When my plane touched down at Beijing Capital International Airport, the Chinese greeting over the cabin intercom had a unique lilt. I gripped the itinerary I’d spent three months planning, my fingertips tingling with anticipation. As a history student fascinated by Eastern culture, China had always been a concept stitched together from the grandeur of the Qin and Han dynasties in textbooks, the misty rains of Jiangnan in poetry, and the pandas and Great Wall in postcards—but never had it felt so vividly real. This 15-day trip would take me from north to south, across five wildly different cities, letting me feel the true, multi-faceted China. Before leaving, I jotted a note in my itinerary: “This isn’t just sightseeing—it’s connection.” And that’s exactly what I got.
Itinerary Overview
Days 1–3:Beijing(Forbidden City, Great Wall, Nanluoguxiang, Temple of Heaven, Shichahai);
Days 4–6:Shanghai(The Bund, Lujiazui, Yu Garden, Tianzifang, Disneyland);
Days 7–9:Zhangjiajie(Tianmen Mountain, Wulingyuan Scenic Area, Golden Whip Stream, Tusi City);
Days 10–12:Chengdu(Giant Panda Breeding Research Base, Kuanzhai Alleys, Jinli Ancient Street, Dujiangyan Irrigation System, People’s Park);
Days 13–15:Yunnan(LijiangAncient Town, Dali’s Erhai Lake, Shangri-La’s Songzanlin Monastery).
I traveled mostly by high-speed rail, with local charters for short trips—efficient, and perfect for soaking in the scenery along the way.
Beijing’s first light woke me to the sounds of morning workouts at the Temple of Heaven. I’d purposely scheduled this early-morning visit to avoid crowds and catch the city’s true vibe. Walking through the vermilion gates, the gilded roof of the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests glowed softly in the sunrise. Perched on a three-tiered white marble platform, the circular hall is held up by dozens of massive pillars. My guide explained that the four central “Dragon Well Pillars” represent the seasons, while the twelve outer “Golden Pillars” stand for the months—turning astronomy into architecture, a cleverness that made me pause. Nearby, a group of elders practiced tai chi to music, their movements as smooth as flowing water. One man, wearing reading glasses, noticed my curiosity. He slowed down to demonstrate, even teaching me the “cloud hand” move in broken English. When our palms met, I felt the quiet warmth of this city.
My second day at the Forbidden City totally changed how I think about palaces. I’d booked a small guided tour three days prior, which made all the difference. When our guide pointed out the mythical creatures on the Hall of Supreme Harmony’s eaves, I learned they’re more than decor: ten creatures—dragons, phoenixes, lions, sea horses, and more—each with a rank, and only this hall has all ten. It’s a quiet display of imperial power. Walking along the white marble-railed imperial path, the stones polished smooth by centuries of footsteps, sunlight filtered through carved window grilles, casting dappled shadows. For a second, I could almost hear the hum of life from a hundred years ago. Afternoon in Nanluoguxiang was a world apart. Old locust trees shaded the alley, and the sweet scent of tanghulu (candied hawthorns) hung in the air. I stopped at an intangible cultural heritage paper-cutting shop. The owner, a grandmother in her 70s, took my photo and cut a perfect portrait in five minutes. The snick of scissors on red paper felt like time whispering. On day three, I woke before dawn to head to the Badaling Great Wall. Early autumn mist wrapped around it like a veil. Climbing the ramparts, every step felt like walking through history. During a rest, an elder carrying a bamboo basket of walnuts and wild hawthorns approached. He smiled and said, “Welcome to China,” pressing a hawthorn into my hand. Its sweet-tart taste tasted like mountain honesty.
When I arrived in Shanghai by high-speed rail from Beijing, the scenery shifted from the north’s fiery autumn forests to Jiangnan’s lush green. This “Magic City” greeted me with stark contrasts. On day four, I dragged myself out of bed early for the Bund. The Huangpu River lay calm as a mirror, and the spires of the Bund’s colonial-era buildings loomed in the mist. Walking from the Garden Bridge to the Peace Hotel, every building had a story: the neoclassical HSBC Building was once called “the grandest structure from the Suez Canal to the Bering Strait”; the Art Deco Peace Hotel stood out with its shiny green copper roof. By 10 a.m., the Bund buzzed with life. Tourists snapped photos, cruise ships honked as they glided by, and the skyscrapers of Lujiazui across the river came into focus. The Shanghai Tower’s “eggbeater” shape and the Oriental Pearl’s spheres faced the Bund’s old buildings—like a conversation between past and present.
