In Chongqing, getting lost isn’t a mistake—it’s the whole point.
As soon as I stepped out of the airport, I could tell Chongqing was going to be different.
This was the eighth night of a two-week trip in China. I was flying from Beijing on an airline I’d never heard of, eyes bleary from lack of sleep, and strangers surrounded me like paparazzi. However, I could tell that they weren’t clamoring for pictures, only my money, posing as taxi drivers. I kept my head down and eyes forward, scurrying to the official taxi hailing platform. Coming from the orderly capital, this was a shock to my system that jolted me awake.
Prior to planning this trip, Chongqing was not on my radar, despite being one of the most populous cities in China and gaining viral popularity on TikTok for its mountainous landscape, spicy food, and extravagant skyscrapers. While I had seen brief videos of Chongqing’s hilly terrain and spectacular lights, no digital image captures the electricity of this unpredictable city.
A labyrinth of a town, every excursion through the streets is a risk of taking a wrong turn and somehow ending up 12 stories above ground. A map doesn’t show that you may need to go underground just to cross the road or that trains speed through the middle of apartment buildings. This is a city that finds wildness in its construction and in the thrill of not knowing where the night might lead you. When the sun goes down, the city comes alive: partygoers dance beneath neon signs so bright it looks like daylight. And for those with spotty cell service and little command of the language, let’s just say, good luck finding your way back home.
Watch the video and get lost in Chongqing.
Zooming away from the airport, I desperately tried to explain the name of my hotel to the driver and wished I had taken my high school Chinese classes more seriously. The taxi pulled over, and the driver and I engaged in a battle of hand gestures, as if that would better communicate my destination. I kept telling him, “It’s a really famous place, the one made of really giant skyscrapers.” Raffles City, a behemoth complex, includes hotels, offices, apartments, and a mall with over 400 stores. As one of the most iconic landmarks of Chongqing, I thought any local would know it, yet in a city where everything seemed to be a towering building, it was difficult to pin down which one I meant.
After reaching an unconvincing understanding, the driver took off. He seemed to know where he was headed, but that didn’t calm my racing heart. Adrenaline pounded through me from the late hour and the fear we were somehow headed toward the unknown. At least, I thought as my stomach rolled, the fare was ridiculously cheap. There seemed to be little regard for street rules. Somewhere between talent and recklessness, the driver sped through the mountain roads as if he were Max Verstappen in Formula 1. With the unknown ahead, we raced toward the heart of the city, straddling both lanes, seizing the smallest gaps when possible.
At last, the taxi slowed to a stop. Stepping out, I expected to see the famous skyscrapers and skybridge of Raffles City. Instead, I faced a much smaller building—and Raffles City was all the way on the other side of the road. The hotel’s website had advertised the exterior with photos of Raffles City. What became clear was that this was the view from the hotel, not the hotel itself. Nonetheless, my modest hotel was only $70 a night—perhaps the best option to keep me grounded in this befuddling city.
A City Atop Mountains
A labyrinth of buildings, tunnels, and bridges, it became clear over the next couple days that Chongqing is not for the directionally challenged or the easily overstimulated. By this point in the trip, navigating subway stations had become second nature. However, navigating Chongqing was a different beast—every venture outside was a test of my navigational abilities.
Instead of leveling the terrain, Chongqing built its buildings and transportation systems into the mountains, creating an intricate web where up can be down and down can also be up. Buildings can have multiple entrance levels, so simply saying I was on a certain floor did little to clarify my position.
The first time I truly understood this was on the way to Liziba Station, a monorail that goes directly through the seventh floor of a residential building. Located on the upper levels instead of below ground, the journey meant climbing up stairs from the bottom floor until I emerged many stories higher, with train tracks on the left and a street on the right. Somehow, I had gone from one street level to another street level—a common occurrence here, where multiple ground floors exist depending on your perspective.
Pack Some Pepto-Bismol
In truth, my friends and I came to Chongqing with one purpose: to eat some of the spiciest hot pot in the world. Chongqing is renowned for the liberal use of Sichuan chili flakes in its cuisine—from fried, bite-sized chicken buried in red chilis to beef noodle soup steeped in a spicy broth, delicious but deadly to the untrained palate.
