On this afternoon, the streets were abuzz with local life; the lack of expats in the crowd hinted at this hutong's authentic day-to-day vibrancy. Families, scooters zipping by, and the kaleidoscope of traditional Chinese fast food coalesced into a singular visual feast distinct to hutongs. It was in the narrow side streets, however, where a quieter story unfolded—one that allowed my camera to focus on scenes less traveled.

I joked with a friend that I had been Beijing’ed. My family and I moved here last June, and ever since, I’ve felt my connection to the Iranian diaspora slipping–this week hammered that home. My mistake, missing the ever-important kick-off event to the Nowruz season, wouldn’t have been a thing back in DC. But, if I’m honest, this disconnect isn’t anything new. I mean, we grew up in rural Kentucky. So, it felt like everything Iranian happened in a vacuum. While we knew we were Iranian, my father’s maintenance of our cultural touch points was basically limited to rice with every meal and facilitating a love of radishes.

Back then, it was known as a nightlife hotspot. It was where expats and young Beijingers went for a night of drinking and dancing—a Beijing version of DC’s Adams Morgan or Dupont Circle. As things go in Beijing, however, the area isn’t as hip as it once was. The new chic area of town moved further east, down to Sanlitun.

In fact, the craft beer industry in Beijing and China is quite robust, mature, and producing high-quality craft beer on par with anything I have consumed in the US. Despite that, the beer culture remains vastly different from what you can find in the States. This stems, in large part, from differences in tastes, practices, and purchasing trends.

I had a choice to make, and it was one that would affect the direction of this piece. I could continue the night’s festivities and end up with something akin to Hunter S. Thompson’s essay on the Kentucky Derby. While it would probably have made for a great story, I didn’t believe it was in my best interests to roll those dice here in Beijing.

If there’s anything from living in Washington, DC that prepared me for living in Beijing, it has to be spending the previous four and half years living on Georgia Avenue. I know what you’re thinking, ‘But David, Georgia Ave and Beijing are nothing alike.’ Au contraire, mon ami. They very much are. Well, at least in this one very narrow aspect…bad driving maneuvers, specifically U-Turns.

I was worried that whatever the special oil was would be the sort of hot that I couldn’t handle. The rankings of chilis on the menu mean nothing without an actual reference. One place's single chili rating could be another place’s three. Luckily, I had nothing to worry about.

As with most craft breweries, their beers lean heavily on the ale side of the market. They’re easier to make, and most folks patronize these establishments because they want ales instead of lagers. Even though I enjoy an excellent lager and will not hesitate to elevate a brewery simply based on its lagers, I’ve been pleased with the beer I’ve consumed at Great Leap.

They were busy, but the server directed me to the one open table remaining. I scanned the patrons and realized it was full of locals–precisely what I wanted. Another server brought over a menu far more approachable than the binders at the other place. Each page except the sections for dumplings and drinks had two to three options, pictures of each option, and a translation (sometimes humorously bad) into English.

There’s nothing more shocking than walking into the local nut store (yes, there is a local nut store) only to be greeted by a timid ‘ni-hao’ from behind one of these pastel face coverings. Am I speaking to the man in the iron mask or the lovely woman who sold me Turkish pistachios during my first week here? I don’t know because that mask makes it impossible to sort out what’s what.

The brewery she pointed to was just the brewpub for one of the local beer makers–Arrow Factory Brewing. Like with Slow Boat, I had previously heard about them through the craft beer bar in our building. The owner had pointed them out on a map and told me it was an excellent place to grab a few pints.

It sits along a quiet tree-lined side street among residential highrises on the south side of the Liangma River, just a few hundred meters west of Xindong Road. If there weren’t a big sign out front, you’d miss it. However, the facade does stand out among the drab grays and dull pinks of some of the surrounding buildings. So maybe even without the sign, it would at least draw your attention.

I was reminded of it early on after our move to Beijing. Dog ownership isn’t a new thing in China, but the rapid rise of it over the last decade has turned it from a novelty into something more commonplace. This is especially true for millennials who have, for several reasons, put off starting a family.

But unlike in the US, where certain, dirtier aspects of pet ownership see both widely held adherence and some level of public opprobrium if not followed, those things are the exception rather than the rule in China.

But here’s the thing: I’m out of shape. Even if I had taken it easy, there’s a good chance I would have been fucked halfway up the mountainside anyway. Because, like the ambitious fool I am, I tried to take this thing like I was in high school or college. You know, back when you could go out partying, put away the better part of a 12-pack of the worst beer imaginable, and still wake up the following day to run three miles in twenty-one minutes.

It is as inevitable as Spurs being Spursy. If you were a betting person, you’d add it to your parlay, knowing you wouldn’t regret it. I, David Shams, beer drinker, writer, lover of brewpubs, have finally put it all together to start reviewing beers I’ve had in Beijing.

Here’s the thing. This happens all the time here. A delivery driver calls to say they’ve dropped off our dinner at the front desk; after providing the necessary signal that I don’t speak the language, they continue anyway. At a restaurant or grocery store, there’s an exchange in which it becomes clear that you don’t and won’t likely understand. Yet, they continue, undaunted by your lack of comprehension.

But there are things that folks would be less used to, even if they do live in a big city. As I’ve described in previous posts, they’re everywhere and go in every direction. Any surface on which they can make progress toward their endpoint is useable. They sneak up on you, though. Most are electric and barely make a sound. They whir along at ungodly speeds in the tightest of spaces making hardly any noise. Heads must always be on a swivel.

I didn’t care. At that stage of my college life, I thought it was cool not to be into anything mainstream. We had a great foreign film series every semester, and I absolutely loved it. First of all, it was free. And second, it was an excellent way to figure out if the chick you were trying to holler at was willing to expand her horizons.

Like jaywalking and lack of salt in our food, it has been one the constants of our short time here in Beijing. Old men, and it’s almost always old men, sitting on the banks of the restored river casting a line in hopes of catching whatever swims in the waters below.