On a rainy Friday morning, I drove to Sam’s Club in Hangzhou for my regular shopping. Walking through the warehouse, I suddenly realized how similar daily life here now feels to my routine in Canada.

Over the years in Beijing, I have come to notice the quiet presence of the city’s street cleaners. Their work is simple and steady, and often goes unnoticed, yet it helps keep the daily rhythm of the capital running smoothly. Long before most people step outside, they have already finished hours of work. In a city that is constantly changing, their routine remains one of the small but essential parts of Beijing’s life.

The Gan Xiu Suo (干休所) where my father lives is a residential compound for retired PLA officers. These communities exist across China, quietly supporting veterans who served during the early decades of the People’s Republic.

I recently made a solo long-distance drive from my hometown Hangzhou to Beijing, a city I often call my second hometown after living there for nearly thirty years.

I was born in 1962, just after the famine years in China. Food was still scarce, and hunger was part of daily life. What I remember most from those years is my grandmother’s hanging basket, tied high above the room where she carefully stored what little food our family had.

A Quiet Chinese New Year unfolds in my changing Hangzhou, China. The city feels calmer, the streets thinner, the celebrations softer. Instead of fireworks, I prepare to visit aging parents, reflecting on family duty, migration, and how modern life reshapes tradition.

At the top of the hill, I turned to take in the view. My Growing Community in Hangzhou stretched out before me, growing steadily, quietly, relentlessly. It’s hard to believe that when I moved here ten years ago, this area was mostly open land and quiet hills.

Since retiring, my days have changed pace. No more morning meetings, no more crowded buses. Now, I begin my day quietly — often with tea in one hand, my phone in the other, planning the meals ahead.

A few days ago, my cellphone rang. It was my wife calling from Lijiang, a poetic old town in Yunnan Province in the landlocked southwest China. She was on her solo trip there. She told me that she had her right ankle broken and she got the disappointing result after X-rayed in a local hospital.