If I close my eyes and think about Beijing, I can almost smell the chuanr. The spices, the smoke, the skewers cooking over a street-side grill. I knew even then that these were flavors I wouldn't easily find once I left China. So I ate them whenever I could. Sometimes that meant hopping off a bus simply because I spotted a vendor I wanted to try.

There were plenty of famous sights to see in Beijing, but looking back, it's the ordinary things I miss most.

Street food was everywhere. There was grilled corn, often cooked over something that looked suspiciously like a metal trash barrel. Hot dogs, if you were feeling particularly daring. And the stir-fry guy near my building, where I could grab a plate of fried rice or noodles. I relished it all, knowing that my time in Beijing wouldn't last forever.

Well, almost all of it.

Then there was the stinky tofu. I know it's a delicacy, but apparently my palate never quite reached that level of sophistication.

I knew I would miss the food. What I didn't realize was how much those small experiences were shaping my relationship with the city. The street vendors weren't just places to grab something to eat. They were part of the rhythm of Beijing.

Beijing is a city of 20 million people, and it moves differently. Some might call it chaotic, but that's not how I remember it. Or maybe it's chaotic in the way smoke is chaotic. You can't describe its movement in a neat, straight line, but there's a form to it. A rhythm. An energy.

I loved being part of that movement. I took buses, taxis, and subways everywhere. Sometimes getting across the city meant spending more than an hour on a crowded subway, especially when traveling from my neighborhood to the more international side of Beijing. But even as I became more competent at navigating the city, I never lost the excitement of getting somewhere.

I probably arrived in Beijing too naive and confident to feel intimidated. And maybe that was a good thing. I was ready to explore, and Beijing gave me plenty of opportunities.

Beijingers had a certain swagger about them. They knew who they were and where they were from. You could hear it in their pronunciation, that unmistakable Beijing "r" rolling through conversations. You could feel it in their confidence. They were proud to be from the capital, and it showed.

I learned pretty quickly that standing patiently in line wasn't always going to get me anywhere. During my first few days, I stood dumbfounded as people pushed past me to the front. Eventually, I figured it out. You just had to go for it. No sitting back waiting for your turn.

Restaurants were no different. If you needed something, you didn't sit quietly hoping a waiter would notice. You threw your arm in the air and called out, "Fúwùyuán!" (Waiter!) What initially seemed a little pushy to me wasn't necessarily considered rude there. It was simply how things worked in the places I frequented.

I loved that about Beijing. I wanted to be a Beijinger, but I never quite had the swagger for it.

Shanghai felt new and flashy, a city eager to show off its modern side. Xi'an felt steeped in ancient dynasties, with a stronger sense of community. But Beijing was different. It had history, certainly, and no shortage of modern ambition. Yet what stood out to me was its confidence. Its swagger. A city of 20 million people who seemed to know exactly where they belonged. And somehow, I had learned to move among them.

These days, I get in my car, enter an address into GPS, and drive where I need to go. It's easy. It's convenient. But sometimes I miss squeezing onto a crowded subway, jumping off a bus for something delicious, and finding my way through a city of 20 million people.

I miss moving with Beijing.

My year living in China's capital gave me more stories than I could fit into one blog post. You can read more about my experiences in The Orange Backpack – Beijing, available on Amazon.