China Trips - Chapter 6 - Wangfujing Street

Back from Bird’s Nest, I still had plenty of time before I needed to head for the airport. Once again, I stepped out into the heat and walked toward Wangfujing Street. The sun was high now, and the air shimmered above the pavement. I tried to stay in the shadows wherever I could, moving from one patch of shade to the next. My stomach had started to remind me that I hadn’t eaten since morning. I was hungry and on the lookout for lunch.

I passed a KFC, and for a moment, I laughed to myself at the idea of stepping into such a familiar place here, in the middle of Beijing. It seemed absurd—surrounded by all the food China had to offer, and I was considering fried chicken. But curiosity got the better of me, and I slipped inside to see what it was like.

The place was crowded, a small sea of people either waiting in clusters or sitting alone, everyone absorbed in their phones. I scanned the area for the familiar glow of a self-service kiosk and spotted a few, but none of them seemed to be working—or maybe they weren’t meant to be used, since they were facing in odd directions. The counter stood unattended. From time to time, a staff member emerged to call out a number, and someone would step forward to collect their order. But no one looked up to offer help, and no one seemed to notice me.

After a few minutes of standing there, feeling increasingly out of place and invisible, I gave up and stepped back into the bright midday. A little further along, I saw the golden arches of McDonald’s. Surely I could order here.

Many years ago, when I first arrived in Sydney with little English—almost the same level as my Chinese now—I’d managed my first McDonald’s order. Back then, there hadn’t been a McDonald’s in the city where I’d grown up, and the idea of ordering a burger had felt daunting. But with a little courage and a lot of pointing, I’d done it. Remembering that small triumph gave me a flicker of confidence.

Inside, I glimpsed the menu boards, displaying combos I’d never seen back in Australia. Maybe this was my chance to try something familiar yet different.

But the experience turned out much the same as KFC. The kiosks were unresponsive or too complicated to figure out without help, and the staff were too busy to notice me standing there, scanning the screens for a clue. A quiet frustration began to bubble under my skin. It struck me how something as simple as ordering a meal—something I’d never thought twice about—could feel impossible in a place where I couldn’t read the signs or speak the language.

I walked out again, feeling a little defeated. I couldn’t even manage to order a burger or some fried chicken. It was such an easy thing anywhere else, but here it left me feeling as though I’d somehow failed.

Still determined not to give up, I slipped into one of the shopping centres and began searching for a food court. At least there, I thought, I might find something I could point at without needing to say much at all.

The food court was tucked away on the lower level, and as I descended the escalator, the cool air and the swirl of lunchtime crowds washed over me. It was busy—lively in a way that felt almost overwhelming—but also promising. I made a slow circuit of the stalls, scanning menus and displays, hoping for something that would spark my appetite.

There were several places I would have loved to try, but every table in front of them was already occupied. I stood there for a moment, hesitant, torn between waiting and giving up altogether.

Eventually, I settled on a small shop selling skewers—meat and vegetables neatly arranged on sticks and grilled to order. It wasn’t exactly the meal I’d imagined, but at least it was something. I queued up, feeling a small wave of relief that here, at least, I knew what to do.

And as I waited for my turn, I reminded myself that sometimes, even the smallest things—like figuring out how to buy lunch—are part of the story you take home.

After devouring my lunch, I began the walk back to the hotel. I still needed the front desk’s help to call a taxi when the time came, but for now there was no rush. The streets were brighter than ever under the midday sun, the heat radiating up through the soles of my shoes.

As I walked, I noticed a small crowd forming in front of the tiniest service window I’d ever seen—no more than a square opening cut into the wall. Curiosity got the better of me. I crossed the street to see what everyone was waiting for.

Peering over shoulders, I saw that the window sold matcha soft serve—generous swirls of green ice cream balanced on cones—and the price was astonishingly cheap. I still had time to spare, so I joined the queue, bracing myself against the heat.

When it was finally my turn, I did as I’d learned to do: simply pointed at the picture on the menu. The shopkeeper nodded, shouted something to someone behind her, and a moment later handed me a cone crowned with a glistening peak of matcha soft serve. It was heaven in this oppressive midday sun.