After hopping off the subway, we religiously followed the directions on Apple Maps, which is fairly accurate compared to Google Maps (sorry, Android users). After a wrong turn, backtracking, going through a tunnel to emerge on the other side of the street, and climbing what felt like a mountain, we finally arrived at Yuwei Xiaoyu Hotpot.
Situated away from the tourist-packed scene of Raffles City, only locals were in sight—a sign we were in the right place. The dining room was small, our table just ten paces from the door. We squeezed onto our plastic stools, tightly crowded in the corner, feet bumping the exposed gas line. On the table sat a plastic trash bin and a packet of tissues. Next to me was a cooler stocked with TsingTao beer, ready to take.
My mother, upon hearing I was traveling to Chongqing, told me of a friend who drank Chongqing hot pot and was sent to the emergency room because the spice had burned a hole through their stomach. I’d thought this was an exaggeration—until a hairdresser in Beijing reacted the same way when I mentioned my plans. With her warning ringing in my ears, we started the meal with a round of beers. My body buzzed in anticipation.
With a couple beers to soothe the nerves, the table soon overflowed with dishes of raw meat, fermented tofu, duck blood, and Chinese liquor. For such a small establishment, we were served like royalty: the raw beef was thinly sliced and arranged on a shiny gold plate, propped up like a museum piece.
The real star of the meal was the giant pot of broth brought out to dip the raw ingredients. Split in half, one side offered a savory tomato soup—the safe option. The other side was a Sichuan soup of the darkest red: the infamous hot pot we had traveled across the world for. Sprinkled with chilis and a block of fat and spices, I knew a sip could end me.
Once the soups were boiling, we dropped in the meats. Upon the first bite, there was a unanimous moan of approval from the table. The hot pot was addictive—the broth deep in flavor, soaking each bite of meat and tofu with aromatic spice.
One hour turned into two, and by the end our table was piled high with empty plates and beer bottles, laughter ringing out, faces aglow from the spice or the beer. Never judge a Chinese restaurant by its exterior; it’s usually the ones that look like they’ve never been renovated since opening that serve the most life-changing food.
A Real-Life Spirited Away House
With bellies full and spirits high, the night was far from over. Squeezing into our DiDi—the Chinese version of Uber—we were whisked away to Hongya Cave. Less an actual cave and more an eleven-story labyrinth of stores, restaurants, and vendors built into the side of a mountain, it feels like something out of a fantasy.
Beginning on the top floor, we wound our way down, through doors and down stairs, passing countless restaurants and stores. There was no rhyme or reason to our path, simply following instinct, each step hopefully bringing us closer to the building’s bottom story. The aroma of delicious food wafted from various traditional stands, making me feel like Chihiro from Spirited Away.
Finally reaching the bottom, we burst into the open air: the night sky above, the Jialing River stretched in front of us like a sparkling ribbon, a thousand city lights reflected upon it. Despite the late hour, lanterns overhead shone so brightly they made the area glow brighter than day. Wandering past food vendors, I half expected to see Chihiro’s pig-transformed parents eating at a skewer stall. Instead, patrons belted songs at open-mic karaoke, couples posed for Hanfu (traditional clothing) photoshoots, and crowds filled the various stores. The glowing lights of Hongya Cave made for a fantastical backdrop—it truly felt like being transported into a Ghibli film.
Goodbye Is Not Goodnight
Once I hit sensory overload, we headed for the subway station, only to find it was closed. Despite the city’s confusing layout, I was convinced this was the right place, according to the map.
Finding an officer, I pointed and asked, “Is this the subway?”
“It’s closed.”
“But it’s only 11 p.m.!”
Well, the city may stay up late, but the public transit system doesn’t wait up for partygoers. There was only one thing to do. Turning away from the direction of the hotel, we wandered through street after street of merchants and vendors, soaking in the sights and sounds of a city where 32 million people never seem to sleep. I could rest once the trip was over, but for now, there was no better time to get lost in the lights of Chongqing.