China: the world's most thriving country, receiving more and more tourists

Days after arriving in Beijing, as the fierce jet lag began to subside, I made a list of the first things that had caught my attention:

1) The number of people carrying flowers in their hands.

2) The habit of squatting anywhere, even while waiting for a bus or chatting with someone on the street.

3) Businesses do not accept cash.

4) How well behaved the children are, both on the subway and in restaurants.

5) Few animals. Yesterday, a tabby cat on the Great Wall; today, a dog with little shoes.

6) There are no advertisements on the street, everything is sold online.

7) Swarms of security cameras.

8) The connection with the cell phone; if they're not looking at it, they have it in their hand, but never far away or hidden away.

On my first walks through the capital, I was also struck by the clothes they wear, the quality fabrics, and the diversity of clothing. This prevented me from identifying a single trend, a garment that was all the rage and adopted by everyone, like the ubiquitous puffer jacket worn by Buenos Aires residents in winter. Contrary to the usual prejudice, each person seemed different to me.

Beijing is organized into rings connected by the world's longest subway: 830 kilometers and 27 lines. Most of the lines were built in the last 20 years. The first ring road—the city's core—contains the Forbidden City, Tian'anmen Square, and Mao's Mausoleum. The hotel where I'm staying is in the vast Chaoyang District, a fairly far eastern area between the Fourth and Fifth Rings, next to the campus of Communications University. Breakfast is Chinese-style: no fruit, coffee, or croissants ; it's mostly fermented dumplings, stuffed bao buns, noodles, and spicy, stir-fried meats. Foreigners prefer Manner , a specialty coffee shop located at the hotel entrance. Nearby, there are bars for university students, small restaurants, laundromats, and even a McDonald's .

In the early hours, I don't stray far from the hotel. The next day, a sweltering, sunny Saturday, I take subway line 1 toward the city center. I have WeChat —the super app without which everyday life would be difficult—and Apple Maps downloaded on my phone, which, I'm told, works well compared to Google , which is blocked by the government. At the station, my first encounter with Chinese surveillance occurs: to travel, you have to swipe your wallet through a police scanner.

I get off at Tian'anmen Station and start walking along the iconic Chang'an Avenue, dodging the checkpoints, which increase the closer I get to Mao's tomb. I cover about 20 kilometers, round trip, without deviating too much. It's my first impression of Beijing. I like it. The blocks are endless: they measure between 200 and 300 meters.

Among the tourist highlights, the one I enjoy most is the Temple of Heaven, above the Forbidden City and even the Great Wall of China. Much of this has to do with the fact that I'm guided by a local, John Piao, born in Korea but with many years of experience in Beijing. Thanks to him, I can also ride a bike because the rental system only accepts Chinese phones. He also helps me discover an incredible restaurant hidden in a neighborhood I would never have found on my own.

The Temple of Heaven is full of characters. Beautiful young women, dressed in period costumes, take photos of each other in front of the buildings that for hundreds of years have been used for prayers for good harvests. The temple is surrounded by Tiantan Gongyuan, a vast 270-hectare park where it's easy to forget that Beijing is home to more than 30 million people. The place inspires you to sink into silence under the shade of the cedar trees; scattered throughout the grounds are rose gardens, altars, and pagodas that invite contemplation. In some ways, it's a contrast to the Forbidden City—Beijing's most popular attraction—where, from the moment you enter, a stressful situation arises with security checks for the crowds that visit every day.

After wandering around for a while, we combine bike and subway to go south to the famous Lama Temple. John tells me we're inside the second ring road, but outside the tourist area, in what's known as a hutong, a system of alleys that showcases old Beijing with its low, tenement-like houses, where families lived crammed together, without bathrooms, in tiny rooms that were freezing in the winter and stifling in the summer. It's a reminder of that China before the opening of trade, to which "no one wants to return," a guide explained to me. Some hutongs have been transformed into tourist alleys, like Nanluoguxiang; but others retain their original essence. Walking through them at night, barely lit by the light of a public restroom or the sign of a police station, is quite an experience.

John takes me to Xintaicang Hutong, home to the last lamb grill that survived the government's 2017 plan to modernize some hutongs. The tables that used to be on the sidewalk are now crowded onto a small terrace, occupied by men—the majority clientele—who smoke and drink a lot of beer. Some have their shirts rolled up, exposing their stomachs—John tells me there's a name for that: "Beijing Bikini"—although almost all of them are naked. There are no foreigners in sight. The waitress brings us a half-cooked leg of lamb: we finish roasting it over the embers on the grill at our table. The ritual is to carve, cut, place on plates, and eat with chopsticks. When it seems there's no more room for more, one or two whole garlic cloves follow. We eat, drink, and toast several times. John makes a few calls because he works with the West, and the day is waking up on the other side of the world.

