Liu Yang

The first thing that struck me about this city was the quiet hum of life beneath the old stone walls. It wasn’t loud or in your face—it just was. A steady rhythm, like the ticking of a clock that’s been around longer than anyone remembers. The streets are narrow, some so much so that you have to step aside when someone passes by, and there’s something comforting about that. You’re not alone in the crowd, but you’re also not lost in it.

I wandered through alleys that felt like they belonged to another time, where the only sounds were the creak of wooden shutters and the occasional call of a bird perched on a rooftop. There’s a sense of history here, not just in the buildings, but in the way people move through them. They know these streets, and they carry themselves with a kind of ease that suggests they’ve walked them for years.

The food was simple but satisfying—warm bread, fresh cheese, and a cup of tea that tasted like it had been brewed with care. I sat at a small table outside a café, watching the world pass by. No rush, no hurry. Just people going about their day, and me, trying to take it all in without feeling like an outsider.

There’s a certain peace here, not because nothing happens, but because everything feels deliberate. Every corner turned, every conversation overheard, adds to the story of the place. And as I walked away from it, I realized that sometimes the best travel moments aren’t the big ones—they’re the quiet, lingering ones that stay with you long after you’ve left.