China Trips - Chapter 3 - Bird’s Nest

I reached the hotel and, as I was walking toward the lift, noticed that breakfast was still being served. The soft clatter of plates and the low murmur of conversation suggested it was winding down, but not quite over. I turned into the dining room, grabbed a plate, and made a slow circuit around the food stations, inspecting every option like a curious traveller in a market stall.

A pot of soup simmered gently beside trays of fried rice, crispy bacon, golden eggs, steamed dumplings, and a bubbling noodle bar where a chef stood ready with ladle in hand. Everything looked—and smelled—delicious. I picked a little of each, determined to sample as much as I could.

I chose one of the now mostly empty tables, setting down my overflowing plate and a cold glass of orange juice, its surface beaded with condensation. As I began sampling my breakfast, I paused, took a deep breath, and turned to my mental checklist. My daughter would be landing in the early afternoon, and I needed to be at the airport to meet her. But before that, I had to track down a local SIM card—something that might require a bit of creative navigation without internet access or much Chinese to guide me.

I needed to give myself enough time to track down a mobile shop, so it made sense to head to the airport early. That still left me with almost the entire morning and midday to fill. After a moment of thought, I settled on a plan: I’d visit the Olympic Park to see the Water Cube and the Bird’s Nest—those two iconic structures that had dominated television screens during the 2008 Beijing Olympics.

Without internet access and unsure how to hail a taxi on the street, I turned to the hotel concierge for help. I explained where I wanted to go and asked if they could arrange a ride. They nodded, unfazed, and assured me it wouldn’t be a problem. One of them added, almost as an afterthought, that since I planned to pay cash, I’d need to have the exact fare. While most drivers accepted cash, they often didn’t carry change.

That wasn’t a concern. I had plenty of small bills and coins neatly tucked away, and if it came down to it, I didn’t mind overpaying a little just to keep things simple.

What I hadn’t fully thought through, though, was how I would get back to the hotel later. As I stepped out of the taxi and looked around, I was surprised not to see the famous buildings I’d come all this way to visit. I had imagined they would tower unmistakably over the skyline, instantly recognisable by their unique architecture. Instead, I was surrounded on all sides by tall buildings—striking in their own way, but not what I had come to see.

With no clear sign pointing toward the Bird’s Nest and not quite sure which way to go, I picked a direction and began walking—hoping I was heading the right way. The streets were quiet, the summer air heavy with heat and uncertainty. Then, just as I was starting to second-guess myself, familiar shapes began to take form in the distance: the shimmering honeycomb façade of the Water Cube and the unmistakable steel lattice of the Bird’s Nest. A wave of relief washed over me—I was on the right path after all.

I would return to Olympic Park three more times across my 2 trips. Each visit began with being dropped off at a different location—all technically within the Olympic Park area, but never quite the same spot. That was entirely my doing: I hadn’t known the exact name of the destination when booking my DiDi rides, so I simply chose something that looked close enough on the map and hoped for the best.

The bag scanning upon entering the site was quite unexpected. The other times I entered the site through another entries, I entered freely. It seemed quite odd that they only had bag scanning at this particular entry.

The Water Cube wasn’t far from where I entered, and before long, I spotted the ticket booth. I paused for a moment, uncertain whether the staff would understand English, but stepped forward anyway. To my relief, the attendant spoke just enough for us to get by.

As it turned out, this booth sold tickets only for the Water Cube. That was fine—I bought one and began looking around for the entrance. It wasn’t immediately obvious. I wandered around the outside of the building, scanning for signs or open doors, circling it slowly like a puzzled tourist trying to solve a riddle.

When I finally located what looked like the main entrance, I stopped short. Every adult entering had at least one small child in tow. The kids were dressed in swimwear, goggles around their necks, inflatable arm rings or towels slung over shoulders. That’s when it clicked—the building had been converted into a centre for indoor swimming lessons, and this morning was clearly for children.

I stood there for a moment, feeling slightly ridiculous. I was the only adult alone, with no child beside me and no swim gear in hand. The idea of wandering solo into a children's swimming class felt too strange. In the end, I slipped the unused ticket into my pocket and quietly turned away, never seeing the inside of the Water Cube.

