Chapter 2 Solo
The suitcase stood ready by the bed, its dark blue fabric faintly dusty from the closet, its wheels aligned neatly toward the door. On the small wooden table lay the essentials: earphones coiled like a sleeping snake, a slim leather wallet, my student ID tucked into a clear sleeve. The alarm was set for 5:30 a.m., its digital glow a small blue moon in the dark. One more night, and I would be on my way.
My father had offered to drive me to the station—a kind, predictable gesture—but I had declined. It was a small, early assertion of the solitude I was seeking. They deserved a slow Saturday morning, coffee and newspapers at the kitchen table, and I wanted to begin this trip quietly, on my own terms, from the very first step.
Morning arrived soft and grey, the sky a sheet of pale linen stretched over Kunming. I was already awake when my mother knocked lightly on the door. The final preparations were quick: toothbrush, charger, a paperback novel with a dog-eared page. But as I swung my backpack over my shoulder, my parents filled the outer pockets with tangerines, bags of roasted almonds, and two steamed buns wrapped in wax paper until the bag bulged softly, like a well-fed creature. Their hands lingered a moment on my arms. "Keep your ID safe," my father said again, and I nodded—no eye-rolling today. There was a warmth in their worry, like a light coat on a cool morning, familiar and slightly weighty.
I stepped out into the hushed street. The air was cool and carried the damp, green scent of watered plants. I walked to the bus stop, my suitcase wheels clicking rhythmically over the pavement. It was just past seven, the city still shaking off sleep. An old man in a blue jacket walked a small, white dog on a long leash. For once, I was not among the rush. I was moving separately, alongside it—a quiet observer, unhurried, unattached.
When the bus came, its doors sighed open. I showed the driver my ticket on my phone—a QR code glowing like a tiny maze. "To the train station," I said. He noticed my suitcase, a small nod of recognition. "Off traveling?" His voice was rough with morning. "Yes." He pointed to a spot near the front, secured my bag with a strap. "Thank you." "No trouble." A small kindness, freely given. I took my seat by the window, feeling light, untethered.
I stayed awake the whole ride, not wanting to miss my stop, watching the city unspool outside.The morning light strengthened, turning the grey to a soft gold.
When the driver announced, "Next stop: High-Speed Rail Station," a calm excitement stirred in my chest, a flutter like a bird turning in its cage. I collected my things, thanked the driver again, and stepped off into the cool, brightening air.
The station was a cathedral of motion. Inside, everything moved in clear, orderly streams under the high, arching ceiling. Light fell in wide shafts from skylights, catching the faint dust in the air. I followed the signs, a current of people flowing toward security. The line moved steadily; belts and bags slid onto the conveyor, bodies passed through the scanner with silent efficiency. A scan of my ID at the gateand I was through, heading down the long corridor toward the platform.
The train waited, sleek and white, a serpent of polished metal. I joined the line early, not out of eagerness, but out of a wish to settle in without disturbing anyone later. A window seat, a place for my bag overhead, and the world could wait. I found my seat near the wide windown.
When the train began to move, it was so smooth it felt less like acceleration and more like the city itself was sliding away, receding silently. Kunming’s towers and streets gradually fell away, replaced by a patchwork of green fields, vegetable plots laid out in neat rectangles, and low hills quilted with tea bushes. Small farmhouses with grey-tiled roofs dotted the landscape. I rested my head against the cool glass and watched the landscape blur into soft streaks of color—emerald, umber, the occasional flash of a pond like a dropped mirror. There was no schedule to keep now, no one to talk to. Being alone, I realized, wasn't about loneliness. It was about allowing the mind to breathe, to settle into its own quiet pace, to stretch out in the space between destinations.
I sent a quick text home:On the train. All good.My father replied with a simple red heart. I put my phone away, face down on the tray table, and let myself drift.
The hours passed gently, marked only by the occasional muffled announcement of a station name, by the changing light as we plunged into brief tunnels and emerged again.
