About Lhasa

I. Setting Out: From Chengdu to the City of Sunshine

At five in the morning on September 30, 2025, the whole of Chengdu(成都) was still asleep as I shouldered my pack and headed to the airport alone.

The airport was fifty kilometers away, and the first train on Metro Line 18 from Chengdu South Railway Station was my only option. To make sure I did not miss my flight, I was practically the first passenger through the station doors. On the empty platform, I pressed the shutter—5:21, an accidental coincidence, as if fate were winking at me.

Three hours later, I would land somewhere four times as high above sea level as Chengdu. But at that moment, I could think of nothing else. My heart was simply brimming with excitement as I waited for this long journey to truly begin.

On the eve of the National Day holiday, Tianfu Airport(天府机场) was as packed as a river in flood season. A winding queue stretched from the security checkpoint, and not a single empty seat could be found in the departure hall. So I climbed onto a railing beside me and sat with both legs dangling in the air. People streamed past, announcements sounded one after another, and as I sat there, my mind was filled entirely with the distant place I was about to reach.

Sometimes I feel that every circumstance in life is arranged by some unseen hand. Frequent business trips over the past year had freed me from my fear of flying, while all those experiences of making my way alone through unfamiliar cities had quietly dissolved my unease about traveling by myself. Sitting on the railing at that moment, I felt nothing but calm—even a little expectant.

I like observing the people around me: what kind of bags they carry, what shoes they wear, and what stories might be theirs. At an airport, outdoor enthusiasts are actually easy to spot—an Osprey backpack, Scarpa hiking boots, a shell jacket, trekking poles. Their gear is their calling card. I could hardly call myself an experienced hiker, but I had done plenty of homework for this “journey to Mount Kailash(冈仁波齐),” at least enough to recognize fellow travelers. Whenever I saw someone carrying the same Osprey pack as mine, I would nod to myself: yes, they are probably going hiking. Most of them traveled in groups of two or three, laughing and chatting as they passed in front of me. I was a little envious. But that was all right. I could go a long way on my own too, couldn’t I, old friend?

II. Looking Down: A Scroll of Mountains and Rivers Beyond the Window

After the plane took off, the window became a moving scroll. Rugged ranges undulated across the land like the spine of the earth. Majestic snow mountains appeared and disappeared above the clouds, and every so often, an emerald lake came into view, set into the ocher plateau like a piece of jade dropped into the mortal world by the gods. I pressed close to the window, reluctant even to blink—this world was simply too beautiful.

III. Arrival: My First Glimpse of the Potala Palace

After a three-hour flight, the plane finally landed at Lhasa(拉萨) Gonggar(贡嘎) Airport. The altitude had abruptly risen from just over four hundred meters in Chengdu to 3,600 meters, yet my body held up well, with no obvious discomfort—perhaps because I had started taking Rhodiola(红景天) half a month in advance.

I boarded the bus into the city, and the scenery outside grew more magnificent as the road climbed. Snow mountains in the distance, blue sky overhead, and low-hanging white clouds unfolded in layer upon layer, as though I had stepped into a slowly unfurling thangka(唐卡).

I had arrived early. It would be another two days before I met up with my companions—one older friend who was still at work that very day, and two university students even younger than me. We had agreed to travel to Mount Kailash(冈仁波齐) together. Lhasa had never been my final destination; having two days here to acclimatize to the plateau felt like a buffer granted by heaven.

As the bus slowly entered the city, the Potala Palace(布达拉宫) suddenly burst into view.

It was much larger than I had imagined. Its red-and-white walls rose along the mountain, tier upon tier covering the entire slope. Even beneath a gloomy sky, none of its solemn, imposing presence was diminished. I stared at it for a long time, until the bus turned a corner and it disappeared from the window frame.

Lhasa’s weather changes its face faster than one can turn a page.

By the time I put down my backpack and prepared to go out for something to eat, the clouds from moments before had already vanished. Sunlight made the streets dazzlingly bright, as if I had been transported to another city.

IV. Wandering: Barkhor Street and the Time Post Office

People from Sichuan really are everywhere. On the streets of Lhasa, signs for Sichuan restaurants and noodle shops were equally dense. A bowl of noodles cost twenty-two yuan, quite a bit more than in Chengdu, but then I thought of how every sack of flour and every handful of chilies had to cross mountains to get here, and the price seemed reasonable enough.

After finishing my noodles, I decided to walk over and apply for a border permit. It did not look too far on the map, and I could take my time strolling along the streets and seeing what the City of Sunshine was like. As I wandered, I found myself turning into Barkhor Street(八廓街)—Lhasa’s oldest kora route and the very soul of the city. The Tibetan-style white walls lining the street, the multicolored prayer flags, and the scent of Tibetan incense in the air made every frame look like a carefully composed film scene. Every casual snapshot came out beautifully.

After crossing Barkhor Street, I stopped when I passed the “Time Post Office.” An entire wall was covered with postcards, densely layered one over another like countless wishes mailed into the future. I had nothing in particular to write, but the sheer spectacle of that wall still kept me standing there for a long time.

From the angle beside the post office, the Potala Palace took on yet another appearance. This was the classic photo spot for the fifty-yuan banknote—the Potala printed on the bill finally overlapped with the real palace before my eyes.

V. An Errand: The Border Permit

At the border permit office, the queue ran from the lobby all the way to the street corner, winding like a slowly writhing snake. On the eve of the National Day holiday, several times more people than usual were heading to Ngari(阿里). I stood in line for nearly an hour before finally receiving the permit that would let me enter Ngari.

