A foreign land, a different kind of charm.

 　　In a foreign land, I'm used to measuring the local customs with my eyes and understanding the folkways with my heart. No matter where I am, every brick, every tile, every person, and every event evokes endless emotions in me.

　　Yao'an has two distinctive features that I rarely saw before. In the north, where rainfall is scarce, single-story houses are the norm, but in Yao'an, pointed-roof tile houses are everywhere, surrounded by high walls forming deep courtyards with vermilion gates. Perhaps the branches in the courtyards couldn't resist climbing over the walls. Such architecture, in the north where family values ​​are strong, is both solemn and vibrant. I grew up in a mountain village, where I mostly saw stone houses nestled at the foot or halfway up the mountain. I rarely saw this kind of architecture, and my mind was full of questions: Why are the walls so high? Why are the gates red? Why are the roofs pointed?

　　Walking along the paths of this foreign land, watching the sunrise and sunset, seeing the farmers working in twos and threes, laughing and chatting happily, I understood that not all questions need answers; contentment is the best answer.

　　In Yao'an, besides buildings, the most common sight is the covered three-wheeled motorcycle. These vehicles are mostly used by women to take their children to school, and some elderly people use them to go to the market. My first impression was quite surprising. When I was a child, taxis were rare in my hometown, and these covered vehicles were used to transport people—though they were agricultural tricycles. Gradually, as living standards improved, these taxis disappeared. Far from home, when I saw these vehicles, besides feeling a sense of familiarity, I also felt a greater admiration for the ingenuity of the people of Yao'an. Taking children to school, providing shelter from the wind and rain, and protecting against the cold, the covered vehicle fulfills its purpose to the fullest.

　　Dinner is usually early, and I like to go for a walk afterward. I'll call up some friends and stroll along the road, chatting and laughing—it's both enjoyable and a good way to pass the time, and also a little exercise. Sometimes I think that if I meet local villagers along the way, I must stop and listen to them tell stories about Yao'an, its customs, traditions, and interesting anecdotes.

　　It was almost the time for Minor Snow, and the small locust tree outside the office swayed in the wind, its leaves turning yellow and falling. I wondered if the bird's nest in the tree was still warm, and if the fine grass inside had been blown away. I wanted to go and see, but I didn't have the courage. At this time of year, it was the only place in the entire courtyard full of life, a place hiding a secret, and I couldn't disturb them. It

　　wasn't until half a month later that I discovered this secret. I exclaimed and told my friend, then ran to the tree, stood on tiptoe, and parted the branches. The nest was empty; there was no sign of the bird. Where was it? A few days later, a small head peeked out.