A Typhoon-Day Trip to Nanjing, and a City Beneath the Streets

The library in Nanjing made a good first impression: I could walk in without swiping a card. It was a small detail, but it removed a moment of hesitation. I did not first have to work out whether I was entitled to enter. Dropping into a library while traveling also carries less pressure than visiting a sight: no hurry to take pictures or follow a route. Suddenly, the city became more than a name on a map. It was somewhere people lived their everyday lives.

The meal was less satisfying. I had been looking forward to roast duck, but what arrived was not the crispy-skinned kind I had imagined. That does not mean it was bad. Taste is hard to reason with, and my expectations had already taken a seat at the table. I still missed the roast goose in Shenzhen: a little more crispness in the skin, a more immediate richness from the fat. A local specialty cannot decide my preferences for me. Having tried it, at least I no longer had to keep imagining it.

The biggest surprise was how to get around Xinjiekou. Subway exits followed one another seemingly without end; I later found that there were at least twenty-four numbered exits. A convenient crosswalk was not always available at street level. To reach the other side, I often had to go underground and come up through another exit.

At first, this felt awkward. I could see where I wanted to go, yet could not simply walk in the most obvious direction. The underground passages connect malls and the subway, which may be convenient for people who know their way around. As a newcomer, I first had to identify the exits and work out which way to turn. Having many exits and being easy to navigate are two different things.

On a rainy day, though, the benefits became apparent. I did not have to return to the open air every time I moved somewhere else. The underground space felt like an umbrella the city had offered me. The awkward detours remained, but now I had a reason to accept them. My impression of Xinjiekou shifted between those two feelings throughout the day.

Deji Plaza is connected to this system too. It contains the familiar luxury stores; I am not their target customer, so wandering through felt rather like window shopping. What stayed with me more than the shops was the restroom people kept talking about. Some say it cost tens of millions; I cannot verify that. Still, making a restroom somewhere worth a special visit was an inventive idea.

Even someone with no intention of buying luxury goods can have a reason to enter the mall. But coming to see a restroom and choosing to shop are still a fair distance apart. I can say the mall found an entrance into people’s conversations. A single visit cannot tell me whether that improved its business.

It reminded me of Changsha IFS. Whenever I have seen its luxury floors, there have not seemed to be many people seriously browsing. Most looked as though they were passing through on their way upstairs to eat. That is only what I happened to see, of course, but it helps explain my own choices: expensive things that have no connection to my life will not keep me there. A meal I want to eat can draw me upstairs on purpose.

Looking back, the library and the mall felt approachable for different reasons. The library opened its doors without asking me to bring anything first; the mall needed to give me a reason unrelated to shopping. I like the ease of the former and can appreciate the thought behind the latter. As for Xinjiekou, what remains is not a route from a travel guide, but a very specific contrast: the other side of the street is visible above ground, yet reaching it means entering another layer of the city.

References

• Public reply from Nanjing Municipal Government on Exit 24 of Xinjiekou Subway Station, verified on 2026-08-11.