Day five was all about modern energy. First, I took the maglev train to Pudong. As it hit 430 km/h, the world outside blurred. That “flying close to the ground” thrill made me gasp. In Lujiazui, I went up the Shanghai Tower’s observation deck. At 552 meters, the city spread out below—the Huangpu River a silver ribbon, Sheshan Mountain a faint blur in the distance. Afternoon took me to Tianzifang, a cultural district carved from old alleyways. The shikumen buildings kept their gray bricks and black tiles, ivy climbing the walls. Tiny shops sold handmade leather goods, oil paintings, and old-school Shanghai pear syrup candy. I ducked into a teahouse, ordered Longjing tea, and watched tourists wander by. The clink of a sewing machine from the tailor next door drifted over, and time slowed down. Day six was pure fun at Shanghai Disneyland. From opening to closing, I acted like a kid—riding Pirates of the Caribbean (total immersion!) and the Seven Dwarfs Mine Train. The fireworks show at night? Unforgettable. When colors exploded over the castle, kids screamed with joy. I realized happiness really has no language. Before leaving, I grabbed a Disney cotton candy—sweet, and full of Shanghai’s buzz.
On the flight to Zhangjiajie from Shanghai, I scrolled through photos of the mountains—still, I wasn’t ready for the real thing. When our car entered the Wuling Mountains, I saw photos don’t do it justice. Day seven started with Tianmen Mountain. I took the world’s longest alpine cable car up, rising through clouds. Below, forests shifted from broadleaf to conifer, peaks appearing and disappearing like ghosts. When I reached Tianmen Cave, I went silent. This 131.5-meter natural archway looked like a gate to heaven, sunlight streaming through to light the stairs. I climbed the “99 Bends” staircase, mountain wind cooling my face. At the top, looking down at rolling clouds, I felt like I was in a fairy tale. Afternoon brought the glass plank road. Standing on transparent glass, cliffs on one side, a drop on the other—I sweated through my palms, but the rush of being so close to nature? Worth it.
Day eight at Wulingyuan Scenic Area showed me nature’s best work. The Bailong Elevator shot 326 meters up in 66 seconds. When the doors opened, 3,000 jagged peaks jutted from the ground—like stone mushrooms, old men gathering herbs, warriors with swords. My guide said this is where *Avatar* filmed the “Hallelujah Mountains”—suddenly, it all made sense. Walking the viewing platforms, mist swirled around peaks, changing the view every second. Afternoon, I hiked Golden Whip Stream. The water was so clear I could see colorful pebbles at the bottom, sunlight sparkling on the surface. Macaques wandered freely—no fear of people. One sat on a rock eating a banana, another swung from branches. A mother with her baby passed by, eyes soft but wary. Our guide warned us not to feed them: “Respect the mountain’s owners.”
Day nine dug into Zhangjiajie’s culture. Morning at Tusi City, a landmark of the Tujia ethnic group. Its curved eaves and carved beams were stunning—the wooden gate carvings told Tujia legends. In the performance hall, I watched traditional dances. The “Hand-Waving Dance” was lively, performers in embroidered costumes circling a bonfire. The “Wedding Lament” had a haunting tune—I didn’t understand the words, but felt the emotion. Lunch was Tujia food: spicy waxed pork knuckle hot pot, smooth hezha (soybean pudding), and glutinous rice cakes with honey—sweet, not cloying. Afternoon, I picked kiwifruit with villagers. Zhangjiajie’s kiwis are small, but crazy sweet. “Selenium-rich soil,” they said. Evening, I stayed in a stilted-house homestay. The landlady brought me hot tea. I sat by the window, watching stars and listening to crickets—all tiredness gone.
There’s an old Chinese saying: “Young men shouldn’t go to Sichuan; old men won’t leave.” I’d heard Chengdu was laid-back, but I didn’t get it until I arrived. Day ten started at the Giant Panda Breeding Research Base. Early morning, pandas were just waking up—some stretching on tree trunks, others rolling in grass. The star was Huahua, a chubby panda munching bamboo like it was the best meal ever. Tourists cooed. I followed a keeper to the nursery—newborn cubs were tiny as mice, in incubators. “Low survival rate,” the keeper said. “Every one’s a miracle.” The science hall told their story: from endangered to vulnerable, thanks to Chinese scientists’ hard work. It hit me—how much care goes into saving these creatures.
Day eleven was all about daily life. Morning at Kuanzhai Alleys—three lanes that keep old Chengdu’s style. In Kuan Alley, elders sat on bamboo chairs, drinking tea and chatting, palm-leaf fans in hand,瓜子 (sunflower seeds) and peanuts on the table. Zhai Alley had cute shops and teahouses. I went into a Sichuan opera house, ordered gaimian cha (covered-bowl tea), and waited for face-changing. When the performer stepped out in red, the room went quiet. He turned—green! Another turn—yellow! The crowd cheered. Backstage, he laughed: “Ten years of practice—fast hands, smart props.” Afternoon, People’s Park—the city’s heart. I grabbed a seat, ordered Bitan Piaoxue (jasmine tea), and watched a waiter pour tea with a copper pot—wrist flip, tea in cup, no spills. Next table, elders played mahjong, tiles clinking. Nearby, an ear-cleaner worked on a tourist—he looked blissed out. I tried it—tingly, relaxing, almost sleepy. Evening, Jinli Ancient Street—red lanterns everywhere. Skewers, sugar-fried chestnuts, sanda pao (rice cakes)—my stomach rumbled. I tried roasted pig brain—scary name, amazing taste: tender, spicy. That’s Chengdu.