Chengdu greeted me not with a sight, but with a sensation: a wave of warm, humid air that wrapped around me as I stepped off the train, thick and laden with the faint, earthy smell of a big city in summer. It felt like walking into a slow exhale. I followed the crowd out of the station—peak season, a steady river of people rolling toward exits—my suitcase a small boat in the stream. The subway entrance yawned nearby, but the idea of navigating stairs and crowds with my bag felt cumbersome. Instead, I stood to one side, tapped my phone, and booked a car. It arrived within minutes.
The ride into the city was a slow immersion. The wide avenues were lined with lush, overhanging trees—plane trees and camphor, their leaves a deep, dusty green. We passed massive, glass-fronted shopping centers alongside older, low-rise buildings with fading advertisements painted on their sides. Scooters weaved through traffic like schools of fish.
My hotel was in a quieter district, not far from the concert venue—a modest, clean place with a narrow lobby smelling of lemony polish. My room was on the fourth floor, small but orderly: a double bed with a white duvet, a wooden desk, a window looking out onto a quiet alley where a bicycle repairman was setting up his stand for the afternoon. I dropped my bag by the door and lay on the bed, letting the stillness settle around me. The air conditioner hummed a steady, low note.
It was only then, in the quiet, that I noticed—the familiar weight in my pocket was missing. My earphones. A quick, slightly frantic search through my backpack, my jacket, the depths of my suitcase confirmed it: I'd left them in the car. Then I stopped, took a breath. I found the trip record on my ride-hailing app, the driver's number listed. I called. His voice was calm, unsurprised. He could bring them back, he said, for a small fee to cover the trip. I agreed, thanked him, and hung up. Twenty minutes later, he pulled up outside. I went down, collected the black case from his outstretched hand, and passed him some extra cash through the window. He nodded, gave a small smile. No drama, just a problem solved.
Evening was approaching, the sky above the alley tinged with a soft, buttery gold. I realized I was hungry—truly hungry—having eaten nothing substantial since the steamed bun on the bus that morning. On my phone, I searched forhot pot nearby. The screen populated instantly. The first result was a place called "Old Alley Hot Pot," a five-minute walk away, with hundreds of reviews praising its traditional broth. I immediately decided to try.
The restaurant was tucked down a side street, its entrance marked by a red lantern. Inside, it was warm and loud, a cavern of noise and fragrant steam. The walls were dark wood, the tables topped with worn marble. The air was rich with the complex scent of chili, Sichuan pepper, star anise, and simmering bone broth—a smell that was both sharp and deeply comforting. The waiter showed me to a small two-person table by the window, which looked out onto the busy kitchen window.
The menu was a laminated sheet with pictures. I ordered a simpleyuanyangpot—half spicy red broth, half clear mushroom broth. For ingredients, I chose thinly sliced beef, fresh tripe curled like pale flowers, wafer-thin potatoes, tofu skin knots, and a plate of brown sugar rice cakes. When the pot arrived, set into the table over a gas burner, it was a dramatic sight: the red side bubbled fiercely, a molten landscape of chili oil and floating dried peppers; the clear side simmered gently, with mushrooms and goji berries drifting like islands. The dips came next—a bowl of sesame oil mixed with minced garlic and chopped cilantro for the spicy side, a simple soy and scallion mix for the clear.
At first, I felt conspicuous. All around me, groups of friends and families leaned over their pots, laughing, toasting with tea and beer, reaching across with chopsticks to fish for treasures in the broth. The noise was a blanket of happy chaos. But when I picked up my first slice of beef, draped it into the rolling red broth for just a few seconds until it turned grey-pink, then dipped it into the fragrant sesame oil, that self-consciousness faded. The taste was explosive—the immediate, bright heat of the chili, followed by the deeper, tingling numbness of the Sichuan pepper, all cooled and rounded by the rich, nutty oil. I ate slowly, methodically.