Sichuan reminds me of a proverb I underlined in "Viento del Este ," Liliana Villanueva's book I read in one sitting on the nearly 30-hour flight: "Heaven exists, but paradise is on earth." Something makes me think the Sichuanese are more extroverted. I immediately connect with Alex, the guide who practices Taoism, and with Joy, an enthusiastic journalist who tells me about the poets they've been reading in school since they were 3 years old, like Li Bai or Du Fu. One night, after one of those roundtable banquets, Joy tells me that she's eager to explore other countries, but that she loves Chengdu, her city, because "it excites me to be setting foot in places that others walked thousands of years ago."

Chengdu is the capital of Sichuan, a region famous for its pepper, the quality of its green tea, and for being home to the world's first tea houses, its panda bears, and its cuisine, which is among the spiciest and most fragrant on the planet. It's staggering to think that this city has almost half the population of Argentina.

Chengdu, which unfolds in rings like Beijing, was visited by Marco Polo in the 13th century. He wrote in his diaries about its numerous bridges, the constant bustle of boats, and its importance as a river. Nearby, you can visit the Dujiangyan irrigation system, the oldest in the world, created by a group of men—now venerated as demigods—to prevent the Min River from flooding and divert water to the Chengdu plain. It has been in operation for over two millennia and, along with Mount Qingcheng—the center of the Taoist region—was declared a World Heritage Site.

Leshan is 260 kilometers from Chengdu, which I reach by train. It's an urban area I'm more familiar with (around three million inhabitants), with a lively street scene, restaurants with hanging roast ducks, and small shops and pharmacies selling herbs. Its location is privileged: at the foot of the sacred Mount Emei, where the finest green tea is grown urbi et orbi and where Buddhists from all over make pilgrimages.

In Leshan, the main attraction is the Giant Buddha, over 70 meters high and 30 meters wide, the tallest of the existing reddish stone Buddhas. It dominates the scene at the confluence of three rivers—the Dadu, Min, and Qingyi—and was built at the height of China's Buddhist fervor, around 700 AD, to protect fishermen. Most tourists choose to take the tour by catamaran; another, more strenuous option is to reach the top of the hill via a system of steps.

I'm heading to Henan, in central China, the province through which Buddhism arrived from India. The current capital is the modern and luminous Zhengzhou, with more than four million inhabitants (it was also the capital of the Shang Dynasty, 3,500 years ago). In Zhengzhou, I'm staying in a hotel dating back to 1959, which was once one of the few authorized to receive foreigners and still maintains certain anachronistic customs: for example, there is no fourth floor, considered unlucky because the word "four" resembles "death." The staircases are marble, and the lobby chairs are gilded.

A few blocks from the hotel, there's a park with ponds where water lilies float and posters with uplifting messages, which I photograph so my cell phone can translate, I suspect, with little precision: "Strive to be a model for justice." "Let ordinary life shine." "I am civilized, I am dedicated, I am happy." It's early, and there are women performing the gentle movements of tai chi; two men, who look retired, are playing xiangqi, a type of chess whose wooden pieces are inscribed with Chinese characters (obviously), and there's also a group watching the game; there are also grandmothers with their grandchildren, who are on vacation. The park is called Zijinshan: it's one of the largest and is built on the ruins of the ancient city. A fair is held nearby where you can buy posters of Stalin, Marx, Mao, and Lenin.

Many of those who come to Henan province do so to visit the famous Shaolin Temple, 66 kilometers from the capital. This temple, the birthplace of Chan Buddhism (which later transformed into Zen when it reached Japan), has over a millennium and a half of history. In summer, it overflows with locals and tourists. Only part of the building, which is made up of several pagodas, is accessible to visitors. The rest is reserved for monks and kung fu apprentices.

Another of Henan's treasures are the Longmen Grottoes, on the banks of the Yi River. A long procession of people walks along the promenade, composed of thousands of stone Buddhas carved in stone; some ranging from the size of a coin to 17 meters tall: the Buddha Vairocana, commissioned by Wu Zetian, the first female empress of China, appointed in 672. It is recommended to admire it from a distance, from the other bank of the river, or climb the steep 99-step staircase to stand face to face with it. The grottoes are accessed from Luoyang, a town chosen by many dynasties as their capital.

Luoyang has been renamed some 10 times and is also known as the city of peonies, China's national flower. When they appear in April, in so many different colors, tourists also flock to the city. From the terraces of the Peony Museum, which opened in 2022, a dense cloud of smog can be seen on the horizon: it's the other side of this super-industrial city.

Without much anticipation, one night I join an attraction in Luoyang's old town, which is like stepping back thousands of years in a matter of hours. Among original buildings and others restored or built from scratch to look as they once were, there are restaurants, souvenir shops, and some very unusual businesses where, for less than $30, you'll be transformed into a Hanfu lady: first, you choose a traditional dress from hundreds of options, and then the makeup and hairstyling session begins, which can last more than an hour. Ready, with a wig, flowers, and ornaments, I go for a walk and take photos under the light of Chinese lanterns. The night seems to have a dreamlike quality. The stroll is all the rage, especially among teenagers and young women. I read in an article that the Hanfu subculture emerged among millennials as a way to rescue traditions condemned by Mao's Cultural Revolution. Since its opening in 2017, Luoyang Ancient City has received more than 40 million visitors.

