Chapter 3 Company
The scent of osmanthus hung in the Kunming air when I returned—a sweet, familiar welcome that seemed to permeate every corner after the spicy, neon-lit whirl of Chengdu. It was late summer, and the small, golden blossoms hid among the dark green leaves, releasing their perfume with each warm breeze. Home felt like a soft landing. The days that followed were slow and sun-drenched. Life settled into a gentle, unhurried rhythm. There were late mornings when the light lay in long stripes across my bed, afternoons spent listening to music on my deck chair, and evenings spent watching shows I had missed. It was a quiet in - between time, a suspended season, like the calm, breath - held pause before a new movement in a piece of music begins.
Then, on a rainy afternoon when the clouds hung low and grey over the city, turning the light in my room a soft dull grey, my phone buzzed on the desk. It was a message from a long-inactive group chat—the one for my junior high classmates. The title, “The Dorm 308,” brought a rush of faded but vivid memories. Chloe’s name appeared at the top of the screen: “Hey everyone! We haven't seen each other for a long time. Anyone free for a trip to Dali next week? ”
A flicker of warmth, sharp and sweet, went through me. I could see them clearly: Chloe, with her clever eyes and a laugh that arrived a second before the joke was finished; Mia, thoughtful and steady, her kindness worn quietly like a well-loved sweater, always offering a calm smile; and Zoe, whose boundless energy and big heart had been the lively center of our dorm. We had been close once, woven together by the shared fabric of those years: midnight study sessions under single desk lamps, the illicit sharing of instant noodles after lights-out, whispered secrets in the dark that felt like the most important truths in the world.
My fingers hovered over the screen for only a moment before I typed back: “I’m in.”
Chloe replied instantly, as if she’d been waiting: “This Friday? Three days, two nights? Mia can come too—Zoe has family stuff, sadly.”
A slight tinge of disappointment, like a small cloud passing over the sun. But three was still good company, a perfect triangle of old familiarity. I found my father in the living room, settled in his armchair with a book, the rain tracing silent paths down the window behind him. “Dad, friends from junior high are planning a trip to Dali this weekend. Can I join them?”
“Of course. It’s good to see them before you all go your separate ways. ” He said without hesitation, “I’ll send you some money for the trip. Have a good time.”
The next few days were light with anticipation. Our group chat, silent for so long, came alive with a steady stream of messages. We compared train times, and shared links to articles about Dali’s best street food—fried milk fans, rose-filled baba, sour-spicy fish. The conversation was easy, punctuated by different emojis.
On Thursday evening, with a suitcase open on my floor, I laid out my clothings. As I folded it, a quiet thought lingered at the edge of my mind, gentle but persistent: Would it be the same after such a long time? But then, when I saw them at the train station the next morning, any wisp of uncertainty simply melted away in the clear morning light.
Chloe arrived first, a suitcase rolling behind her with confident clacks. Her hair was now a light chestnut brown, falling in loose, careless waves around her shoulders, but her grin was just as bright. She rushed over and hugged me tight. “Missed you!” she said, the words muffled against my shoulder but full of genuine warmth. Mia appeared beside her a moment later, calm and smiling a warm embrace, her hands patting my back softly. “It’s so good to see you,” she said.
We boarded the train together, finding a row of three seats. The carriage was bright and clean, humming with the low energy of morning travel. And as the train pulled out of the station, leaving Kunming’s urban sprawl behind, the conversation began as if the three-year pause had been nothing more than a weekend. It didn’t restart; it simply continued, flowing into the space between us with an easy familiarity.
Chloe and Miatalked about their upcoming move to cities far away and their ambitions to eat all kinds of local food.The two-hour journey felt short, a container perfectly filled with easy talk and comfortable.
Outside, the world was transforming. Kunming’s vast, sun-drenched plains of green and gold gradually gave way to rolling hills, their slopes terraced with precision, creating patterns like the contours on a topographic map. Then, in the distance, the hazy, mist-wrapped outline of the Cangshan Mountains materialized, a deep blue-grey silhouette against the lighter sky. The air streaming through the open vent grew cooler, cleaner, carrying a faint, mineral freshness from the highlands.
When we finally arrived in Dali, stepping onto the platform, the sun was shining with a clarity that seemed to polish everything it touched. The famous “Wind, Flower, Snow, and Moon” of Dali felt present in that moment—the breeze was gentle, flowers spilled from window boxes, the snow-capped peaks of Cangshan gleamed in the distance, and the sunlight had a luminous, almost lunar quality.
