The Beijing inside the hutongs is the old taste of living fire.
Half of Beijing's soul is in the Forbidden City, and half in the hutongs.
In the morning, pigeon whistles pass overhead. An old man takes his bird cage for a stroll, a woman picks vegetables at her doorway, a queue forms at the jianbing stand. The lanes are narrow, bicycle bells ring — one good morning and the day begins.
Hutong names each have their history: Hat Lane, Goldfish Lane, Brick Pagoda Lane, names used for centuries. The courtyard gates stand open, their stone seats polished by time; elders sit in the sun at the foot of the wall all morning.
Today cafés and design shops have moved into the lanes, old residents and new owners saying hello. At dusk, light glows through the windows and the smell of dinner drifts down the alley. The hutongs have grown livelier, but the warmth at the foot of the wall is unchanged.
