4. A city unlocked

In the early days of this millennium, I graduated university in England and set out for a new life in China. Here, I share the quiet stories of my journey, a chronicle of discovery and displacement, woven into the fabric of a land vast and unfathomable.

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By the time we arrive at the Forbidden City, Beijing has begun to feel like a grand theatre. Its streets and monuments perform their endless roles, and we, the audience, move like actors stepping into the history and spectacle of this ancient place. Yesterday, at the Great Wall, I stood on a reconstructed section, aware that what I saw wasn’t entirely authentic - a tourist destination rebuilt for our benefit. Here, at the Forbidden City (or the Palace Museum to give it its official name) I feel that same tension. How much of this place remains untouched, and how much has been polished for the eyes of visitors?

Upon entering, I notice something odd: the audio guides we’ve been given. Small, black boxes slung over our shoulders, with headphones dangling. The English version is narrated by Roger Moore. Yes, James Bond himself. It strikes me as both hilarious and utterly incongruous. I’m standing in the heart of one of China’s most historic sites, listening to 007’s smooth voice guide me through the halls where emperors once sat.

His tone is so authoritative, so polished, that I half expect him to make a quip about martinis or warn me of an international plot unfolding beneath the ancient roofs. Instead, he talks about the Hall of Military Glory. The absurdity of it makes me smile, but it also feels like a strange commentary on the tourism industry: how history has been commodified, packaged, and served up by the most unexpected narrators.

The Forbidden City - its very name a paradox - stands before us, a vast complex of red walls and golden roofs. I stand at its entrance. For centuries, this was a world within a world, a seat of absolute power, isolated from the rest of China. To enter was forbidden. Emperors, concubines, eunuchs, and courtiers moved in a universe of lavish rituals, a world of opulence and confinement few could imagine.

Roger leads us through the gates. He tells us about the Ming and Qing dynasties, of emperors and empresses, and of a time when the palace was more than a political symbol. It was a cosmic reflection of the emperor’s divine right to rule. It’s hard to grasp it all in a single moment: a place built over centuries, from the 15th century to the fall of the Qing Dynasty in 1912.

Our group moves slowly on the ancient stone walkways. The red walls rise high around us. The architecture is impressive - the towering gates, sweeping roofs, intricate carvings. But there’s a theatricality to it, too, as if this place is meant to be viewed not just as a structure but as a statement. It’s a grand declaration of power. I feel like a small part of that statement, an outsider, momentarily allowed to occupy this space.

The author at the Forbidden City. Note the Roger Moore-narrated audio guide slung over my shoulder.

I find myself walking beside a Chinese man who seems eager to strike up a conversation. His English name is Kobe¹, he tells me. He’s visiting the Forbidden City as a tourist, probably about my age, his eyes wide with curiosity. He’s studying English and speaks it with admirable proficiency.

He asks where I’m from, what I think of China. These two questions will become a feature of my time here, I will soon discover.

“It’s strange,” Kobe says as we pass through a particularly ornate hall. “For many years, we ordinary Chinese could not enter this place.” He pauses, looking out at the vast courtyard ahead, where the stone slabs stretch endlessly. “Now, it’s a museum for everyone. Even foreigners.”

I nod, thinking about his words. "I was just saying something like that yesterday at the Great Wall. There, too, I was struck by how much of it’s been rebuilt. It’s all made for us, the visitors. The real history gets lost, doesn’t it?"

Kobe looks at me, surprised, as if he hadn’t quite thought of it that way before. "Yes, you’re right," he says, his gaze lingering on the stone courtyard. "It’s not the same, not like it once was. But it is all part of China’s long history."

His words hang in the air, blending with the quiet murmur of the other tourists. The irony strikes me again. We’re standing in a space once closed off to the world, once forbidden, now a site on a tourist map, an experience to be purchased. The very concept of "forbidden" has faded.

We pass through the Hall of Supreme Harmony, where emperors once held court, and I feel its overwhelming emptiness. The hall seems smaller than I expected, the roof curving inward in a way that feels almost oppressive. It seems to contain the vastness of an empire in a single, unified vision. The wood beneath my feet creaks with centuries of weight, and the air is thick with an invisible history I can’t quite touch.

