Twelve hours on a night train and between hundreds of Chinese travellers to Xi’an, I am the only foreigner. I don’t mind, in fact, it’s part of why I’m here. And the rarity of my presence grows clearer still, when I walk out of the Small Wild Goose Pagoda’s garden (not quite as tall as the Giant Wild Goose Pagoda, for those who were wondering) and get stopped by someone’s phone on the sidewalk. “I would like to talk with you. For five minutes. Is that ok?”

Of course the phone is clasped in someone’s hand. My eyes follow the hand along its arm up to a pair of eagerly curious eyes. A student about my age, descending to the city for his exam today. He would like to become a teacher of history, but says enough of that, and instead asks me his most burning questions. Why am I here, not merely in China, but in Xi’an? Where am I walking now, and is it not too inconvenient, communicating through the phone’s translation software?

Xi’an was China’s first capital, I answer, a city rich with history, wealthy even before the Qin Emperor built and buried his terracotta army here, and still the capital a thousand years later, when the cosmopolitan Tang Dynasty stimulated wealthy trade routes across Central Asia, into what is now called the Silk Road. I know all that, I’m going to be a teacher of history, he says, but is that really enough to draw you here? What about cities that rival Manhattan, like Shanghai or Shenzhen? 

I’d rather see some old stones. Perhaps some flaky paint. So Jin points me in the right direction, stumbling over a string of English words, and returns to the phone’s help. As a centre of intercontinental trade, Xi’an was a significant point of connection between China and the Arab world. Caravans of heavily laden camels alighted here, and left behind a dislike of pork, white skullcaps, and a Great Mosque. Jin teaches me about the city’s food, but I pull him along with different ideas.

In the great rebuilding of New China, many of its heritage has been restored to the point of destruction. Anything old has been replaced, fitted with air-conditioning, neon lights, and plenty of shops. In this way, centuries old temples have been rebuilt from scratch, although I do not dare complain about this to Jin. But I notice his surprise when we enter Xi’an’s Great Mosque, which has been completely untouched by China’s recent affluence. He does not expect the crooked gate, or the handful of missing tiles of the pagoda. Still, he likes what he sees, and I am happy.

We are completely alone, observed by two dozen sparrows from the camelia bushes that dot the mosque’s garden. Although he cannot read the Arabic inscriptions, he is glad to reveal the deep symbolism of the many Chinese symbols we pass on our way to the prayer hall. A lotus signifies purity, a chrysanthemum longevity. And as I learned before, a temple’s blue roof connects it to the heavens above. He cannot help but intersperse his lecture with anecdotes about his girlfriend. He is clearly a man deeply in love. 

I paid his ticket to enter the mosque. A trifle to me, but a deep affront to Jin’s honour instead. As a guest, I should not act in such a way, and instead let him pay for me. The phone’s translation makes his words sound more clumsy, but I understand his feelings through the screen. He continues explaining his culture to me. Namely, to meet kindness in kind, and to turn away from those who are rude and ill-mannered. 

As I had shown him kindness, he insisted on sifting through the busy street’s vendors, finding me the best pan-fried dumplings in all of Xi’an. It’s not difficult making friends if someone like Jin would like to have a word with you.