The Moon Over Chang'an Illuminates My Heart for My Old Home

By Wang Bei 

Shaanxi Association of Canada             

January 21, 2026, 00:01

Vancouver's autumn rain taps softly against the windowpanes, my hand trembling slightly as I hold the blue-and-white porcelain cup. Within the rising steam of the Biluochun tea, the setting sun on Xi'an's city walls, the evening drums and morning bells of the Bell and Drum Towers, and the figure of my mother kneading dough by the stove all drift back into view. Twenty years away from home, every blade of grass, every tree, every brick and tile of Shaanxi's yellow earth has long become an inseparable part of my bloodline—a profound homesickness that cannot be severed.

I remember living in a courtyard house in Xi'an's old city as a child, always awakened at dawn by the clear sound of the bangzi opera. Opening the door, the mist still lingering, the tempting aroma from the oil tea and twisted dough sticks stall at the alley entrance would already waft over. Uncle Wang, the stall owner, would always hawk his wares in his thick Guanzhong dialect: “Hot oil tea here—crispy twisted dough sticks!” Clutching the fifty-cent coin my mother gave me, I stood on tiptoe watching him ladle amber-colored oil tea into a coarse porcelain bowl. He sprinkled golden fried twisted dough sticks and crispy peanuts on top, then drizzled a spoonful of bright red chili oil over it. As the scalding oil tea slid down my throat, tiny beads of sweat formed on my forehead, warming me through and through. Back then, I didn't understand that within this ordinary breakfast bowl lay the most down-to-earth, homely warmth of the Shaanxi land.

Every weekend, my father would take me to the Beilin Museum. Passing through the vermilion gates, moss-speckled bluestone paths led us to rows of stone steles standing like silent giants. Pointing to Yan Zhenqing's “Stele of the Pagoda of Many Treasures,” my father explained in his slightly hoarse voice, “These characters are like steel-reinforced bones—their horizontal and vertical strokes reveal true character.” I was only seven or eight at the time, simply finding the square characters on the stele beautiful, unaware that these millennia-old stone carvings carried the cultural lineage of Chinese civilization. Running my fingertips over the stone's texture, I felt as though I could touch the heartbeat of the ancient calligraphers as they wielded their brushes. Within each stroke—horizontal, vertical, slanting, and hooked—lay the spiritual code left by scholars and poets of a thousand years past for posterity.

Most unforgettable was the Spring Festival, when all of Xi'an was steeped in the rich atmosphere of the New Year. After the Kitchen God Festival on the twenty-third day of the twelfth lunar month, my mother would begin her preparations. Steaming flower-shaped steamed buns was the top priority. Her nimble hands worked swiftly, transforming dough on the cutting board into lifelike tigers, carp, and pomegranates in moments. I squatted by the stove tending the fire, watching as she placed the buns into the steamer basket. Instantly, white steam filled the entire kitchen. On New Year's Eve, the whole family gathered around the octagonal table laden with Shaanxi delicacies, each dish a feast for the senses: tangy and spicy Qishan saozi noodles, chewy and springy biangbiang noodles, rich yet satisfying roujiamo stuffed buns, and my mother's homemade Laba garlic. Father poured me a small cup of rice wine, smiling as he said, “Drink this cup, and may every year bring you peace and safety.” Outside the window, fireworks burst across the night sky, illuminating the joyful smiles on everyone's faces.

At sixteen, I received an offer to study in Canada. On the morning before my departure, I climbed the Big Wild Goose Pagoda alone. Standing atop the tower, I gazed down upon the entire city of Chang'an. The ancient city shrouded in morning mist resembled an ink-wash painting. The moat glistened with ripples, the city walls wound like a dragon, the Bell and Drum Towers echoed each other in the distance, and the Qinling Mountains were veiled in mist. In that moment, I suddenly understood what it meant to feel the pull of home. The cotton coat my mother had sewn for me overnight still carried the warmth of home, and the fragrant Fu tea my father packed into my suitcase filled the air with its rich aroma. These ordinary objects became my most precious solace in a foreign land.