I stepped aside and took my first lick just as it began to melt, the cool sweetness spreading across my tongue—honestly the best soft serve I’d ever tasted. No wonder people were willing to stand in line in this heat. In the days I spent in Beijing, I would come back for this treat more than once.

Happy with this small discovery, I kept walking back toward the hotel. Before long, I spotted an advertisement for Peking duck on the screen. I paused, squinting up at it, then felt a spark of recognition— Quanjude Roast Duck Restaurant-this was the name of restaurant so many YouTubers had recommended as the place to try Peking duck in Wangfujing.

I made a mental note of its location, suddenly excited by the thought. One of our missions in Beijing was to taste authentic Peking duck, and what could be better than having it at the most recommended spot? I imagined sitting there later that evening with my daughter, finally ticking that experience off our list.

Just to be sure, I followed the signs and walked up to the entrance at the building that look familiar as I’ve seen online. Spotting someone at the door, I took a breath and stepped forward, determined to ask whether I could make a reservation for that evening. I’d read that the place could get busy fast, especially at dinner. I had no idea how to say “reservation” in Chinese, but I hoped—maybe foolishly—that I could manage in English.

It was wishful thinking. She didn’t understand me. So I tried a halting mix of English and the few Chinese words I’d picked up, pointing at my watch and repeating “tonight” and “reservation.” She listened patiently, then replied in rapid Chinese, most of which I didn’t catch. But from her gestures and a few familiar words, I gathered that they didn’t take reservations at all. You simply came and queued if no tables were available.

Determined to come early tonight, I thanked her as best I could and carried on. The sweetness of the matcha still lingered on my tongue as I walked, feeling content in the simple pleasure of stumbling onto something unexpected—and quietly satisfied knowing I had a plan for the evening waiting ahead.

I was dropped off at what felt like the loneliest place in the world—a deserted airport that barely seemed to acknowledge my arrival. No other travellers milled about, no porters bustled with luggage carts. Just the hum of engines from cars speeding past without a glance. I stood there for a moment, trying to collect myself. It was almost absurd to think I had been in this country for less than a day. And already, so much had happened—mostly a string of small defeats that had left me weary and uncertain.

Now, facing the looming building, I felt the creeping anxiety of not knowing what to do next. Back in Australia, airports were predictable: wide automatic doors welcoming you inside, clear signs telling you exactly where you belonged. Here, it was as if someone had flipped the script. The entry doors ahead were shut tight, opaque, giving no hint of what waited on the other side.

I took a steadying breath and walked closer, each step echoing in the emptiness. Only then did I spot the security guards behind the glass. My reflection stared back at me—a tired traveller, feeling anything but sure. When I finally pulled open the door and stepped inside, I approached them and managed to say, “Arrival?”—my voice more a question to myself than to them. It was enough. One of them lifted an arm and gestured toward a narrow passage, the only path forward.

I emerged into the familiar open space of the arrivals hall—familiar because less than twenty-four hours earlier, I had walked across these same tiles in the other direction.

But there was no time for sentimentality. I needed a SIM card. I began circling the hall, scanning every counter and kiosk. Nothing. No signs, no displays that promised what I was searching for. My heart sank. This was just another setback in a day of setbacks.

But I wasn’t out of options yet. I connected to the airport Wi-Fi and walked up to the information desk. My last shred of confidence told me to prepare for another language barrier. So I opened Google Translate and typed out my question, fingers moving quickly over the screen.

When I reached the counter, I tried English first. The woman behind the desk responded in halting words and gestures. Between our fractured conversation and the text on my phone, I pieced together that there was indeed a shop selling SIM cards—just not anywhere I’d thought to look. She pointed far across the arrivals hall, beyond a massive billboard I hadn’t realised was hiding an entire row of stores.

I thanked her—some combination of relief and adrenaline pushing me forward—and set off in the direction she’d indicated. Sure enough, when I passed the billboard, more shops revealed themselves like a hidden street. But even then, I couldn’t immediately see the right one. It wasn’t until I was almost upon it that a small sign caught my eye: SIM Cards Available.

I practically jogged the last few steps. Inside, several attendants moved behind the counter, but the young woman who greeted me spoke clear, confident English. It felt like a gift. I told her what I needed, and she laid out the options. I chose quickly—any connection was better than none—and handed over my passport when she asked. Forms were signed without hesitation. I was so determined to end this part of my ordeal that I didn’t question any of it.

