When the maple leaves in New York's Central Park had just turned light red, I already held a plane ticket to Beijing, heading for a long-awaited autumn date with China. Before departure, my friend repeatedly reminded me: "Autumn in China is not just a single shade of golden yellow; you need to be prepared to be submerged in colors." I was half-convinced at that time, and it wasn't until I set foot on this land that I understood the surprise hidden in these words.
My first stop was Beijing. Walking out of the airport, the autumn sun filtered through the sparse leaves of poplar trees and fell on my shoulders, bringing just the right amount of warmth. My guide, A Ming, smiled and handed me a cup of hot soya milk: "Have a taste; this is the flavor of early autumn in old Beijing." Instead of going to the Forbidden City first, we sneaked into Ditan Park. The ginkgo trees in the park were just at their best viewing period—straight trunks held up a golden canopy. When the wind blew, the fan-shaped leaves rustled down, spreading into a thick "golden carpet." Several elderly people sat under the trees practicing tai chi, their slow movements blending perfectly with the rhythm of autumn. Beside them, some people walked around with birdcages in their hands, and the clear and pleasant chirping of birds filled the air. A Ming said: "Autumn in Beijing is full of life's warmth. Amidst the grandeur of imperial gardens, there is always the comfort of ordinary people's lives." Later, we climbed Jingshan Hill and overlooked the entire Forbidden City. The vermilion palace walls contrasted with the dyed layers of forests on the Western Hills in the distance. At that moment, I suddenly understood why ancient people said "a single leaf lets one know autumn"—this autumn charm is hidden in the red walls and golden tiles, as well as in the daily hustle and bustle.
After leaving Beijing, I took a high-speed train south to Huangshan in Anhui Province. During the four-hour journey, the scenery outside the window gradually changed from the ruggedness of the north to the gentleness of the south. When I arrived at the foot of Huangshan, a morning mist had not yet dispersed. We climbed up along the stone steps, and the mist swirled around us—sometimes hiding the distant peaks in obscurity, and sometimes clearing up suddenly to reveal the mountains covered with red maples and Huangshan pines. Huangshan pines are famously unique; they take root in the cracks of rocks, their dark green branches stretching in the autumn wind, interweaving with the red maples and yellow maple leaves on the mountains to form a vivid, colorful oil painting. When we climbed to the Bright Summit, the mist dissipated just in time. The sea of clouds rolled in the distance, and the autumn leaves nearby blazed like fire. Several painters with sketchbooks were concentrating on their creations, and what was on their canvases was exactly the beautiful scenery that my camera could not fully capture. In the evening, I stayed at a homestay at the foot of the mountain. The landlady served a pot of Huizhou native chicken soup, and the delicious soup warmed away the tiredness from climbing. She pointed to the rice fields outside the window and said: "In a few more days, the rice will all turn golden. That will be another kind of beauty."
My last stop was Tengchong in Yunnan Province. If autumn in Beijing is imperial grandeur and autumn in Huangshan is a ink wash painting, then autumn in Tengchong is the tenderness hidden in hot springs. The Ginkgo Village here is a fairy-tale world in autumn—the entire village is surrounded by thousand-year-old ginkgo forests, and the golden leaves dye the roofs, courtyard walls and stone roads golden. In the early morning, I followed the villagers to pick ginkgo nuts. They told me that these nuts can not only be used as medicine but also made into local specialty foods. In the afternoon, I soaked in the Rehai Hot Spring, watching the nearby volcanic geopark glowing reddish-brown under the autumn sun. The heat from the hot spring intertwined with the coolness of the mountains, making me feel a little drowsy. In the evening, at a small restaurant at the entrance of the village, I tasted ginkgo stewed chicken. The glutinous ginkgo nuts mixed with the fresh aroma of chicken, paired with the local rice wine, filled my mouth with the richness of autumn.
On the day of my return trip, I bought a small can of bookmarks made of ginkgo leaves in the souvenir shop at Tengchong Airport. When the plane took off, I looked at the golden village shrinking outside the window and suddenly remembered what A Ming had said: "Autumn in China is a poem written by nature for the world." During this trip, I not only saw the red walls, golden tiles and dyed forests, tasted the warm soups, hot wines and mountain delicacies, but also understood the Chinese people's cherish for autumn—they hide the charm of autumn in food, write it in poems and integrate it into daily life.
Now that I'm back in New York, whenever I see the maple leaves outside the window, I always think of the ginkgoes in Tengchong, the sea of clouds in Huangshan and the "golden carpet" in Ditan Park in Beijing. That autumn trip to China was never just a simple journey, but a memorable feast of colors. It made me realize that some beauties can only be truly appreciated when experienced in person.