By the end, my lips were tingling, my forehead beaded with a light sweat, and a deep, warm satisfaction had settled in my stomach. The waiter brought a pot of jasmine tea, pale and fragrant, to cut through the spice. Sitting there alone, watching the evening deepen outside the window, I found a peaceful clarity. The food itself was the companion, its textures and flavors speaking a vivid, wordless language.
Afterwards, full and content, I decided to walk to the concert venue, wanting to see it in the daylight, to fix its location in my mind. The night was cool now, a relief after the heat of the restaurant. The streets were lit by the warm glow of traditional paper lanterns strung between trees and the cooler neon of shop signs. I passed open-fronted tea houses where the rapidclick-clackof mahjong tiles spilled into the street like mechanical rainfall. I passed a sugar-painting artist, an old man bent over a marble slab, drizzling molten, amber-colored sugar from a copper ladle to form a delicate, lace-winged dragon for a wide-eyed child. The air carried a layered perfume: the sweet, earthy smell of roasting chestnuts from a fire pot, the yeasty warmth of baked bread from a bakery still open, the faint, clean scent of jasmine from a flower cart where blossoms were threaded into bracelets.
Chengdu felt alive in a different way than Kunming—not better, just distinctly itself. It was slower, more porous somehow. The pace of the walkers was less hurried, the storefronts seemed to spill outward. It was nice to walk without a real destination, just following the curve of the street, turning down an alley because it looked interesting, letting my feet decide.
The stadium loomed ahead, a great, curved bowl of concrete and steel, much bigger than it had seemed in the pictures online, imposing under the night sky. A few early fans were already outside, taking photos by the large posters of the singer, his face serene and giant-sized. I walked a slow circle around the perimeter, noting the main entrance, the merchandise stalls being set up, estimating the time it would take to walk from my hotel. The scale of it was thrilling. I took a picture of the lit-up sign with my phone, the characters for the singer's name glowing red against the dark—not wanting to forget this moment of quiet anticipation
Back at the hotel, the quiet of my room was welcoming. I showered, the hot water washing away the travel and the spice-smell from my hair. Wrapped in a towel, I sent a photo of the empty hot pot pot—now just a landscape of spent chili and broth—to my family group chat. My mother replied instantly:Looks dangerously delicious! Bring me back some of that chili paste as a souvenir?My father sent a thumbs-up. I smiled, typed back:Concert tomorrow. Will take photos.
I got into bed, the sheets cool and crisp. I played the singer's songs on my phone, the volume low, the familiar melodies soft in the dark room. The day replayed in fragments behind my closed eyelids: the quiet bus ride in the dawn, the forgotten earphones and the calm resolution, the rich symphony of the hot pot, the lantern-lit walk. Small moments, small lessons, all weathered alone.
The next morning, I woke naturally, without an alarm. Sunlight fell in a bright rectangle across the floor, alive with dancing dust motes. No schedule, no rush. I dressed and went out, walking toward a nearby park I'd seen on the map. The morning air was fresh, carrying the damp smell of watered grass. The park was already lively: elderly people moved through slow tai chi forms with a unified, liquid grace; others practiced calligraphy with giant water brushes on the pavement, the characters evaporating almost as soon as they were formed. Children shrieked on exercise bars, their energy boundless.
I passed a small noodle shop, its interior crowded with locals hunched over steaming bowls. The smell—toasted chili oil, soy, scallions—was irresistible. I joined the short line. When my turn came, I pointed at the picture ofdandan mian. The cook grabbed a handful of fresh wheat noodles, and plunged them into a giant pot of boiling water. A minute later, they were scooped into a bowl, dressed with a generous spoonful of minced pork, preserved vegetables, crushed peanuts, and the signature sauce—a deep, brick-red blend of chili oil, sesame paste, and spices. She handed it to me, and I found a spot on a low plastic stool at a shared table.