But then came the moment I’d dreaded. She asked for my phone.

I hesitated, the weight of my plan pressing down on me. I had meant to install the SIM card in a small gadget my colleague lent me, so I could tether the internet and keep my Australian number active. But how could I explain all that now? She was waiting patiently, holding out her hand. And I was tired—so tired of obstacles.

So I gave it to her.

A few minutes later, it was done. The new SIM card was tested, the internet connection confirmed. In that moment, I felt an enormous wave of relief wash over me. After everything—the confusion, the uncertainty, the sense of being out of my depth—I finally had something solid to rely on.

Two more weeks stretched ahead, but now they seemed less daunting. Because if the past twenty hours in China had taught me anything, it was that staying connected mattered more than I’d ever realised. And in that small victory—a working SIM card, a sliver of certainty—I felt ready to face whatever came next.

But I wasn’t the only one navigating this unfamiliar terrain. My daughter was still inside, making her own way through the gauntlet of immigration. The last time I’d looked at my phone, her messages were coming in fast, each one tinged with distress and frustration.

Reading her words, I’d felt that helpless ache a parent knows all too well—the knowledge that you can’t fight every battle for them. All I could do was reply, again and again, trying to be the steady voice she needed.

I must have typed that reassurance a dozen times. I meant every word. My sole purpose in being here was to support her, no matter how long it took or what obstacles came up. In the end, nothing else mattered.

I glanced once more toward the arrival doors, willing them to open. I imagined her finally stepping out—tired, maybe shaken, but safe. And I knew in that moment, as clearly as I’d ever known anything, that I would do my utmost best to carry her through this, just as she had once trusted me to carry her when she was small.

Because sometimes, that’s what love looks like. Standing on the other side of a closed door, waiting with open arms.

Then, at last, the doors slid apart—and there she was.

She rolled two large suitcases behind her, the wheels rattling over the threshold. Later, she would tell me they were filled with things she’d bought in Japan—gifts, souvenirs, practical necessities she didn’t want to leave behind. I looked at those suitcases and thought how much they seemed to sum up her whole journey: heavier than expected, but carried all the same.

She had travelled alone through Japan before coming here, and in all that time, I hadn’t worried much about her. Japan, after all, felt familiar—safe in a way few places were. I knew from experience that even if you didn’t speak a word of Japanese, you could still find your way. The country had a way of anticipating what foreign visitors needed—signs in English, polite staff ready to help, a gentle sense of order that wrapped around you like a protective blanket.

China, though, was different. Less forgiving, less predictable. And seeing her now—tired, relieved, but unbroken—I felt a quiet surge of pride. She’d faced this, too, and come out on the other side.

I reached for one of the suitcases to help her, and as we turned toward the exit together, I felt the simple certainty that whatever the next two weeks held, we would manage it side by side. That was enough. More than enough.

Reunited at last, we barely had time to process the day before the next chapter began.

After we’d finally made it back to the hotel and had a chance to freshen up, the weariness settled into our bones—a heavy, undeniable fatigue from everything the day had demanded of us. But even that couldn’t dull our determination to end the night with something special. We were in Beijing, after all, and I was determined that my daughter’s first evening here wouldn’t be remembered only for bureaucracy and uncertainty.

So, still tired but feeling a little revived, we left the hotel much earlier than the usual dinner hour. I’d heard too many stories about the long queues for the famous Peking Duck restaurants to risk showing up at peak time. The streets were still light with the last of the afternoon glow as we walked over.

When we reached the restaurant, the place already looked busy, even before the dinner rush. At the door, I used a mixture of gestures and cautious English to request a table for two. The host seemed to understand without much difficulty. He handed me a small slip of paper with a number printed on it—an alphabet letter followed by digits—and motioned for us to head upstairs.

Up the narrow stairs, we were met by a small sea of people. Every space along the walls was occupied by customers perched on removable stools, chatting, scrolling their phones, or simply staring at the large screen that dominated one side of the room.