Still, I wasn’t leaving empty-handed. I’d noticed a souvenir shop earlier while searching for the entrance, and I stepped inside. The store was packed with trinkets, all stamped with the Water Cube’s logo—rows of mugs, models, notebooks, fridge magnets, keychains, and hat pins glittering under bright lights.

I browsed slowly, enjoying the cool air and cheerful clutter. Eventually, I picked out a few magnets and pins, and a lightweight backpack for gift.

As I approached the counter, the shopkeeper glanced at me and seemed to register, instantly, that I was a foreigner. Without a word, she stepped out from behind the till, disappeared into a small back room, and returned with something in her hand—a luggage tag shaped like a dragon.

Smiling, she handed it to me and said something in Chinese. I couldn’t catch the exact words, but I understood the meaning well enough: “A gift for you.”

Gratefully, I accepted it. That small gesture, unexpected and kind, brightened my mood more than she could’ve known. I walked out of the shop feeling lighter, a little touched, and ready to continue toward the Bird’s Nest.

In contrast to the Water Cube, the Bird’s Nest ticket booth wasn’t nearly as obvious. It was tucked away among a cluster of pop-up shops selling snacks and trinkets. Only when I got closer did I realize it was the place to buy a ticket.

At first, I couldn’t find the entrance. I had imagined something grand and unmistakable—surely an iconic stadium like the Bird’s Nest would have an entrance to match its fame. But instead, the entry point was tucked away at the side, so inconspicuous that at first glance it looked more like the entrance to an underground car park than to one of the world’s most famous sporting arenas.

Once inside, I found myself in the underground level of the building. There were displays along the walls—photographs from the Olympic Games, replicas of the torch and medals, reminders of the excitement and pride of 2008. From there, visitors took elevators up to the upper levels.

Each floor had its own small exhibits with Olympic-related displays, but what drew everyone’s attention—and what everyone was really there for—was the chance to step out and see the inside of the stadium itself. After a quick look at the first-floor displays, almost everyone headed straight for the lifts, eager to reach the levels where the full view of the Bird’s Nest opened up before you.

Exiting onto Level 4, I followed the short walkway that curved gently around the stadium’s corridors. Like any other sporting stadium, there are non gated openings to enter the sitting bowl of the arena. I used the first one I passed. Navigating a short, narrow and steep stairs, I reached the railing. I paused at the railing, struck by the sight unfolding below. The field was a hive of quiet industry—staff moving with practiced efficiency as they transformed the space for a show or concert. At the far end, a towering screen and a skeletal stage had already risen, flanked by rows upon rows of freshly placed chairs. From up here, the arrangement looked almost delicate, as though it were some vast art installation instead of a performance venue.

I let my eyes drift upward to the soaring roof, a lattice of steel that seemed to hover weightlessly above the stands. Its interlocking beams crisscrossed in such an intricate pattern that it was hard to know where to look first. Even now, years after the Games, the architecture felt futuristic—like stepping into a vision of what stadiums might be centuries from now.

Closer to the seats, a team of staff worked methodically, placing what looked like plastic batons—props for the show, perhaps—and other small items I couldn’t quite identify. They never broke their rhythm, even as visitors spilled into the aisles and stopped to take photos, blocking the way. A few people actually removed the batons so they could sit down for their snapshots. If this bothered the workers, they gave no sign. I imagined they’d grown accustomed to this theatre of distraction and carried on unfazed.

I stood there for a while, just breathing it in—the scale of it, the memory of the ceremonies I’d once watched on television, the feeling of being part of something monumental. Back then, it had all seemed so remote, flickering across a screen. Now, seeing it in person, it felt even more impressive—more human, somehow.

Eventually, I stepped away from the arena bowl and followed the path that led out to the stadium’s outer edge. Here, the atmosphere changed completely. The crowds thinned until I was almost alone, free to explore at my own pace. From this vantage point, the concrete lattice revealed a different side of itself. The angular joints framed the world beyond in unexpected ways, turning ordinary views into carefully composed scenes.

I looked through one of those apertures and saw the Water Cube in its entirety, gleaming softly in the daylight. It was perfectly framed by the Bird’s Nest structure, as if the architects had planned this precise perspective for visitors who cared to wander. I stood there in the quiet, grateful for a moment of stillness to take in the ingenuity and ambition all around me. For a few minutes, it felt like the stadium was all mine.

