I write this entry as i sit in a poor, dilapidated hutong, or traditional Chinese neighborhood.  This is the "real" Beijing.

Other than sitting in Ware's Grove Cemetery in lonely Hillsboro, Illinois, this is the quietest place I have ever rested.

Although I am in the heart of central Beijing, I am far away from the hustle and bustle of the subways, taxis...and foreigners.  I can only hear chirping birds, simple conversation, and an occasional construction hammer.  Here, people are so friendly it makes me want to cry.

Not even an hour ago, I walk past a game of Chinese chess outside a closest-sized convenient store.  Having not even said a word, a man offers me a cold, bottled drink and a spot to sit.  Although I have been learning Chinese for a month, his accent is so thick that I cannot comprehend his greeting.  However, he shows me his ID card, and I learn he is 53 years old.

Also, randomly sitting here is a 20 year old  kid from Holland.  My new Chinese friend walks us back to his home for a short visit.

After offering us tea, bananas and sunflower seeds, the man shows us the traditional Chinese writing utensil, maobi (furry pen).  It is like a thick bristled paintbrush that you then dip into ink.  He writes on a small piece of  paper the characters for China.  I ask if he can write my name.  He then proceeds to purge his cabinet and pulls out a long scroll of traditional Chinese paper, roughly three feet in length.

He inscribes the following:

(MICHAEL, MY AMERICAN BROTHER)

Wow. 

How can I respond to this?

He is ready for his afternoon nap, but invites us to come back anytime.

Forget the Forbidden City.  Forget Tian'anmen Square.  It is moments like these i will never forget.