8. First steps in Guangzhou

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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The minibus ploughs through the early evening, the roads stretching out ahead like a dark ribbon. Our small group of Brits sits together in silence, a mixture of curiosity and exhaustion in our eyes. We are collected by Liang Lidan, a woman in her thirties who works in the Foreign Affairs Office at Guangzhou Civil Aviation College. Her English is measured, precise. She gives us a cursory introduction to the city, but mostly, it’s the landscape that speaks.

As we drive through Guangzhou, the differences from Beijing are immediately apparent. The grey stone and monumental architecture of the north give way to the softer hues of the south. The buildings here are shorter, more intimate, not the towering glass and steel of Beijing, nor the towering gates of the Forbidden City, but something altogether more functional and rooted in the earth. Low-rise apartments, their tiled facades a patchwork of colours, rise on either side of the road. The horizon is dotted with the green of banyan trees that line the streets, the air thick with exhaust fumes and humidity.

There is a languid quality to the city’s architecture, a softness I hadn’t expected. It’s as though the buildings themselves have been shaped by the tropical climate, each one seeming to lean toward the earth, eager to embrace the green that surrounds it. In Beijing, the buildings are austere, grand, designed to impress and endure. Here, in the south, they are built to breathe, to withstand the humid weight of the air and the monsoon rains that come with the summer months.

As we approach the college campus, Liang Lidan’s voice fades into the background, her words lost in the strange hum of the city. We pass through gates into a sprawling campus, a small city in itself. There are two hotels, several teaching buildings, a sports hall, a gym, and a library - facilities that seem to blend seamlessly into the landscape, as though the city and the school have grown up together. The green of the trees mingles with the concrete walkways, the whole place shaded by the warm, thick air.

We are shown to our small apartments - modern, yet a world away from anything I’ve ever known. The rooms are tidy and functional, but what strikes me most is the difference in the way spaces are arranged. The floors and walls are tiled, a practical solution to the dampness that can seep into homes in this subtropical climate. The tiles are cool beneath my feet, a relief from the heat of the day, but they also give the room an impersonal, institutional feel, as though it were more a space to pass through than to live in.

There is a mosquito net over the bed, a constant reminder of the battle between man and nature in this tropical city. The net is suspended by hooks at each corner, creating a slight, curving arc over the bed, as if to protect me from the unseen. It is the kind of thing I’ve only seen in films or read about in books, yet here it is, hanging before me in the bright fluorescent light of my new home.

The air-conditioning hums softly, a lifeline in the thick heat. I flick the switch and the room cools instantly, a welcome contrast to the stifling air outside. It is strange though, this coolness feels artificial, as though the room is fighting the heat that presses in from the outside. It is one of the first things I’ll need to adjust to - the reliance on air-conditioning to survive the summer months, to escape the relentless humidity that will become as much a part of life here as the steady buzz of cicadas in the trees.

But it’s the bathroom that causes me the most surprise, a reminder that I am no longer in the west. The toilet is a squat design, the kind I have read about but never used, and I am struck by the realisation that this is just another part of the cultural shift I’m about to experience. The lack of a Western-style toilet, the simplicity and practicality of the design, is something I will have to get used to. It is a detail, perhaps, but one that seems emblematic of the way China operates: efficiency over comfort, practicality over convenience. It’s not the life I left behind in Britain, but it will be the life I must learn to navigate.

Later, Liang Lidan gives us a tour of the campus. We walk through the various buildings: the teaching halls, the gymnasium where students run laps and practice badminton and ping pong, the library where the soft murmur of students reading and studying fills the air. The place feels alive, but in a different way from the bustle of Beijing. Here, the energy seems quieter, more contained, as though it is waiting to burst forth at some unseen moment.

It is in the library that we meet Mike, a British man who has been teaching here for two years. He is older than us, perhaps in his thirties, with an appearance that suggests that he has already settled into life in Guangzhou. He speaks Chinese, enough to navigate the streets and markets, and there is a relief in meeting someone who knows the ropes. Mike’s presence is a reminder that we are not alone in this new world, that someone has already made the transition and can help us adjust.

That night, he takes us to a local barbecue restaurant. The place is bustling, filled with the sizzling sounds of skewers being grilled over open flames. We order a series of unknown meats, their names lost in translation, but the rich aroma of the grill makes our mouths water. As the skewers arrive, we pick through the meat with a mixture of curiosity and hesitation, unsure of what we are eating but eager to dive in. The flavour is rich, unfamiliar - sometimes smoky, sometimes sweet, and always tender. Alongside the meat, we drink large bottles of Tsingtao beer, the coldness a welcome reprieve from the heat of the night.

In the clatter of chopsticks and the laughter of locals, the world I’ve stepped into begins to feel a little more real. Guangzhou is not Beijing. It is raw, immediate, and, like the skewers we eat, it is a mixture of things - unfamiliar yet enticing. My life here will not be the same as my time in Beijing. It will be shaped by different rhythms, a different landscape, and a different history. And as I sit at this table, sipping my beer and laughing along with Mike and my new colleagues, I realise that this, this unremarkable evening in a smoky barbecue restaurant, is the moment when my new life in Guangzhou begins.

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.