Chloe had booked us a homestay—a traditional Bai courtyard a short walk from the station, in the heart of the old town. We wheeled our suitcases over the worn, smooth cobblestones of Renmin Road, the main thoroughfare. The sound was a constant, hollow rumble. Vendors called out from stalls piled high with plump, red strawberries or offered paper cones of roasted chestnuts, their smoky, sweet scent weaving through the air. We turned off the main street into a quieter lane, where the blue-tiled roofs of Bai architecture dipped low over white-washed walls adorned with simple, elegant ink-wash paintings of landscapes and poetry.
The courtyard gate was of dark, weathered red wood, intricately carved with peonies and lotuses. Pushing it open felt like entering a secret. Inside, it was a small, serene oasis. The square courtyard was open to the sky, with potted orchids and lush ferns lining the edges. A shallow stone fishpond caught the dappled sunlight, where orange and white carp moved lazily. Grapevines, heavy with late-summer leaves, wound over a wooden trellis, creating a canopy of shifting green light. The only sounds were the trickle of water from a small bamboo fountain and the distant coo of a pigeon.
The owner, Auntie Li, emerged from a doorway, wiping her hands on a floral apro. “You’ve arrived! Welcome, welcome,” she said, her voice warm and melodic. She showed us to our room on the second floor, up a wooden staircase that creaked companionably under our feet. The room was simple, spacious, and clean: three single beds with crisp, white linen sheets, wooden floors that shone with a soft light, and a large window that swung open to overlook the entire courtyard. The air smelled of old wood and sun-warmed cotton.
But the best surprise was already there, claiming the space as its own. A small, grey-and-white cat was curled into a perfect circle on the wide windowsill, a pool of fur in a square of sunlight. It opened one green eye as we entered, gave a soft, questioning meow , then stretched and jumped down with a soft thump. It went straight to Chloe, weaving figure-eights around her ankles, purring like a tiny, contented engine.
“We’re keeping it,” Chloe declared immediately, bending down to scoop the creature up. It settled into her arms, its purr intensifying. Mia, ever prepared, found a small treat and offered it on her palm. The cat ate daintily, then transferred its affections. I sat on the edge of a bed, stroking its incredibly soft fur as it pushed its head against my hand. Everything felt so familiar, peaceful, and right.
By evening, a coolness descended from the mountains. We asked Auntie Li for a dinner recommendation. “You must try the local wild mushroom hot pot,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “A taste of Yunnan’s earth.”
The restaurant was small, a few wooden tables under warm lamps. The air smelled profoundly earthy—of damp soil, pine needles, something indefinably wild. The waiter brought a pot of clear chicken broth and a platter heaped with fresh mushrooms: fat porcini, delicate chanterelles, clusters of grey oysters. He explained carefully how long to cook each type.
We watched as the mushrooms simmered, their colors deepening, infusing the broth with a cloudy gold. The fragrance that rose was incredible—nutty, rich, deeply savory. When we tasted it, the flavor was unlike anything from a supermarket: layered, complex, with a faint pleasant smokiness. We spent the next hour cooking and eating, talking in the slow, meandering way of old friends rediscovering their rhythm.
Afterward, pleasantly full, we walked back under a sky thick with stars. We bought some fruits from a street vendor, ate them as we walked, juice staining our fingers pink. Back in our room, we changed into pajamas, curled together on one bed, watched a scary movie, passing snacks back and forth. It was one of those perfect, unforced nights—simple, happy, wrapped in the absolute comfort of being known.
The next morning dawned clear and brilliant. After a breakfast of thick, creamy yogurt and local honey provided by Auntie Li, we set out to rent bicycles. The plan was to ride the lakeside path around Erhai Lake. Since Chloe was an enthusiastic but unsteady cyclis, and Mia had never learned to ride, we settled on a three-person bicycle—a long, sturdy device with one seat in front and two behind. I took the front seat, the captain, responsible for steering and braking.
The road hugged the western shore of Erhai Lake, a vast, serene body of water that reflected the sky so perfectly it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. That day, it was a breathtaking, crystalline blue. On our left, the water stretched to the horizon, dotted with the white sails of fishing boats that looked like resting gulls. On our right, the imposing wall of the Cangshan Mountains rose sharply, their peaks still dusted with snow even in late summer, while at their feet, expansive fields of sunflowers turned thousands of golden faces toward the sun, a blinding composition of yellow and green. The air was cool and fresh, scented with water, sun-warmed earth, and the faint, sweet smell of the flowers.
