Bidding Goodbye to Beijing’s The Bookworm
After operating bilingually for 14 years, The Bookworm recently closed due to “illegal structures.” This article is an ode to commemorate memories and connections there within.
Beijing’s autumn had suddenly plummeted to weather warranting winter jackets. Long gone were the carefree summer evenings spent atop the Secret Garden. Solemnly, I stepped timidly over the steps labeled with authors and their accompanying book titles; not wanting to step too hard for fear of disrespecting their legacy. I paused as two women in front of me posed to take photos. I ought to take a photo, I thought to myself, before it’s too late.
The glass door opened on its own accord and a buzz permeated the heavy air. I glanced around before locking eyes with a fellow bookworm; I joined his circular table. His laptop was open to mathematical equations and a few notebooks were dispersed, open to various scribbles.
He posed the question no one wishes to answer: “How are you?”
“Heartbroken!” I exclaimed, glancing about. The Bookworm was busy as always, only people were milling about in an urgent gathering. Though the library bookshelves were still proudly pregnant, the shelves of Chinese books accompanying the entrance and the discounted secondhand bookshelves adjacent from the bar were emaciated. “I can’t believe this place is closing….”
The Bookworm was once part library, part bookstore, quarter cafe, and quarter bar — all with a live performance venue and a secret garden rooftop: a retreat for international students and established expats as well as a resource for local bibliophiles and those hoping to sharpen their second language acquisition. The Bookworm’s Beijing location (other locations included Suzhou and Chengdu) had been in operation for 14 years; it had been awarded That’s Beijing “Cultural Center of the Year” award in 2019. Other notable achievements include the Literary Festival that has operated since 2006 and a significant amount of shows were sold out to standing room only. Too many times, I arrived to purchase tickets half an hour before a show only to be placed on the waiting list (20 some names down!).
The Bookworm was a charismatic place wherein you could sit by the window to write poetry and end up in an afternoon-long conversation with a complete stranger. I had met the friend across from me only once before: this past April between literary festival events. He worked in Haidian District (a decent hour commute by subway) for his post doc but claimed The Bookworm as his office.
The Bookworm is a venue wherein one can meet strangers and quickly engage in conversation about the qualities of good and bad poetry, of trends of democracy in China and India, of LGBTQ+ friendly spaces in Beijing, of the role of translation in literature. This was the location I would invite Couchsurfers visiting the megacity to; I would introduce the venue, share snacks, and laugh while exchanging vicarious traveling stories. It was the quiet calm among bookshelves when a man whispered gently, if I had seen a copy of The Kite Runner? A place wherein you would search along the shelves, helping him look before apologetically admitting that you hadn’t and he would return to his friends to converse in Hindi.
During my final night at The Bookworm (as I had an upcoming international flight, though this wasn’t the last night of The Bookworm’s), I lingered in the doorway, gazing around the warm and dying flame of the interior. Red lanterns swung proudly in collection against the changing glow of the Intercontinental building, or as we lovingly call it: the honeycomb building. I noticed a swarm of chattering and caught a peek of the #BeijingStory (#北京故事） group: a free meetup that meets weekly on the premise of language and cultural exchange.
“Are you here for Beijing Story?” Before I could answer, smiles enveloped me and a name tag and Sharpie were passed to me. I, unwilling to depart so soon, joined. I joined the repeated, nearly monotonous exercise of introducing myself and inquiring for the basic information of other attendees (where one’s hometown is, what we studied in school, where we studied, where we lived abroad, how long we’ve learned our target language, what we do for work, hobbies indulged, and so forth). I ordered a 壮阳茶 (zhuàngyáng chá: a tonic to invigorate one’s yang energy), as I needed something to soothe my parched voice in accompaniment with the encroaching dry, bitter Beijing winter.
As conversations cooled, I looked about remorsefully. Here is where I experienced the development in my ‘second hometown’ of Beijing. As a college student, I had spent 3 unsuccessful hours navigating Baidu Maps to find the location; exhausted, I abandoned my search and returned defeated to Peking University. A couple months later, accompanied with my partner who was successful in finding the venue, we laughed while attending my first Talk Show (stand up comedy) that featured 大山 Dà Shān. As I worked in Beijing this past year, tears silently stained my cheeks this April when listening to 叶美 Yè Měi read her poem “女友” (Nǚyǒu — Girlfriend) still nursing the wounds of my own break up. I had run into a classmate I studied with in Suzhou while here. I had purchased books in English and Chinese both, glad for the creative space. This is where I sat, alone, to craft poetry and study languages.
A woman appeared beside me, startling me from my nostalgia. There are moments wherein serendipity arranges for strangers to meet: 缘分 (Yuánfèn). Realizing we shared a connection of having both lived in Chengdu and New York City combined with the passion or writing, we veered off to secure a table of our own and gently proceeded into the night, reminiscing on the role this place had served for us. This woman, Qin Chen, a reporter for Inkstone News, wistfully revealed, “ The Bookworm reminds me of everything good about the US.”
Curious to know how The Bookworm could serve as a positive ecosystem of the US, I asked why she thought that. Chen responded, “ The Bookworm is a place for the Chinese to venture out of their comfort surrounding of other Chinese, to interact with different and sometimes challenging views. It’s a homey place for expats or quasi-expats (or cosmopolitan and international Chinese) like myself. You know what to expect but it will still surprise you. It’s a piece of the world in an otherworldly place.”
Before departing that night, I grabbed my side handle bag and excused myself to the cramped restroom. On the wall was a large QR code with a message in English and Chinese — to scan and add the owner’s We Chat, with a promise we will all become yearlong members if The Bookworm re-opens. If.
