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“So what’s in Dali?” Jack inquired as we took off.

“No idea, really. But it’s near the Burmese border. So I figure it’s bound to be different.”

I liked the sound of that—near the Burmese border. Surely, Dali would be exotic, intriguing, possibly even dangerous.

“Also,” I remembered, “most of the inhabitants there are not Han Chinese.”

Jack nodded. “And who are the Han Chinese?”

“Ninety-two percent of all people in China are Han Chinese. They’re the Chinese Chinese. But the people living in Dali, while technically Chinese, are called Bai, one of the fifty-six minorities Kenny was talking about.”

“Hey, wait a minute. You’re not taking me to some separatist region, are you? This isn’t going to be like Bosnia, is it?”

“Who can say for sure? But if there’s trouble, we’ll just cowboy-up and deal with it.”

Of course Yunnan wasn’t going to be like Bosnia. But I couldn’t help myself. I was traveling with someone who knew even less about China than I did. Still, I had absolutely no idea what to expect, which was why I was so immensely pleased when we found ourselves at the airport in Dali, surrounded by rolling hills awash in that strangest of things: sunshine.

“Am I mistaken or is the sky actually blue here?” Jack asked.

It was. Stepping outside, our senses were flooded with clean air, blue skies, and golden sunlight. Never had I been so grateful to be in the presence of the great bright orb in the sky. Here it was at last, along with sweet, undulating hills and villages that—from the air, at least—seemed to be more than large piles of rubble surrounded by toxic ponds. We had finally found bucolic China.

We checked into our guesthouse, which was done in the Tibetan motif with thick wooden beams and carpeted doorways. There were a number of Tibetans in Yunnan, including the owner of this particular guesthouse. We deposited our bags and walked toward the old city walls, past portentous signs that read THE THOUSAND YEAR VALUE OF HONG-LONGJING STREET WILL CONTINUE AND LEAP IN THE CONSTRUCTION THINKING. What is this? I thought. This was not encouraging. I had not come to Dali to experience CONSTRUCTION THINKING. I was looking to escape from that China. And then, once we’d walked through the city’s imposing East Gate, it soon became clear that we were not alone in our pursuit of escapist bliss.

Dali is tucked between Erhai Hu, a lake in the style of Tahoe, and the Jade Green Mountains, which are, in fact, green. Indeed, parts of them are even spray-painted green—the solution to the aesthetic problems posed by mining. Old-town Dali is small, with narrow streets bustling with people in traditional Bai dress, blues and pinks and soft knit hats, sitting on the ground selling walnuts. Outside the old walls is an ever-expanding Chinese city, but inside it feels like a village.

We walked around, absorbing atmosphere. From a window, we heard a child practicing her English “A, B, xie.” On the street curbs, there were many Bai in their colorful garb, selling things, laughing. And there were many Chinese tourists too, some stopping to stare and gape not at the locals, but at us, the foreigners. We had come to Dali to look at the Bai. They had come to look at us looking at the Bai.

A sign pointed us toward the Catholic church. This pleased Jack, who gets a little shaky without his weekly mass. We followed an alleyway until we found ourselves in front of what appeared to be a stone pagoda on steroids. It looked nothing like any church I’d seen. It looked, strangely, like a boat in heavy seas, with flaming eaves parting like turbulent waves. We went inside and met a friendly woman named Irene. Jack inquired about mass and learned that they’d have one at 6 A.M. the following day, and we promised to attend.

“There’s always someone named Irene in a Catholic church,” Jack observed as we walked down cobbled streets toward Huguo Lu, which locals call the Street of Foreigners. Feeling hungry, we stopped and settled ourselves to eat at an appealing spot called The Yunnan Café.

“I’m having