There are nine million bicycles in Beijing, or so the song goes. But amid the city’s perpetual motion, sometimes the loneliest number is one: one bicycle, one soul, one quiet moment.
I began to notice them—bicycles left alone, leaning against the old grey bricks of the hutong, resting in the shadows of towering skyscrapers, or soaking under the summer rains. They seemed almost human in their solitude. Not forgotten, just taking a pause.
As a foreigner in the bustling heart of Beijing, it’s easy to feel like you’re standing still while the world rushes by. The language, the rhythms, the unspoken codes—they swirl around you, close enough to touch but just out of reach. But watching those solitary bikes, I started to see things differently.
Loneliness and solitude aren’t the same. One is a feeling of absence; the other, a conscious choice. On my quiet morning walks to work, I began to embrace the stillness. I listened to the city waking up—the clatter of jianbing vendors, the shuffle of feet, the cheerful tunes from delivery drivers’ speakers, the melodic flow of Mandarin conversations.
In these moments, I realized that solitude is a gentle power. It offers space to grow, to reflect, to find your own pace. Like those resting bicycles, perhaps we’re all exactly where we need to be.
Now, when I see a lone bike basking in the Beijing sunlight, I smile. I see a reflection of myself. Maybe being alone in a foreign city isn’t about isolation; it’s a mirror showing us that the most beautiful journeys often start with stillness.