Following the brightly coloured line painted on the floor—a simple guide that somehow felt reassuring after the vastness of the arena—I wound my way toward the exit. The path led me, inevitably, to a souvenir shop tucked just before the lifts. I stepped inside, expecting the usual assortment of trinkets, but instead found a selection that easily outshone even the Water Cube’s shop.

Magnets in every imaginable design lined the shelves, each one more appealing than the last. I picked one up, convinced I’d found the perfect keepsake—until my hand strayed to another, brighter and more intricate. And so it went: each choice surpassed by the next, a small but strangely absorbing dilemma. I knew I couldn’t have them all. So I lingered, turning each over in my hands, waiting for that flicker of certainty that meant I’d found the ones meant to follow me home.

Eventually, with my little bag of treasures, I stepped into the lift. When the doors slid open again at ground level, there was yet another gift shop—larger than the first, spilling confidently into the main concourse. I drifted through it, tempted by the familiar items now displayed in even greater abundance. For a moment, I imagined adding just one more memento to my collection. But I resisted, feeling I’d already gathered enough to remember this place.

Outside, I retraced my steps to the spot where I’d arrived earlier in the day. The sun was high overhead now, and the temperature had climbed steadily, the heat rising from the pavement in wavering currents. I stood there, waiting, wondering how exactly one hailed a taxi here. Other visitors came and went, many of them swept away by private cars or tour buses rather than cabs.

I was starting to feel conspicuously out of place when, at last, a taxi pulled in to discharge its passengers. The driver caught my eye and raised a hand, a silent question—Are you coming? Grateful, I nodded. Obliged by this small, unspoken contract, I opened the back door and climbed inside.

I showed him the card with my hotel’s name printed neatly in Chinese characters and said, a little uncertainly and in very simple Chinese, that this was where I needed to go. He studied it, then nodded as if to reassure me. A moment later, he began speaking into his phone—perhaps asking for directions—and set the device carefully into its holder before steering us away from the Bird’s Nest.

I settled into the seat, feeling a curious mix of faith and resignation. I had no way of knowing if he truly understood, but somehow, I didn’t doubt him either. The city slipped by beyond the window—rows of small shops and roadside stalls where pyramids of fruit were neatly arranged. Even from a passing glimpse, I recognised them: mangoes, mangosteens, bananas. I’d been thinking all day that I wanted to buy some of those tropical fruits, the ones China was so famous for. But now, without the words to ask him to stop, or even to name this neighbourhood, I simply watched as the chance slipped away.

If I’d had internet, I could have pulled up Google Maps, pinned my location, maybe even figured out how to come back later on my own. Instead, I let the moment go, content to be carried along in the back seat. In time, we turned onto a familiar street. The hotel rose into view, and the driver eased the taxi to the entrance. He had delivered me precisely where I needed to be. And somehow, I hadn’t really doubted it at all.

I returned to the Bird’s Nest at the end of our first trip together, this time with my daughter. I hadn’t realised until then that the stadium held special significance for her. It turned out to be a subject of her study—an architectural case she had been researching—and she wanted to see it up close, to photograph it and take notes for her paper. Had I known earlier, I would have waited and gone with her from the start.

We were dropped off at the same spot where I’d hailed the taxi before. The process now felt familiar, almost routine. Once again, I found myself slipping into the role of tour guide. We passed the Water Cube, pausing just long enough to admire its translucent walls from the outside. Then we continued on toward the Bird’s Nest.

As we neared the stadium, I glanced at the entrance. It was eerily quiet. The ticket booth stood empty, no queues, no movement. A sinking feeling crept in. When we reached the window, our fears were confirmed—there was a sign taped to the glass: Closed today due to a scheduled event inside.

Another closed door. Another place we had come all this way to see, only to be turned back. We stood there for a while, letting the disappointment settle. Then, without much to say, we walked the perimeter of the stadium in silence, taking in its lattice of steel from every angle—again, from the outside looking in.

Eventually, we made our way back to the hotel. Two iconic venues in one day, and we couldn’t enter either of them. Maybe next time.

Indeed, we found ourselves once again making our way to the Bird’s Nest—this time on our return trip to Beijing, almost exactly a year later. After finally stepping foot inside Tiananmen Square that morning, we booked a DiDi to the Olympic Park. In my haste, I hadn’t paid close enough attention to the drop-off point. This time, we were let out at the far edge of the Olympic site, well outside the main grounds.

