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. 　　The second year， I went south instead， and Chinese New Year’s Eve ended up as an adventure again， but of a slightly different kind. My boyfriend， who I met in Beijing， accompanied me on a trip to Shanghai. We arrived in the southern city late on Chinese New Year’s Eve， having completely forgotten that most places would be closed. We arrived at a restaurant for dinner only to find it shut and couldn’t find a taxi anywhere. Just as we were beginning to stomach the possibility of walking for hours to our hotel， rescue came through. We finally found a cab operated by a festive driver who， after learning of our predicament， took us to a restaurant he knew that was miraculously still open. Our meal of delicious shengjianbao （pan-fried stuffed buns） was a fitting welcome to Shanghai. Over the course of the next week there， including a day trip to Hangzhou， we had a wonderful time. The entire city was united in its celebratory spirit. We even bought an ornate“fu” （meaning “happiness”） poster to stick on our doors back in Beijing.


　　That year I started to grasp how massive the roughly 40-day-long chunyun （Spring Festival travel season） is. The sudden emptying out and quiet because of chunyun happens in cities all over China， but due to Beijing’s sheer size and frenetic activity， it’s most apparent there. Not only does a large part of its population go back to their hometowns， but many of its foreign residents also travel home or elsewhere for a vacation. If you happen to stay in Beijing over the Spring Festival holiday week， you better stock up on groceries and other supplies in advance because most places will close for business. A few foreign-owned restaurants and supermarket chains may remain open but it’s best to be prepared. During the month， I tend to endure brutal malatang（a spicy Sichuan-style food） withdrawal symptoms.
　　At the end of the day， Beijing during Spring Festival is my favorite time of the year， perhaps even more so than Beijing in autumn， which may be an unpopular opinion. It’s truly something else. Everything looks a little bit brighter， and everyone is happier and a bit more patient. Temple fairs， lined with rows and rows of shops and food stalls， are organized at some of the city’s loveliest tourist spots such as the Summer Palace and Ditan Park. Venturing into the hallowed Daoxiangcun traditional bakery to buy sweet treats is one of my favorite activities around Spring Festival. My first time there， I stood in one of many endless lines， nervous about what exactly I should buy—it seemed like too many choices！ A young Chinese man in the line next to mine spoke English. We got talking and he pointed and described almost every single sweet to me. By the time my turn arrived， I knew exactly what I wanted. “The gift boxes are meant to be packed tightly，” he told me. “If there is any room left between sweets， people buy smaller ones to fill in. The idea is for the boxes to be overflowing to symbolize surplus and prosperity.”
　　This year ahead of my third Spring Festival in China， I again purchased one of the bakery’s special sweets shaped like a pig. Like its inspiration， it was absolutely delicious， as I hope the coming year turns out to be.