The journey continues in Shaanxi, the province where President Xi Jinping lived (not to be confused with Shanxi, which has only one "a"). Xi'an, its capital, was one of the most important cities in ancient China and a gateway to the Silk Road. Today, it's noisy, frenetic, and filled with street life, including arm wrestling for silver on the sidewalk, and lit by LED lights. Just meters from my hotel, the well-preserved old town can be seen.

One of the most popular attractions is the Terracotta Army. I decide to visit despite the tremendous July heat, but there are so many people crowded into the pit containing the striking statues that fainting is common. I probably won't return to China, but I prefer to leave before reaching the spot where a good photo opportunity is possible. To compensate, I enjoy the pre-show with hundreds of actors on stage representing the incredible discovery of more than 8,000 life-size replicas of warriors (each with the face of the original warrior, so no two are alike), chariots, horses, and animals, discovered by chance in 1974 by farmers in Shaanxi. The army dates from the time of the first Chinese emperor, Qin Shi Huang, 200 BC, who also promoted the construction of the first version of the Great Wall.

In terms of gastronomy, you can't leave Xi'an without trying the noodles and its signature dish, paomo, which has a Muslim influence: pita bread soaked in a lamb and noodle soup.

Regarding the beaches, I note that there are more photos and videos circulating of the artificial ones—with their mechanical waves and people on inflatables—than of the real ones, located partly on the Yellow Sea, off the coast of Korea.

In Shandong province, after a brief stop in Qingdao—a destination known for its beer and European architecture, a legacy of the German occupation, as well as having been besieged by the Japanese during World War I—I stay two nights in the neighboring and picturesque Rizhao, a name that means "sunlight" in Mandarin Chinese. With fewer than three million inhabitants, this city is small by Chinese standards. It has a major port, white-sand beaches with street vendors selling crab nets, and buildings that at night become surfaces for LED shows and music. There are two, twins, whose hearts pump with color. One of the nights coincides with the full moon; there's a special, festive energy in the air. Someone tells me that the moon is very poetic for the Chinese.

On the beach, there are trucks selling beer and children with lanterns searching for crabs among the rocks. I take off my sandals and walk into the water. The waves are calm. Irada, who came to China from Azerbaijan and is accompanying me tonight, says there's a word in Arabic to describe the reflection of the moon in the sea.

The end of the trip is marked by the city I wanted to see in China, but I'm struggling to find my way around. There are too many tourists, it's too hot, there are too many stores with brands I already know. It's too Western. It doesn't seem to have the aura or mystery of ancient Henan or Sichuan. There are no longer any children who want to take a picture with me as if I were a creature just fallen from another planet. I don't feel different or special here. I have a list I made of recommendations, but mostly I follow my hunches: I cross parks diagonally and enter alleys where colorful dresses sway in the breeze on the balconies.

At Jia Jia Tang Bao , I try the best xia long bao I've ever had; it's a humble business that gained fame for the quality of its steamed buns filled with broth and meat. I photograph the building where the first congress of the Chinese Communist Party was held in 1921 and which was restored for its centenary: it's in Xintiandi, Shanghai's upscale neighborhood. I come across the first person I see asking for money: a 70-year-old woman wearing a QR code around her neck to receive transfers.

In Yuyuan Garden, one of the country's most renowned gardens, designed in the 16th century in the image of the imperial ones, I buy some teacups to give as gifts. I cross to Pudong, the modern district on the other side of the Huangpu River, to climb China's tallest tower and enter the Art Museum. I also take a walk along the Bund, the two-kilometer waterfront promenade with the best views of Shanghai's skyscrapers. I'm eager to explore the French quarter, with its colonial houses and buildings.

As I walk through Downtown Shanghai, an area of financial buildings and banks that ends at the Yangtze River, I experience a sense of familiarity for the first time: it's—oh, surprise!—similar to certain streets in Downtown Shanghai. The most unexpected place reminds me of home. I feel closer to China, and at the same time, I can't stop thinking of a quote from traveler, chef, and writer Anthony Bourdain (1956–2018): “The only thing I know about China is that I'll never get to know China. It's too big, too old, too diverse, too deep. There just isn't enough time.”

Due to Chinese restrictions, it's best to book hotels from "Western" chains or use platforms like Booking or Trip.

The Chinese are prone to hyperbole. One bridge is the longest in the world, a hotel was built in just one week. In this quest to break records, the new Beijing City Library, located north of the Central Urban Green Forest Park in the Tongzhou district, stands out. This library, scheduled to open in 2024, "has the largest reading space in the world." It features more than eight million books, mostly in Mandarin, spread over a surface area of 75,000 square meters.

Open 24 hours a day, residents over 60 are assisted by robots that bring them books in less than 15 minutes. The project was designed by the Norwegian studio Snøhetta and, rather than viewing libraries as a typology of the past, seeks to cultivate the next generation of readers. In the same area, you can also visit the brand-new Beijing Grand Canal Museum or take a boat ride.

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