I scanned the glowing characters on the display, feeling that old, familiar unease of not understanding. But this time, I was ready. I pulled out my phone and used the translation app, slowly piecing together the meaning. One section of the screen was a list for large tables, the other for small. Based on the letter printed on our slip, I was fairly certain we belonged in the small-table queue.

There was nothing else to do but wait. So we found a patch of wall to lean against and joined the quiet vigil of diners-in-waiting. The minutes blurred together, the bright screen updating constantly, teasing us with each number that ticked past.

More than an hour must have crawled by before finally—finally—our number flashed up at the top of the list. I felt a jolt of relief and a small rush of triumph. We were next.

When our number finally being called, we stood up, stretching stiff legs that had grown numb from waiting. A young server appeared, waving us to follow. I had expected to be led to some tucked-away corner—maybe a little two-top pressed against a wall—but instead, we were ushered to a table that was anything but small.

It stood square in the middle of the dining room, large enough to seat at least five people comfortably. Around us, other tables were filled with families and groups of friends, the air alive with chatter and the clatter of chopsticks. We sat down, trying not to look as self-conscious as we felt.

A thick menu book was placed in front of us, ornate and glossy. Before we could so much as open it, the waiter began speaking to us in a rapid stream of Chinese, his tone friendly but completely indecipherable. My daughter and I exchanged a helpless look, smiling in the universal language of sorry, we don’t understand.

After a moment, the waiter seemed to realise we were adrift. He nodded, then disappeared into the throng of diners. A minute later, he returned with another server by his side who greeted us in clear, careful English.

He asked what we would like and could he recommended. Yes, I replied, we want to order the Peking duck.

He smiled, clearly pleased to be of help. He described a package that included the Peking duck along with a selection of cold side dishes—small plates meant to balance the richness of the main event. He spoke with such genuine enthusiasm that it felt easy to say yes.

Then his voice grew a little more animated, as if he was about to share a secret. He explained that the chef would come out personally to carve the duck right at our table. But this, he added with a small flourish of pride, wasn’t just any carving.

“The slices,” he said, gesturing with his hands, “will be arranged into the shape of a flower. On a plate with the outline already there.”

I felt my curiosity spark awake despite how tired I was. The thought of the duck transformed into a delicate blossom was unexpectedly delightful. My daughter and I glanced at each other, both of us intrigued.

So we thanked him, closed the heavy menu without ever needing to turn a page, and settled back to wait. Around us, the dining room glowed with warm light and the steady murmur of contented diners. I felt, for the first time since landing, that we had truly arrived—not just in a new country, but in a new experience we would remember long after we’d gone home.

And somewhere between exhaustion and anticipation, I realised I was genuinely excited to see the duck arrive—transformed from something ordinary into something almost ceremonial, a small celebration of being here together.

When the duck was finally wheeled out to our table, it looked almost too perfect to eat. Under the warm restaurant lights, its lacquered skin glistened, every inch of it promising crispness and rich flavor. Just the sight of it made my mouth water. This was what we had come for—the moment that somehow made all the long hours, the confusion, and the fatigue feel worth it.

The chef approached with the calm focus of someone who had done this a thousand times before. He lifted his carving knife and, without a moment of hesitation, began to slice. Each cut was precise and fluid, as if he were performing a delicate surgery he could do blindfolded. My daughter and I sat completely transfixed, saying nothing, watching every movement.

Piece by piece, the glistening skin and tender meat came away from the bird. Then, just as promised, he began arranging the slices on a special plate. It was almost surreal to watch: the meat laid down in careful arcs, each slice fanning out like the petal of an elaborate blossom. In a few minutes, the duck had been transformed into an edible flower, something equal parts artistry and tradition.

When he finished, he presented us with three plates full of duck—each one a testament to his skill. Other servers came and silently laid out the condiments and side dishes, little bowls and platters spreading across the table in a graceful choreography.

It was only when I finally looked away from the carved duck that I noticed one particular plate among the cold dishes. Neatly arranged were four or five pieces of what was unmistakably whole duck liver.

For a moment, I was transported back to childhood. I had eaten liver often when I was small, when it was just another part of dinner. But it had been so many years since then, and the thought of eating it again now—especially in this setting—made me hesitate.

I looked across the table. My daughter was regarding the plate with open suspicion.