The noodles were springy and chewy, the sauce clinging to each strand—creamy from the sesame, fiercely spicy, nutty, and slightly sweet all at once. I mixed it thoroughly, the aromas blooming. As someone who usually prefers Kunming's rice noodles, I was pleasantly surprised by the hearty, wheaty bite. I ate slowly, watching the park life unfold, feeling like a temporary local.
Later, I wandered into a small souvenir shop, its window cluttered with silk scarves, painted masks, and porcelain figurines. Inside, on a shelf, I saw a simple woven straw bag with a little panda embroidered on the flap in black and white thread. It was understated, useful, gently charming. I bought it for my mother, imagining her using it for groceries. It felt like the right kind of keepsake—not a trinket, but a small, functional piece of this place.
By mid-afternoon, a low hum of anticipation began in my chest. I made my way back toward the stadium, much earlier than needed. The streets around it were now filling, transforming. People of all ages streamed from subway exits and taxis.
The sun was dipping, casting long shadows, when I joined the line to enter. It moved steadily, good-naturedly. After a bag check and a ticket scan, I emerged into the vast bowl of the stadium. The scale was breathtaking from the inside—tier upon tier of seats rising steeply toward the open sky, which was now a deep twilight blue. My seat was in a lower section, close enough to see the details of the stage, which was a sleek, dark platform flanked by giant screens.
Each seat had a reusable light stick placed on it—a sleek white baton. I placed mine on my lap and watched the stands fill, a reverse rainfall of people finding their spots. Around me were friends taking selfies, couples sharing headphones, families where a parent was explaining something to a child. The man who settled into the seat beside me wore a simple black shirt with the tour's name in small, white script. He must be a super fan.
Then, all at once, the house lights went down. A collective gasp, then a wave of cheers rose from thousands of throats, a physical sound that washed over the space. And in the darkness, thousands of light sticks glowed to life—activated by some central signal—a sudden, swaying sea of soft blue and white, like a galaxy born in reverse. The stage lit up in a burst of golden light, and there he was, a small, solitary figure at the center, lifting a hand in greeting.
The crowd roared, a sound of pure, unfiltered joy. I found myself cheering too, my voice lost in the enormity of it, swept into the collective energy. The music began—the opening chords of a well-known ballad, familiar yet somehow new in this shared air.
The man beside me knew every word. He sang along in a rough, earnest, off-key voice, utterly immersed. Around us, the crowd sang along, a thousand private experiences merging into one warm, huge voice.
For nearly three hours, we journeyed through ballads and anthems. I waved my light stick until my arm tingled. It was a sustained, beautiful release.
Afterwards, the crowd spilled out slowly, a river of glowing light sticks gradually dimming, voices humming fragments of songs, faces relaxed and happy. The night air was cool, a relief after the heat of the crowd. I walked back to the hotel, my ears ringing with a pleasant, cotton-wool silence, my heart feeling curiously full and light at the same time.
In my room, I lay in bed and scrolled through the few photos I’d taken early on—the galaxy of lights, the stage washed in a pool of gold, a blurry selfie that captured mostly my own grinning face and the glow of the stick. I chose one, the sea of blue lights, and posted it with a simple caption: A night to remember.Then I turned off the light and lay in the dark, the melodies replaying on a loop in my head until sleep gently pulled them apart, note by note, into dreams.
The next morning, I packed slowly, with a new familiarity. I tucked the panda bag carefully between my clothes, slipped the used concert ticket into the clear sleeve of my notebook—a flat, paper souvenir. As the train pulled away, I leaned against the window, watching Chengdu pass by one last time.
This solo trip hadn't been perfect. But it had been entirely, authentically mine—conceived in a quiet room, planned at my own pace, shaped by my own small choices, and weathered with my own calm. There was a deep, unshakeable contentment in that realization, a sense of quiet freedom that felt more solid than any euphoria.
