Xi’an (pronounced as Chicago)

As much as Beijing was without much character, Xi’an has shouldered much of that responsibility. Our quick flight to this western city plopped us about 35 miles north of its overwhelming sense of history and provided us with one of our China pleasures: Joe. Joe is our local guide, whose English and humor more than make up for our previous guide Victor’s sense of impending doom.

Xi’an is home to 8 million people and apparently anticipates about 8 million more to judge by the immense number of non-descript apartment skyscrapers that line every road in and out of the city’s core. The downtown is wrapped in a bow by an impressive city wall that entirely circles the historic center; the higher buildings are generally located outside of the walls. Our first of two evenings here we gamely rented bicycles on the top of the wall and wobbled around looking at the town from about 50 feet above it. Erin and I romantically chose a two-seater and pedaled from one beautifully outlined tower to another. The kids quickly darted off, the sense of freedom provided by 20-year-old bikes, no helmets, and no lights for the dark tour overriding their responsibility to maneuver cautiously.

Another big meal right before the bike ride was a dumpling fest. Joe assured us that we would have every dish explained in English as it was presented – and he was right. Our tiny waitress would roll her eyes up to the ceiling, and after reciting the appropriate word in her head several times, would come out with “fish” or “mushroom” as the case demanded. She looked a bit like a dumpling herself.

By the time we rolled up to the hotel, we were worn out by the sheer Xi’anness of it all. Most roads have arching trees that provide some relief from the heat – stronger here than in Beijing – and lend the city a slight provincial air. This small-town feel was further strengthened by the fact that Starbucks in Xi’an doesn’t open until 7:30 – one hour later than in Beijing. But Xi’an is a big city by any standards, and big cities can wear you out.

The next day (yesterday) was the critical highlight of the visit to Xi’an, as we visited the museum of the Terracotta warriors. Apparently all the Chinese who were visiting the Forbidden City a few days ago had followed us westwards. The tale of the finding of the Warriors is worthy of a book – and I bought it! While digging a well some 35 years ago, a simple farmer named Yang brought up some shards and, with the presence of mind brought on no doubt by the Cultural Revolution, promptly turned them over to the local authorities. Archaeologists were summoned from somewhere who quickly put an end to the well-digging and began the excavation of the largest tourist attraction ever seen this side of Disneyworld.

The warriors are definitely worth seeing in all of their various pits. There is far more to see in just a few short hours, but we saw what we could. The poorly filmed and scripted movie (surrounding the audience on all the walls of the round theater) was a 1980s effort at Cecile B. DeMille with an out-of-focus lens. Immediately outside the cinema was, yes, you guessed it – poor Mr. Yang, dutifully signing books on the discovery. As our guide explained, he was one of China’s greatest heroes, and had never profited from the discovery (China being socialist and all that). The abject misery on his face as he signed the thousands of books thrust at him (come see mine!) made me wonder if he didn’t wish the well was just four feet further to the left. You see, he would have missed the first warrior in front by that much – and we would not have the 8th wonder of world to ogle. Mr. Yang would be comfortably retired from farming, playing cards with his friends in a sleepy village near a notably smaller Xi’an.