Never had to eat any form of liver before, she flatly refused to even a tiny bite.

I assured her she didn’t have to try it. But as the meal went on and we tucked into the tender duck and the delicate pancakes, I kept glancing at that plate. Part of me felt I should at least make the effort.

In the end, I managed to eat half of one piece—more out of duty than desire. The flavor was exactly as I remembered it: rich, mineral, undeniably distinct. But I didn’t feel any particular nostalgia as I chewed. Sometimes tastes stay in the past for a reason.

Still, as we sat together in that bright, bustling dining room, savoring the Peking duck that had brought us here, I felt a quiet satisfaction. Even if I hadn’t loved every bite, I was glad we had shared this experience. It felt like something we would talk about long after the trip was over—the perfect duck, the flower of meat, and the plate of liver neither of us would soon forget.

We finally left the restaurant with more than full stomachs, walking slowly into the night air, both of us moving like people who had just finished a festival feast. The last few pieces of duck had nearly defeated us. We’d sat there, exchanging weary looks, each of us silently willing the other to take the next bite. But neither of us could stand the thought of leaving anything behind. Not after all the anticipation. Not after that beautiful display.

So, piece by piece, we did it. We finished every last morsel.

The Peking duck had been everything I had hoped it would be—and maybe more. The memory of it felt almost too rich to hold onto. The meat was so tender it seemed to dissolve on your tongue, the layer of fat beneath the skin melting into something silken and savory. The skin itself was the true marvel—crisp, golden, crackling with each bite.

We wrapped the slices in those impossibly thin pancakes, still warm from the steamer, soft and pliant in our fingers. A little smear of the dark, fragrant sauce, a few batons of cucumber and spring onion, and each mouthful turned into something that felt almost celebratory.

It was the combination that stayed with me most: the richness of the duck, the sweetness of the sauce, the freshness of the vegetables. It all danced together across the palate, waking up every taste bud in turn.

I thought back to the Peking duck we’d eaten in Australia—good in its own way, but somehow bolder, heavier. Here, everything was subtler. More refined. Like it had been perfected over generations to hit exactly the right notes without ever overwhelming you.

The night was still young. Even though our bodies were tired and our eyelids heavy, neither of us was quite ready to surrender to sleep. We’d waited so long for this trip, and the idea of retreating to the hotel now felt like closing a book before finishing its last, most important chapter.

So we decided to walk. Perhaps it would help ease the fullness from our meal; perhaps it would let the evening settle more deeply into our memories.

I took the lead, and for a moment, I almost laughed at myself—how quickly these unfamiliar streets had begun to feel familiar, as if I’d always known my way here.

As we strolled, I pointed out the landmarks that, in just twenty-four hours, had etched themselves onto my mental map.

We passed KFC and McDonald’s, and I shared with her my earlier failures—how I couldn’t manage to order a single meal in either place because I didn’t know the process and couldn’t use my phone to translate. We both smiled at the memory now that the stress of it had faded into something almost amusing.

I showed her the spot where I’d found that unexpectedly delicious ice cream—cold, sweet relief in the middle of what had felt like an obstacle course of a day.

Further along, we paused beneath the towering three-dimensional screen that crowned one of the buildings. The images shifted and moved with such startling depth it felt as though the characters might tumble down into the street at any moment. We stood there shoulder to shoulder, waiting quietly, holding our breath for what I guessed would be the grandest display of all.

And as we stood there, it struck me—just how much we had fit into a single day. The long hours in airports. The confusion. The small victories that felt so much larger in the moment. The Peking duck dinner that had been as beautiful as it was delicious. Even the simple pleasure of seeing something familiar in a place that was entirely new.

Before we turned back toward the hotel, I reminded her of one last errand—the White Rabbit drink I’d discovered on my first night here, a small comfort that had felt like a hidden treasure at the time.

We ducked into a convenience store to find it, this final small adventure at the close of a day that had felt impossibly big.

As we made our slow way back to the hotel, fatigue settled over us again, but it was softened by a quiet satisfaction. The day had been long and complicated, but it had ended with something simple: the joy of sharing a meal and a moment that could only have happened here, in this city, on this night.

And as I glanced over at my daughter, I knew it had been worth every step of the journey.