Then, outside, I see a man standing near the gates. He holds a basket of bottled water, offering it to the tourists with a gentle but persistent smile. His clothes are simple, his face weathered by years of outdoor labour. “Water, water,” he says in heavily accented English. “Hot day. Good price.”

I pause for a moment, feeling a wave of sympathy. The heat of the day is beginning to settle on us, and the water seems like a welcome relief. “How much?” I ask, my Chinese improving with each interaction.

“Liu kuai,” he replies, holding up the gesture for ‘six’ fingers. I know the price is reasonable. I hand him a 10 yuan note and refuse the change he offers me.

As I take a sip, I can’t help but think of the contrast. Here, at the Forbidden City, the ancient world and the modern one seem to collide in this small transaction. The grand halls and golden roofs behind us are timeless; yet this moment, this simple exchange, is as transient as the very tourists who flow through these gates. I nod at the man and walk on.

Later, as we move toward the Imperial Garden, a Chinese family passes by. The parents glance at me and quietly usher their children toward me. Without a word, they gesture at their camera, asking me to pose with them. It’s another moment of strange connection, this peculiar celebrity that comes with being a foreigner in a place so removed from my own reality. I feel as if I’ve become part of their memory, part of their family’s history, at least for the instant the shutter clicks. Their smiles are wide, unguarded, and I find myself smiling too. Yet the strangeness of it lingers in my mind.

We reach the final courtyard. I step away from the group and lean against a stone railing, looking out at the sprawling gardens. The trees shift in the breeze, whispering of all that has passed here: emperors long gone, intrigues, betrayals, lives lived behind these walls, each forbidden from the world outside. Yet in this moment, I am not forbidden at all. I am free to roam these halls, to photograph the moment, to take my place in the tapestry of visitors who come and go - a brief visitor in a city of many pasts.

Before I move towards the exit, I notice something strange: a Starbucks, tucked between the ancient walls of the Forbidden City. Its bold letters stand out like a modern intrusion. A point of controversy in China, I learn, where the presence of such a global brand feels like an unspoken commentary on American influence. To see it here, in this imperial space, is to witness the collision of past and present, history and globalisation.

What does it mean? Tourism seems to have reached a new level. The gates to the Forbidden City are wide open, not just to visitors like me, but to corporations eager to stake a claim in every corner of the world. Is it progress? Or a surrender to forces beyond control? This Starbucks, nestled inside one of China’s most revered cultural sites, feels like a symbol of that tension, between preserving history and embracing the future.²

The irony is not lost on me. I, a young man from England, am walking freely through the heart of what was once closed to the world. The Forbidden City, for all its grandeur, has become just another part of a world increasingly accessible to those who can pay the price of entry.

As I step away from the crowds and head toward the exit, I think about what this place once represented: the height of power, the isolation of the emperor, and the forbidden nature of all that lay within. Now, it feels less like a place of mystery and more like a stage - a relic of another time, its secrets exposed for all to see.

But still, something lingers here. Something in the weight of its history, in the quiet irony of my presence, that causes me to pause. The Forbidden City is no longer forbidden, yet its aura remains. It is simply another chapter of history, one I have walked through, and I leave feeling both shaken and stirred.

A Moment of Gratitude

If the words of Ill Grandeur have resonated with you, consider buying me a cup of tea. In China, tea is more than just a drink—it is a symbol of connection, warmth, and reflection. A one-off tea is a way of sharing in the journey, supporting the story, and keeping the spirit of discovery alive. Every cup helps bring the next chapter to life.

1. Named after Kobe Bryant. The sport had recently seen a rapid rise in popularity, owing in part to the emergence of the NBA’s first Chinese star, Yao Ming.

2. The Starbucks in the Forbidden City opened in 2000 and quickly became a point of controversy. Many viewed its presence as a symbol of Western commercialization encroaching on a sacred cultural and historical site. After years of criticism and protests from locals, the Starbucks branch was closed in 2007.