To reach the stadium, we had to cross a pedestrian bridge that arched over the broad road below. But as we climbed, something unexpected happened—there it was. From the crest of the bridge, the Bird’s Nest came into full view, its sweeping steel lattice glowing faintly in the morning sun. That glimpse from above gave us our bearings, and perhaps, a moment of awe that we would’ve missed had we been dropped at the doorstep.

It was a longer walk than we’d planned for, but in hindsight, the detour gave us time to appreciate the scale and serenity of the Olympic Green. Sometimes, a wrong turn leads you to something you didn’t know you needed to see.

Approaching from this side, we stepped onto the open forecourt without the usual bag scans or security checks. With time pressing—we had a Peking Duck lunch planned later that day, one we had both been looking forward to as a possible farewell to Beijing—we headed straight to the ticket booth. But once again, the window was shuttered. We were too early.

We stood there, unsure. Should we wait? Should we move on and not risk missing lunch? This was my daughter’s last chance to see the inside of the Bird’s Nest—with me. That thought lingered.

We decided to wait.

Worst case, we’d forgo the lunch. But some things, we quietly agreed, were worth the wait.

The gates opened at the exact time—not a minute early, not a minute late. The precision was almost ceremonial, as if to honour the visitors with a quiet gesture of respect. We were already moving at the kind of pace you'd expect from someone trying to catch a train. And in truth, that wasn't far from the reality—if we lingered too long, we risked missing both our lunch and the train.

We gave ourselves a strict limit: thirty minutes, forty-five at most. The top priority was clear—this visit was for my daughter to document the stadium for her paper. I hung back while she moved through the space, focused and purposeful, framing her shots, jotting down notes. Still, time slipped away faster than we realised. And we lost even more trying to hail a ride back to the hotel.

In the end, we had to forgo the lunch we’d been looking forward to. The famous Peking Duck would have to wait for another time—if there was one.

I returned to Beijing alone, after dropping my daughter off in Jinan for work.

Ever since our first visit last year, I had carried one quiet wish—to see the Bird’s Nest at night. I’d read that when the lights come on, the stadium transforms into something almost otherworldly. The soft glow weaving through its steel lattice gives it an entirely different presence—an architectural marvel turned into a glowing sculpture. A dream for photographers. A moment of magic.

I hadn’t had the chance before. But this time, I made it happen.

I didn’t need to go inside. I just wanted to see it lit up—to stand in that open space and take it in with my own eyes.

The DiDi dropped me off not far from the entrance we had used the week before. All this time, I’d imagined the site would be quiet at night—perhaps even deserted. I pictured myself alone, with the stadium shining in solitude. But the reality was entirely different.

The crowd was larger than it had been in the morning. The place was alive. Lights glowed not only from the Bird’s Nest but from nearby buildings and lamp posts. Music floated from speakers. Children squealed and laughed from the small amusement park just beyond the square. It wasn’t the peaceful scene I’d imagined—but it was vibrant, joyful, full of energy.

I took it all in, through my eyes and through my lens.

I wandered around the perimeter, camera in hand, capturing the structure from every angle—just me, the night, and this iconic landmark I had come to know so well, yet was still discovering anew.

The Bird’s Nest itself was glowing from within. The lights illuminated the red-painted interior walls, softened by a well-placed golden glow, making the entire structure radiate warmth. It looked almost surreal—like a giant, intricately decorated cake crafted for a special celebration. The latticework shimmered under the light, each curve and crossbeam brought to life by the interplay of brightness and shadow.

The sight pulled me in. I moved closer, trying to capture every possible angle with my camera. At one point, I found the perfect shot: the full moon rising gently beside the stadium, as if leaning in for a better view. It was magical—one of those rare moments when everything aligns without effort.

I lingered longer than I intended, reluctant to leave.

I never planned to visit the Bird’s Nest four times across two trips. Circumstances led me back, again and again. But somehow, it became that kind of place—the kind that tugs at your heart, inviting you to return, to notice something new, to grow more familiar with each visit.

Even if I never see it again with my own eyes, I know it’s a place I can return to in memory. Its details have etched themselves into my mind—waiting patiently, vividly, whenever I choose to revisit them.