VI. Dusk: Dzongyab Lukhang Park

At dusk, I walked into Dzongyab Lukhang(宗角禄康) Park. The setting sun cast the Potala Palace’s reflection across the lake. Elderly people were making kora(转经), and pigeons rose and settled over the square. I slowly walked a lap around the lake, thinking of nothing, simply walking.

VII. The Next Day: The Museum and a Final Afternoon

October 1, my last day in Lhasa.

Suddenly, Lhasa did not seem all that big. Perhaps it was because I was alone, or perhaps because I had seen too much on the first day. In that case, I might as well visit the Tibet Museum(西藏博物馆).

A quiet retreat was hidden on the museum’s rooftop, offering a distant view of the Potala Palace. Seeing it from above felt entirely different from looking up at it from the bus the day before.

There did not seem to be much left to explore. Tomorrow I would leave for Ngari(阿里). I should pack up and get some rest early.

But once I lay down, I could not fall asleep no matter what I did, so I scrolled through Douyin out of sheer boredom. Then a recommended video popped up—“A-Gui’s Tavern.”

VIII. Tipsy: Tibet Old Ghost Tavern

I sat bolt upright. Wasn’t this the place I had kept saying I wanted to visit? I had almost missed it. I checked the location and, incredibly, it was right nearby.

I had first stumbled across it on Douyin. A young man named A-Gui had quit his job at twenty-three, bought a horse, and ridden all the way from Yunnan(云南) to Lhasa. Once he arrived, he stayed and opened this bar. It was not big—just four tables in all—and was filled with objects left behind by its patrons: expired airline tickets, handwritten love letters, faded photographs. A-Gui said he was a collector of souls, and those old things were the souls others had left behind. He had watched over them for nearly thirty years. Time had turned A-Gui, whose name means “Ghost,” into an old ghost.

The tavern was hidden deep inside a narrow alley. An old wooden sign hung above the entrance, the four Chinese characters for “Tibet Old Ghost” carved into it with simple, vigorous strokes. Only after lifting the curtain and stepping inside did I realize that the place was even smaller than I had imagined, its four tables packed tightly together. The walls, on the other hand, had become a “treasure trove”—covered with expired airline tickets, deeply creased handwritten love letters, and faded old photographs, each one seeming to conceal a story that had never been finished.

I had hoped to find a seat by myself, quietly take some pictures, and let my mind go blank for a while. But after looking around, I saw that all four tables were full. I asked the owner if there were any empty seats, and he smiled and pointed beside me: “You’ll have to share a table.” I thought, “Well, I’m already here,” and reluctantly agreed.

Two young women were sitting at the next table, with one seat empty beside them. I quietly asked whether I could sit down, and they immediately nodded without hesitation. When I first took my seat, a trace of awkwardness still hung in the air. They occasionally looked down and fiddled with their phones, and I was too shy to speak first. Then the owner brought over the drinks menu—its coarse linen cover polished shiny with wear, aged and full of character. As someone who normally never drinks, I panicked a little at the page full of unfamiliar names and had to ask the owner for help again: “Do you have anything with a lower alcohol content?” He pointed to “Yamdrok Tears(羊湖之泪),” and I quickly ordered a glass.

As soon as I placed my order, the young woman beside me suddenly laughed and pointed at her own glass. “What a coincidence—I’m drinking ‘Yamdrok’ too. Honestly, it tastes exactly like dish soap.” Her blunt complaint made me laugh out loud, and half the earlier awkwardness seemed to scatter in the wind. The conversation flowed from there. It turned out they were university students in Lhasa who had just finished military training and had come here to relax during the National Day holiday. Like me, they had been drawn by the reputation of “Tibet Old Ghost.”

As we talked, being alone no longer felt so lonely. We were all strangers, yet this little tavern had brought us together. We gathered in front of the wall to look at the old objects: the destinations printed on the airline tickets ranged far and wide, the people in group photographs smiled brilliantly, and several unopened packs of cigarettes sat at the corner of a table. Then one of the women took out a pack, pulled out a cigarette, and asked if I wanted one. I politely shook my head and said, “I don’t smoke,” though inwardly I was quietly surprised. It was not that I held any prejudice; based on my own limited experience, I simply found it somewhat unexpected for a woman her age to smoke. But the thought lasted only an instant—everyone has their own way of living. I may not agree with it, but I have no right to judge.

Later, a young man arrived. He also ordered “Yamdrok Tears” and naturally joined the conversation as soon as he sat down. He talked about his university years and his experience starting a business, and the rise and fall of his fortunes made for a nerve-racking story—there had been dazzling moments when success seemed within reach, as well as crushing lows when everything was lost overnight. As I listened, I could not help admiring his courage to take risks and fight for what he wanted. Yet I had my own considerations deep down: for me at this point in life, doing well in my studies and broadening my horizons at university seemed more important than rushing to “make things happen.” Perhaps my experience was too limited, but certain parts of his story felt somehow unreal, as though they had been given a dramatic filter.

Whatever the case, the evening was unquestionably rewarding. I have always been somewhat socially anxious; even speaking to a stranger usually takes all the courage I can muster. Tonight, I had not only shared a table and struck up a conversation, but had also quietly reminded myself of something: a stranger’s stories can be heard, and some of them can be believed, but never all of them—after all, every “experience” a person recounts is inevitably wrapped in their own filter.

When I left the tavern, the wind in the alley carried the distinctive chill of a night on the plateau. But I felt warm inside, as though I were carrying a piece of candy just warmed in my palm. Perhaps this was the tenderness of a night in Lhasa—it would always tuck a little surprise into your arms when you least expected it.

Tomorrow, Mount Kailash(冈仁波齐) would be waiting for me.