It’s late Monday night, and I’m curled up on my dorm bed with the window cracked open just enough to let in a cool winter breeze—strange, because inside my stomach still feels warm from yesterday’s chili oil and the lingering scent of Sichuan peppercorns. I spent this past weekend in Chengdu, two days packed not with grand temples or tourist-lined alleys, but with street corners, steaming baskets, and conversations over bowls of noodles that left my lips numb and my heart full.

As a second-year tourism hospitality student, I’ve come to realize that travel isn’t always about ticking off landmarks. Sometimes, it’s about sitting on a plastic stool too low for my knees, slurping dan dan mian while an old man across the table laughs at how I gasp after every bite. That’s the Chengdu I wanted to capture this trip—raw, unfiltered, deliciously chaotic.

I took the high-speed train from my university city early Saturday morning. Just over an hour later, I stepped out into Chengdu East Railway Station, already hit by that familiar Sichuan humidity—even in December, the air clings like a damp towel. My first stop? Jinli Ancient Street, not for its “ancient” façade (which feels increasingly commercial), but for what lies behind it: narrow lanes where locals eat breakfast before work.

I ducked into a tiny shop called Lao Ma’s Noodle Corner, recommended by a classmate who grew up here. No English menu, no QR code ordering—just a chalkboard scribbled with Chinese characters and a woman shouting orders to the kitchen. I pointed at what looked like hand-pulled noodles in red broth. What arrived was zhajiangmian, but not like any I’d had before. The minced pork was fried with fermented broad bean paste, spicy and deeply savory, tossed with thick wheat noodles and topped with pickled mustard greens. It cost me 12 RMB (about $1.70). Simple? Yes. Memorable? Absolutely. Pro tip: ask for extra hua jiao (Sichuan pepper) if you want that signature tongue-tingling buzz.

By noon, I wandered toward Wuhouci, near the famous temple, where the real magic happens in the side streets. There’s a lane locals call Xiao Chi Xiang (“Little Food Alley”), barely wide enough for two people to pass. Every few meters, someone is frying, boiling, or grilling something incredible. I tried congyoubing—scallion pancakes—from an auntie who flips them in a giant wok with practiced ease. Crispy outside, chewy within, brushed with sesame oil and served in paper bags tied with string. 8 RMB. I ate mine walking, watching office workers grab theirs on lunch break.

But the highlight of Day One was dinner at a family-run chuancai (Sichuan cuisine) restaurant tucked behind Renmin Park. No sign, just a red lantern above the door. I found it through a food blogger’s WeChat post. Inside, wooden tables, ceiling fans spinning slowly, and the sound of chopsticks clinking against porcelain. I ordered shuizhu yu—"water-boiled fish," which is misleading because nothing about it is mild. A whole bass is poached in a fiery broth of chili oil, Sichuan peppercorns, garlic, and doubanjiang (fermented broad bean paste), then topped with fresh chilies and hot oil poured tableside in a dramatic sizzle. My face flushed, sweat formed on my forehead, but I couldn’t stop eating. Paired with a bowl of plain white rice (essential for survival), it was 68 RMB. Worth every penny and tear drop.

After dinner, I walked to Kuanzhai Xiangzi (Wide and Narrow Alleys), less for the restored Qing-dynasty buildings and more for the night market energy. The lights strung overhead, the smell of roasting meat, the crowds—it’s touristy, yes, but there are still gems. I bought bing tang hulu, candied hawthorn skewers glazed in brittle sugar. Sweet, tart, crunchy. And I watched an elderly couple dance guangchang wu (square dancing) under golden lamplight, completely unfazed by the tourists filming them. Life goes on, delicious and rhythmic.

Sunday began slower. I slept in, then headed to a local cha guan—a traditional tea house—in a quiet corner of Qingyang District. Not the one in People’s Park with the crowds, but a smaller one called Yunxiang Teahouse, where retirees play mahjong and sip jasmine tea from lidded cups. I sat by the window, ordered gongfu cha style oolong, and wrote in my notebook. An old man opposite me offered me a piece of preserved orange peel. We didn’t speak the same language, but we nodded, smiled, and sipped together in silence. Moments like this remind me why I study hospitality—not just to manage hotels or tours, but to understand human connection through shared spaces and rituals.

For lunch, I ventured to Pixian County, about 30 minutes west of Chengdu by bus. Why? Because this is where doubanjiang—the soul of Sichuan cooking—is fermented. I visited Pixian Douban Factory, a small-scale producer using traditional methods. Barrels of broad beans and chilies age for years in the sun, stirred by hand. I took a short tour (free, donation appreciated), learned how the paste is made, and sampled fresh batches. It’s salty, spicy, umami-rich—the kind of flavor that builds depth in mapo tofu or hongshao rou. They sell jars for 25 RMB. I bought two—one for my mom, one to hoard for future cooking disasters.

Back in Chengdu, I ended my trip at Yulin Night Market, less polished than others but full of character. I tried roujiamo—Sichuan-style “Chinese hamburger”—with spiced pork stewed until tender, stuffed into a baked flatbread. Juicy, fragrant, messy. 15 RMB. Then, for dessert, tangyou baba, glutinous rice cakes deep-fried and rolled in sesame seeds and sugar. Sticky, sweet, dangerously addictive.

Reflecting now, two days might seem short, but Chengdu doesn’t rush. It simmers. It lets flavors develop. And so did I—slowing down, tasting carefully, listening more than speaking. As a traveler, I used to think I needed to see everything. Now, I want to feel places—the warmth of a noodle stall’s steam on my face, the burn of chili on my tongue, the kindness of strangers who don’t need words to welcome you.

If you come to Chengdu, skip the fancy restaurants at first. Go to the backstreets. Sit low. Order what the locals are eating. Bring tissues—for your nose, and maybe your eyes. And always, always carry a bottle of water. You’ll need it.

This trip reminded me that food isn’t just fuel. In Sichuan, it’s identity, history, love, and resilience—all served in a bowl, wrapped in paper, shared on a plastic stool. And as I return to lectures and textbooks tomorrow, I’ll carry that warmth with me, one spicy memory at a time.

Next month: Xi’an. I hear the yangroupaomo (lamb soup with torn bread) will test my limits all over again. But for now, my lips are still tingling. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.