What do the Hutongs of Beijing have to do with the writings of Jean-Jaques Rousseau?
The attitude of visitors to Beijing puts in my mind that nostalgia plagues us humans and gives us some irrational ideas and feelings: ‘Oh for the simple life,’ we say. ‘They don’t make ’em like they used to.’ ‘The good old days,’ we call them.
This is not a new phenomenon. It’s documented in the West as far back as 750 BC, to the work of the Greek philosopher Hesiod. What comes to my mind, though, is the prevalence of these feelings as the Industrial Revolution was dawning. Philosophers, like Rousseau, artists like Poussin, and musicians like Rameau were enamored of the ‘bucolic.’ They painted an idyllic scene of jolly farmers and shepherds living as one with a benevolent Nature. My most vivid impression of this is an image of Marie Antoinette, who loved playing milk maid at her chateau at Versailles.
These days there is not only the nostalgia for ‘farm fresh,’ but other old-timer things. In New York City, where I used to live, people complain that gentrification is taking over old, less desirable neighborhoods. They mourn the passing of the Carnegie Deli, with its huge pastrami sandwiches. In Beijing they seem to be nostalgic about their hutongs, neighborhoods of single-floor dwellings crammed together with narrow, maze-like alleys connecting them. There’s romance about these hutongs that I don’t understand. The guidebooks and tour operators tell you to go explore them. ‘There you’ll find the “Real Beijing.”‘
We were sent to an exclusive, little-known restaurant located in a hutong, for a special meal by an excellent chef. It was served communal style, for a group of nine people. The other guests were eager to visit a hutong. I was less so.
It was nighttime, and the alley was dark (think Terry and the Pirates, if you’re old enough). This must have been one of the more upscale ones, though, because there was a Jaguar and some other nice late-model cars parked at the head of it, before it got choked off by piles of sand and other building materials, and other junk. There was also a nice, clean, reasonably new-looking public toilet in this one, so it didn’t smell as bad as some we had walked through the day before (the outhouse smell followed me to the hotel on my shoes). A tiny, shabbily dressed, ancient lady slowly hobbled toward us on crutches, her legs bundled in cloth. We had been told the restaurant was 200 meters from the entrance to the alley, marked by two red paper lanterns. It was a long 200 meters; we almost turned back, thinking we’d missed it. The excitement and romance that my fellow diners felt about coming here was lost on me. I was just creeped out.
Some hutongs have undergone a transformation. They’ve become chic or touristy–or both. I was told Beijings hutongs enjoy some sort of government protection, unlike in some other Chinese metropolises, where they are being destroyed. Turning hutongs into something new that meets the needs of Beijing’s new economy and culture makes sense to me. It reminds me of what happened in New York’s South Street area, and what has been done in other cities across America in similar situations. They turned old, run-down areas that were not benefitting the culture or economy of the city into vibrant areas, landmarks, even. This not only makes efficient use of resources, but for Beijing fits well into what I see of the design esthetic here, which is to combine the new with the traditional in truly effective ways. The old-style hutongs were dirty, unhealthy places to live. Let’s not romanticize them.
I haven’t interviewed any hutong residents, but I doubt they enjoyed living in those conditions. I would guess they felt more like some of the natives of South American jungles who are trying to join the mainstream culture. I have a friend and former colleague who spends his vacations there, helping them acculturate. It’s difficult for them, as things we take totally for granted can be alien to them. When my friend asked one woman who was finding the process hard why she was putting herself through this, and would she ever consider going back, she replied ‘Are you kidding? Never mind that your bare feet are always hurting, getting stuck with thorns and other sharp things. You are always afraid. There are things in the forest that can kill you or even eat you!’
Maybe it wasn’t as bad in the old hutongs as all that, but I don’t imagine that old crippled lady was enjoying her lot in life.