Living In the Hutongs

Literally meaning “recklessly connected,” the hutongs (胡同) are the rambling alleyways of Beijing and vestiges of Old Beijing community life. The buildings in these neighborhoods are typically low, one-story buildings - sometimes rudimentary, sometimes built in a gorgeous timber-frame style - usually contain some sort of courtyard, and are often as rambling and organic as the hutongs in which they are situated. Truly possessing a pre-modern community feel, the hutongs allow pedestrians to stroll in the Old Town unawares of the city’s now ubiquitous modern features of highways, skyscrapers, and the like.

I am fortunate to live in one of these neighborhoods. Growing out of the courtyard of a restaurant outside my bedroom window stands a tree, which neighbors tell me is approximately 300 years old. That sounds right: this country measures things by the hundreds of years, if not by the thousands. The neighborhood preserves the old way of life. Take a walk in this neighborhood one afternoon and you will see silent old men smoking pipes; women hanging out clothes to dry; small children peeing in public; retired folks gathered around for an intense, communal game of checkers; workers sitting in clusters outside for some lunchtime noodles. The noodles are dependably prepared by a young man and his wife, in a small see-through annex to the vegetable market, which is housed in an old temple, which also houses the bread makers, the rice vendors, and a semi-modern supermarket.

As everyone knows, Chinese people love to eat, preferably with company, and often in loud, festive restaurants. In Beijing, prepared food is readily available at every turn, and this neighborhood is no exception. For my dining needs, I often turn to the very affordable home-style cooking prepared and delivered by the friendly woman from Henan. I also discovered a nearby dumpling joint, from which one can select dozens of fillings, not least of which is pickled garlic, managed by a very smiley man who always wears pink. Most evenings I pass a very typical Beijing noodle place, lit by red lanterns, whose loyal patrons often spill out the doors and into the alleyway. When I am in the mood for western food, there is a bar around the corner that makes decent pizzas. And, my favorite restaurant in the neighborhood is a Yunnan restaurant, which literally makes my mouth water whenever I think about their delectable baked tofu dishes, mint salads, and stir-fried mushroom combinations. The closest restaurant of all, Lucky Dining Hall, the one in whose courtyard stood a 300-year-old tree, for some reason attracts hip musicians, friends, and adoring fans. Many a night I have passed their window to observe a bucolic scene of drinking and singing and scattered half-eaten dishes.

Besides the bountiful restaurants, our residence has other interesting neighbors. At number 28 of our hutong stands a mysterious building, in which people very inconspicuously entered and left. The building is clearly not a restaurant, but also not a business, and the small, high windows, reveal a meticulously painted interior and a gorgeous post-and-beam ceiling. I have yet to find out the purpose of this secret society. Around the corner from us live “hairdressers,” who rarely cut hair but keep a red light on for afterhours customers. They came to our fall-time barbeque, as did almost everyone on our little block, from the kiosk vendors to our next door neighbors, to whom we also give our recyclables in exchange for the occasional homemade stuffed bun.

How I love the oh-so-organic nature of the Beijing hutongs, always overflowing with life!