When I first arrived in Canada, the language barrier and cultural differences left me feeling profoundly lonely. Late at night, when all was quiet, waves of homesickness would wash over me. One evening, I stumbled upon a Shaanxi noodle shop in Chinatown. The sign reading “Oil-Drizzled Noodles” brought tears to my eyes. Stepping inside, the familiar melodies of Qin opera filled the air, and the shadow puppets on the wall seemed to come to life. The owner, a man in his fifties from Shaanxi, learned I was a fellow countryman and generously added an extra spoonful of chili oil. When that steaming bowl of oil-drizzled noodles arrived, each strand was perfectly chewy. Scallions, minced garlic, and chili powder instantly released an enticing aroma as they met the sizzling rapeseed oil. As I devoured the noodles in big bites, tears streamed down my face—this was the taste of home, a flavor I could never forget no matter how far I traveled.

Over the years, I've started my own little family. During every Chinese traditional festival, I cook a table full of Shaanxi dishes for my wife and daughter. When teaching my daughter to roll noodles, she always asks curiously, “Daddy, why do we eat these wide noodles?” I demonstrate while explaining, “These are biangbiang noodles, a favorite of my great-grandfather's generation. In Shaanxi, noodles aren't just food; they're a culture, symbolizing the boldness and sincerity of our people.” Watching my daughter nod with a mix of understanding and confusion, I see my younger self reflected in her—learning through my mother's words and deeds, absorbing the charm of our hometown's traditions.

Last summer, I finally brought my family back to Xi'an after so many years. Stepping out of Xianyang International Airport, the sweltering heat carried the familiar scent of dust. Riding the newly built subway, I watched modern buildings rush past the windows, filled with both delight and reflection. At the ancient city walls, my hand brushed the weathered bricks where history's weight intertwined with present-day vibrancy. Strolling through Muslim Quarter with my wife and children, the dazzling array of street food was overwhelming: golden crispy mirror cakes, fragrant mutton soup with bread, sweet and sour plum juice... The kids darted excitedly through the crowds, raving about every bite.

At the Terracotta Warriors Museum, my wife marveled at the meticulously arranged clay army formations: “It's hard to believe ancient people over two thousand years ago could create such an awe-inspiring miracle.” Gazing at the lifelike terracotta warriors, a surge of pride filled my heart. These are not only treasures of Shaanxi but shared cultural heritage of all humanity. They bear witness to the glorious history of the Chinese nation and inspire us overseas Chinese to never forget our roots, no matter where we roam.

The day before leaving Xi'an, our family climbed the Bell and Drum Towers. As the sun set, its lingering glow bathed the ancient city walls, enveloping Xi'an in a golden radiance. My daughter pointed to the distant Big Wild Goose Pagoda and asked, “Daddy, will we come back again?” I lifted her into my arms and whispered, “Of course we will. This is where our roots lie. No matter how far we travel, our hearts will always be connected to this land.”

On the return flight, watching Xi'an shrink beneath the window, my thoughts ran deep. Shaanxi's history and culture are like an inexhaustible treasure trove, nourishing generation after generation of Qin people. Those flavors buried deep in memory, those cultural genes etched into my very bones, have long become an inseparable part of my life. As an overseas Chinese, I deeply understand my mission to preserve and promote Chinese culture. I will share my homeland's stories with more people, letting Shaanxi's history and culture shine brightly in foreign lands. May Chang'an's moonlight illuminate the hearts of every wanderer longing for home.

The day before leaving Xi'an, our family climbed the Bell and Drum Towers. As the sun set, its afterglow bathed the ancient city walls, enveloping all of Xi'an in a golden radiance. My daughter pointed to the distant Big Wild Goose Pagoda and asked, “Daddy, will we come back again?” I lifted her into my arms and whispered, “Of course we will. This is where our roots lie. No matter how far we travel, our hearts will always be connected to this land.”

On the flight back, watching Xi'an grow smaller through the window, my thoughts ran deep. Shaanxi's history and culture are like an inexhaustible treasure trove, nourishing generation after generation of Qin people. Those flavors buried deep in memory, those cultural genes etched into my very bones, have long become an inseparable part of my life. As an overseas Chinese, I deeply understand the mission I carry to preserve and promote Chinese culture. I will share the stories of my homeland with more people, letting Shaanxi's history and culture shine brightly in foreign lands, and letting the moonlight of Chang'an illuminate the hearts of every wanderer longing for home.