Sunday evening. The girls are finally asleep. I reheat my tea for the third time and sit down to plan next week’s schedule. A family from Germany emailed today — they want a 14-day trip covering Shanghai, Guilin, and Chengdu. I’ve done this route a dozen times but every family is different. This one has two kids aged 7 and 10, so I’m thinking: fewer temples, more food markets, and at least one panda encounter they’ll talk about for years. Sunday evenings at home are my reset button.

My 6-year-old watched my dad do his morning tea ceremony yesterday and asked: "Mama, why does Grandpa pour out the first round?" I explained: the first steep wakes up the leaves. It rinses off dust from months of storage. It warms the pot and the cups. And honestly — it is just what we have always done. She watched my dad with new eyes. Ten seconds later: "So Grandpa knows everything about tea?" My dad, without looking up: "No. I just know this one thing well. And that is enough." That is the most Chinese answer I have ever heard. Humble, honest, and completely unimpressed by the question.

A client from New York asked me what I do when I get stressed. I told her: I read the Tao Te Ching. She looked at me funny — she was expecting "yoga" or "a glass of wine" maybe. But I've been reading it for over a decade now. Someone gave me a copy years ago, and it stuck. There's a line I think about a lot when work gets overwhelming: "The best way to fill a cup is to empty it first." (I'm paraphrasing — the original is more elegant.) I'm not saying you need to read ancient Chinese philosophy to enjoy China. But if you visit a Taoist temple — like Qingyang Palace in Chengdu or the temples on Qingcheng Mountain — sit quietly for a few minutes before pulling out your phone. Read the inscriptions on the pillars. Watch the incense smoke rise. You don't need to understand every character to feel what the space is trying to say. Most tourists photograph the building and leave. The ones who stay a little longer are the ones who remember it differently.

My son asked me last week: "Mama, why do Chinese people eat with chopsticks?" I didn't have a good answer. So I asked my uncle, who's been a chef for 40 years. He said: "Because we cut everything in the kitchen. No knives on the table. The chopsticks are for picking up what's already ready." And that's actually a great way to understand Chinese food culture. Western cooking leaves the knife to the diner. Chinese cooking does all the work for you — meat sliced thin, vegetables bite-sized, everything ready to pick up and eat. The chopstick is just the tool that delivers it. The real skill isn't chopsticks — it's the rice bowl. Hold it close to your mouth and push food in. That's how locals eat. Keeping the bowl on the table and leaning down? That's what kids do (and my four-year-old still does it, sauce on his chin, every single meal). If you can handle chopsticks well enough to pick up a single peanut, you're better than most tourists. If you can pick up a slippery mushroom? You've graduated.