hotel temporarily. Of course, the ideal scenario was to quickly find a place and start work with peace of mind the next morning.

What once required an overnight train ride now took just two and a half hours. At 10:25 a.m., I was already standing on the platform at Beijing West Railway Station. Lugging my suitcase around for house-hunting felt unwieldy, so I found a luggage deposit at the South Square exit, paid 60 yuan, and received a barely legible handwritten receipt. Hands in my pockets, trying to look relaxed, I queued up for the subway.

Trouble struck at the turnstile: my transit card hadn’t been used in two years and was deactivated. I had to wait in line to reactivate it. Thankfully, it still had over 20 yuan — enough to get me through the apartment search.

Finding a place to live starts with choosing a location. I opened a map and drew a five-kilometer circle around my new workplace. It was awkward. To the east were the Bird’s Nest, the Water Cube, and vast Olympic Park — hardly residential. North and south were campuses of universities: China Agricultural University, China University of Geosciences, Beijing Film Academy, Beijing Normal University… I couldn’t exactly move into a student dorm.

To the west — ah, of course: Wudaokou, the so-called “center of the universe,” and Zhongguancun, China’s Silicon Valley. Eventually, I widened the radius along Metro Line 10, and my eyes landed on a familiar name — Xidiaoyutai.

I had a soft spot for this place. Back when I lived in Shijingshan, I used to take Bus 612 into the city. It always passed by here. Across from the Air Force General Hospital was a roast duck restaurant — my friends threw me a 23rd birthday party there. The 612 would then roll through Baita Temple, the Temple of Emperors of Past Dynasties, Beihai North Gate, Di’anmen, and finally Nanluoguxiang… This was it.

I met the real estate agent, a young woman with a student vibe. Sure enough, she was a recent graduate. We rode shared bikes through several residential compounds. Along the way, we passed by a demolition zone that resembled a slum — I couldn’t resist snapping a few photos. Nine years on, and yet such places still existed just within Beijing’s Third Ring Road.

Out of three candidates, I settled on the smallest: a second bedroom in a two-bedroom shared apartment.

First, I was living alone — saving money was key. Sharing would have to do.Second, I peeked into the fridge and guessed my future roommate was also a solitary guy — less drama that way.

Third and most important: the room faced southwest, had a small balcony, sunlight in winter, cool breeze in summer. I could smoke with the window open and the door closed without stinking up the place. On clear days, I could even see Laoshan nearby, and further away, the fragrant Xiangshan, and far beyond that, the rolling Yanshan mountains.

The apartment was smaller than the one I lived in nine years ago, but the rent had quadrupled. I signed the lease and paid everything through an app. No keys — just a digital code to unlock the door. Convenient, at least.

After picking up my luggage from the station, I returned and bumped into my new roommate. Small talk revealed he was from Zhengzhou and commuted home every weekend. Just like me — separated from wife and child, on temporary assignment in Beijing.

He was a few years older and more reserved. After that evening, all our interactions moved to WeChat. We quietly coordinated kitchen and bathroom use, never crossing paths. And just like that, the days flowed on — peaceful, unspoken, uneventful.