We rode slowly, the mechanics of our shared bike requiring a cooperative, pedaling rhythm. There was a slight lag between my push and theirs, creating a rocking, slightly comical motion that made us laugh. We stopped often—to take pictures of the impossible scenery, to buy bottles of cold water from a roadside stall, or simply to stand and look, letting the vastness sink in. It wasn’t all pastoral ease; there were gentle hills that made our thighs burn in protest, and narrow stretches where we had to navigate carefully around scooters and other cyclists. But the breeze in our hair was constant and cooling, and the views were so open, so serene, that any effort felt incidental.
For lunch, we found a small, family-run lakeside restaurant—little more than a covered porch with a few plastic tables. We ate fried fish from the lake, its skin crisp and salty, the flesh flaky and sweet, along with a plate of stir-fried wild greens, garlicky and fresh, and bowls of plain white rice. Everything tasted clean and of its place. We ate in contented silence for a while, watching the light dance on the water.
Later, as we pedaled back toward town in the late afternoon, the light turned golden and slanted, stretching our shadows long and thin ahead of us on the pavement.By the time we returned the bicycle, our muscles were pleasantly tired, our skin tingling with sun and wind, and a deep, unspoken contentment had settled among us.
That afternoon, we wandered with no goal through Dali’s ancient town. We slipped into quiet residential alleys where laundry fluttered on bamboo poles. We visited a small centuries-old temple, its walls the color of dried oxblood, roofs of golden tiles, incense smoke curling in the still air. In a quiet corner, we found a tie-dye workshop—a cave of color, fabrics in every shade of indigo. The owner, a Bai woman with hands stained permanent blue, encouraged us to try on garments. She was so obliging that we eventually bought matching indigo headscarves, the fabric soft, smelling of earth and dye.
On our last day, we took a local bus to the foot of Jizu Mountain. The air was cooler, thinner. The path upward was steep, stone steps worn smooth, winding through dense ancient pines. A faint misty drizzle began, beading on our hair and jackets, making the greens of ferns and mosses glow. We climbed slowly, stopping often. Inside small temples along the way, the world hushed—only the drip of water and the low note of a prayer bowl. The air was thick with sweet sandalwood incense. We bowed our heads, each making a silent wish—simple hopes for health, kindness, gentle journeys.
Higher up, the trees thinned, and the view opened up spectacularly. Through gaps in the cloud and mist, we could see Erhai Lake far below, a sliver of brilliant blue set in the green landscape like a dropped piece of sky. The Cangshan range stretched into the distance, peak after mist-shrouded peak. When we finally reached the main temple complex at the summit, our legs were trembling with the effort, but there was a clear, calm sense of accomplishment, a physical echo of an inner arrival. We stood on a stone balcony, leaning against the worn rail, looking out at the world below in a shared, wordless awe
“We should come back in a few years,” Chloe said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the mountain’s silence.
Mia nodded,“Yes. And next time, we’ll bring Zoe.”
I smiled, “I’d like that.”
On the way down, the descent easier on our lungs but harder on our knees. There was no sadness in the impending parting, only a gladness for the time we had carved out now, and a quiet, steady confidence in the separate but parallel paths that lay ahead. The bond felt reinforced, not diminished, by our different directions.
That evening, we packed our bags in the slowly fading light of our room. We said goodbye to Auntie Li, who pressed small packets of local tea into our hands, and to the little grey-and-white cat, who watched us from its perch on the windowsill with sleepy, indifferent eyes. We took one last walk through the old town as night fell. The sounds of a distant bar playing folk music mixed with the murmur of the evening crowd. The smell of roasting nuts and grilling fish filled the narrow lanes. Paper lanterns glowed, casting a warm, honey-colored light on the cobblestones and the white walls. It all felt like a gentle, perfect farewell—not an ending, but a beautifully punctuated pause.
The next morning, on the train back to Kunming, I sat by the window. Chloe dozed off in the seat beside me, her head leaning against the glass. Mia sat across the aisle, quietly taking pictures of the passing landscape—the receding mountains, the patchwork of fields, a lone farmhouse with smoke curling from its chimney. I leaned back in my seat, letting the rhythm of the train seep into my bones, listening to its steady, metallic song.
This trip had been a gentle return—not just to a beautiful place, but to a specific, precious geometry of friendship that had quietly endured the pressure of time and change. The warmth of that reconnection was a quiet treasure, discovered anew. It reminded me, with a soft but profound certainty, that some bonds don’t break under the strain of distance or time; they simply lie inactive, like bulbs in winter earth, ready to be picked up again when the season is right, familiar and whole and surprisingly in bloom.
As the train carried us home, the green plains of Kunming welcoming us back, I felt light, deeply grateful, and ready—not just for the start of university, but for all the unknown roads ahead. I knew now, with a calm assurance, that some travels are best shared, and some friends, no matter the miles that may eventually lie between you, are always company.