Day twelve: Dujiangyan. This 2,000-year-old irrigation system still works—mind-blowing. My guide showed me the three parts: Yuzui (Fish Mouth), Feishayan (Flying Sand Weir), Baopingkou (Treasure Bottle Mouth). “It uses the land’s shape to control water,” he said. “No floods, no droughts.” Standing at Baopingkou, watching clear Minjiang River rush into the Chengdu Plain, I got it—Chengdu’s comfort started here, 2,000 years ago. Afternoon, I wandered West Street, next to the system. Shops sold tea, wood carvings, and youtoutou (spicy rabbit heads). I bought Dujiangyan tea—smelled like mountains. A perfect souvenir.
Yunnan was my last stop—and my favorite. On the flight from Chengdu to Lijiang, I stared at the blue sky and white clouds. When I landed, the air smelled like flowers. Day thirteen: I stayed at a Lijiang Ancient Town homestay. The owner, a Naxi man in linen clothes, told me local stories. Morning, I wandered the town. Rain-wet bluestone roads glowed; streams ran alongside, fish darting. Shops sold Dongba paper notebooks, Naxi silver, and Pu’er tea. I stopped at a Dongba script shop—this ancient Naxi writing looks like little drawings. The teacher spelled my name in it—simple, but full of old wisdom. Afternoon, I climbed Lion Mountain. From Wangu Building, I saw the whole town: white walls, green tiles, tourists on Sifang Street, Jade Dragon Snow Mountain shining in the distance. Evening, bar street—no loud clubs, just folk singers with guitars, singing sad, sweet songs. I ordered Fenghuaxueyue beer, sipped, and felt Lijiang’s romance.
Day fourteen: bus toDali. When Erhai Lake came into view, I gasped. It’s a huge sapphire, blending into the sky. Cangshan Mountains loomed behind, snow-capped. I rented a bike and rode the West Lake Loop. Gesang flowers waved; Bai ethnic houses (white walls, green tiles) dotted the landscape. Fishermen rowed small boats—peaceful. Lunch at a lakeside Bai restaurant: spicy sour fish, water spinach, and rushan sachima (a sweet snack). Perfect. Afternoon, Dali Ancient Town. The South Gate (“Cheng’en Gate”) is massive, “Dali” carved bold on it. Yangren Street had foreign-owned cafes and bookstores. I sat in one, ordered a latte, and watched people go by—pure relaxation. Evening, back to Erhai. The sun set, painting sky and lake gold. I wished time would stop.
Day fifteen: Shangri-La, my most-awaited stop. In Tibetan, it means “sun and moon in the heart.” Driving in, the sky turned deeper blue; yaks and sheep looked like white clouds on the grassland; snow-capped mountains stood sacred. Morning, Songzanlin Monastery—the “Little Potala Palace.” Built on a hillside, its golden roof glowed. Inside, lama chants mixed with spinning prayer wheels; butter incense filled the air. A lama showed me the halls—ancient murals, each telling a Buddhist story. On the roof, I looked out at Shangri-La: grasslands, rivers, villages. Calm washed over me. Afternoon, Pudacuo National Park. Primeval forests, clear lakes, wildflowers. I walked the boardwalk—squirrels jumped, birds sang. Like a fairy tale. Before leaving, I drank butter tea at a Tibetan home. Salty, but warm and cozy.
On my last day, I dragged my souvenir-stuffed suitcase to Shangri-La Airport. Staring at the snow-capped mountains outside, I didn’t want to leave. Those 15 days were more than a trip—they were a journey through time. Beijing’s depth, Shanghai’s energy, Zhangjiajie’s magic, Chengdu’s warmth, Yunnan’s romance—all stuck in my head. In my suitcase: a paper-cut from Beijing (warmth of the old capital), a Disney keychain from Shanghai (modern joy), a macaque wood carving from Zhangjiajie (mountain grace), a panda doll from Chengdu (everyday softness), and Pu’er tea from Yunnan (plateau fragrance).
On the plane, I flipped through photos: Forbidden City’s red walls, Bund’s old buildings, Zhangjiajie’s peaks, Erhai’s sunset. Each had a story. I realized China can’t be labeled. It’s old and new, grand and tiny, tough and gentle. It’s like a thick book—every page has a surprise. You have to read it with your heart, walk it with your feet.
Back home, friends ask: “What’s China like?” I tell them about tai chi at the Temple of Heaven, Disneyland fireworks, Tianmen Mountain’s clouds, tea in People’s Park, chants in Shangri-La. I say: “China isn’t just in books or photos. It’s a feeling—one that stays with you.” I’m already planning my next trip. This magical place has so much more to show me.