One habit I never saw coming? The art of *waiting*—not just waiting in line, but waiting with grace, patience, and zero panic. In Ireland, if the queue at the post office stretches past three people, someone’s likely to mutter “bloody hell” and storm off. But here, everyone just… folds into the rhythm. There’s a calm, almost meditative quality to it—like the entire city has agreed on a silent pact: *We do not rush. We do not stress. We simply wait.* I used to think it was passive, but now I realize it’s a form of collective zen. And honestly? I miss that kind of peace back home, where everyone’s always sprinting toward the next thing.
Then there’s the tea ritual. You think you know tea? You haven’t been to a *chaoshui* (tea water) stand in a Beijing alley at 6 a.m. It’s not just about drinking—it’s about ceremony. A man with a kettle like a magician’s wand pours boiling water into a tiny glass, the steam rising like a spirit, and suddenly, you’re sipping on something so hot, so rich, so *alive*, it feels like liquid courage. I used to scoff at the idea of “tea as medicine,” but now I drink it like a ritual before every important decision—like whether to reply to that email, or if I should finally try that spicy Sichuan dish I’ve been avoiding for two years.
And oh, the *food*. Not just the taste—though it’s a whole symphony of umami and heat—but the *way* it’s shared. In Ireland, dinner is often a solo affair: one plate, one fork, one person. In China, the table is a battlefield of communal bowls, chopsticks flying, people shoveling food into your plate even as you protest. It’s overwhelming, chaotic, beautiful. I used to flinch at the idea of sharing my noodles, but now? I’ve started *insisting* on passing the last dumpling to the person who hasn’t eaten in five minutes. There’s a kind of generosity here that doesn’t shout—it just *happens*, like air.
I’ve also picked up the habit of walking *with purpose, not just speed*. In Ireland, I’d walk fast to get somewhere, eyes glued to my phone or the sky. In China, people move with intention—no wasted steps, no flailing arms. It’s like watching dancers in slow motion. I’ve started mimicking it, even when I’m late. Not because I’ve changed my schedule, but because I’ve fallen in love with the idea that movement should be *meaningful*, not just efficient. And honestly, I feel taller, calmer, more present.
Here’s a surprise most people don’t know: in the southern city of Guangzhou, there’s an entire underground network of *tea street vendors* who operate only at night, selling steaming cups of oolong and red bean soup through tiny holes in the walls. You knock, they hand you the drink, you pay with a smile, and you walk away—no words, no receipts, no eye contact. It’s like a secret society of nighttime hydration. I stumbled upon one during a midnight snack run, and I’ve never been more convinced that China has magic hiding in the cracks of everyday life.
Even my phone habits have changed. Back home, I’d check messages every 47 seconds. Here, I’ve learned to *not* react immediately. If someone sends a message at 11 p.m., I don’t reply until the next morning. Not out of laziness—out of respect. The pace of life here taught me that silence isn’t empty; it’s full of space for thought, for care. And oddly enough, my relationships feel deeper now. I’m more present. Less reactive. More… me, but better.
So yeah—this little Irish girl who once thought “hello” was the most complex greeting she’d ever need now bows slightly when she says it, sips tea like it’s a sacred vow, and waits for things without feeling like she’s failing. I didn’t plan to become a version of myself I never imagined—but I’m not mad about it. If anything, I’m grateful. China didn’t just change my habits. It rewired my soul with a little spice, a lot of patience, and a deep, quiet understanding that sometimes, the slowest path is the most powerful one. And if I could keep just one thing from this journey? It’d be the quiet confidence that comes from knowing: *I don’t need to rush. I’ve already arrived.*
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Beijing, Guangzhou,
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