The first to go were street food stalls. Suddenly one morning， my favorite jianbing （thin pancake made of millet flour， etc.） lady and the guy on the corner slinging the best pork-andchive jiaozi （Chinese dumpling） in town were nowhere to be found. Soon， the smaller grocery shops began closing， then the bigger stores， followed by restaurants and cafés. It started getting harder and harder to find a cab， the bus queues began thinning out， and the rows of empty seats on the subway presented an apocalyptic scene. And so it continued， the bustling city of 21.5 million rapidly emptying out and becoming the quietest it had been all year round. The majority of Beijing’s residents—migrants from all over the country—returned to their hometowns and families to celebrate Chinese New Year， also known as Spring Festival. By the time February 4， Chinese New Year’s Eve， rolled around， Beijing reached its yearly apex of tranquility. The Year of the Pig had arrived， and in homes across China， generations of families were celebrating around a table piled high with food and drinks.
On this night two years ago， just a few months after I had moved to Beijing from Mumbai， a group of new friends and I decided to organize a dumpling-making night. We rounded up necessary supplies such as dumpling ingredients， tons of snacks and wine and baijiu （liquor） to toast at midnight and assembled at my ChineseAmerican friend Jenny’s home. She had learned how to make dumplings from her grandmother ages ago and became our “tutor” for the evening， teaching us how to make the filling， then pleat and fold the dough into jiaozi. However， given our absolutely terrible culinary skills， our work produced more “balls of dough that vaguely resemble jiaozi” than actual jiaozi. Either way， they tasted delicious. After dinner， we set out to Houhai Lake to view fireworks. The entire city was decked with red-andgolden lanterns， and the joyous mood consumed everyone. I had even caught a glimpse of my otherwise-grumpy neighbors smiling earlier in the day. The weather was chilly， and we sat huddled on the edge of the completely frozen lake eating dumplings and sipping baijiu every few minutes to warm up. Thanks to the Hangover-To-EndAll-Hangovers the next day， none of us dared to engage in such a celebration again for at least an entire year.
Over the rest of the holiday week， I visited Harbin in the far， icy northern province of Heilongjiang to see the annual ice & snow festival， which is one of my favorite memories of China to date. My first Spring Festival， filled with friends， great food and good cheer， ended up with setting the bar very high for all future Chinese New Year celebrations.
