I knew it was a touristy request and felt a tug to leave. They thanked him and when I stepped up to the table, I saw characters representing symbols of hope, love, peace like the tattoos I sometimes spotted on white people. I stood behind a mother-daughter pair with matching blonde ponytails waiting for him to finish his Chinese calligraphy. In the Scholar’s Study, an older Chinese man in a black jacket and gray cap sat at a table surrounded by bamboo brushes and bowls of black ink. It was like traveling back in time, to another place, to another century - a world in exile. My parents left their families behind to discover a new land overflowing with possibilities in America. My grandparents had to flee to Taiwan in order to survive and build a new home for their children. My ancestors were buried in China, a country where they were no longer welcome. I could picture my ancestors in this place. I admired gingko wood carvings, poems etched on rock walls, a traditional teahouse and plants native to China: gardenia, chrysanthemum, lotus and water lily. Five-hundred tons of limestone rocks had been transported all the way from China. A lake sat in the middle of the courtyard garden, reflecting swaying trees and filled with koi. Once I stepped inside, a sense of peace immediately settled over me. Picking up my pace, I practically jogged to reach my destination.īuilt by Suzhou artists to replicate a wealthy home from the Ming Dynasty, the Lan Su Chinese Garden takes up a whole city block, carved lions guarding the gate. I checked my map again and crossed the street to avoid stepping through a coil of homeless bodies stretching along the sidewalk. Signs of spring were sprouting cherry blossoms perched on trees, releasing a perfume trail. After three days of being surrounded by 12,000 writers at a conference in Portland, Oregon, I wanted to escape the chaos of the convention center so I headed to Chinatown, the city’s oldest neighborhood sitting on the northwest bank of the Willamette River.