When the old neighbour on the first floor plays his Chinese violin, the Erhu, I just stop dead in the apartment and listen.

Sad, beautiful tunes are echoing between the walls, and all of our otherwise noisy neighbours seem to quiet down. Some open their windows to let this ancient music in together with the whiffs of smog from afternoon traffic.

The music is melancholy and crystal clear, carrying into every corner of the hutongs, bringing pictures of rice paddies and sugar top mountains in the midst of the heaps of garbage on the streets around our house.

 Sometimes the Erhu man leaves his front door open so you can peek inside as he plays. He sits in his living room with his back towards the door, head slightly bent and his arm slowly swaying as he slides the bow over the strings, making the Erhu sing. The TV is perpetually left on in front of him but the volume is turned down, his profile against the flickering screen as he plays accompanied by a low buzz of Chinese talk shows, news and soaps.

Something about the sound strikes a sentimental note in me.  The sliding notes improvising up and down sounds like a small child humming, not caring if it’s making up a happy or a sad melody, not caring if the song will be remembered of not.

Having dinner outside in the street at one of the local joints is one of the most relaxing things to do on a warm, May Beijing evening, then again you have to be prepared that the local police just might join, and spoil, the party. Balancing on little folding chairs we were just getting started on a mouthwatering menu of Xinjiang noodles, grilled lamb, nan-bread and beer, all gathered around a camping-style folding table that could barely fit all the plates.

The soft evening air was full of scents from the surrounding tables, the grill, the blossoming trees and every now and then, the inevitable smell from the public toilet. A small boy in his Superman pajamas was watching us, leaning against the entrance of one of the courtyards houses, absentmindedly brushing his teeth.

Then Justice arrived in a white minibus, complete with flashing blue lights, and parked with a squeak in-between our table and another. Out jumped the local representative of law and order, complete with thick glasses, well pressed shirt and a bad mood. After some arm-waiving and discussion, there was nothing to do but to grab your glass of beer and move inside, ten feet from where we were sitting on the pavement. Quickly all the waiters lifted our tables inside, with a bored how-many-times-do-we-have-to-go-through-this expression on their faces.  Five minutes later the entire restaurant had changed setting, like a quick change of scenes in a play.

From our new seats we could watch Mr. Law and Order strut about in the street another minute or so, before disappearing into his minibus and leaving. He will come back in a week or so, playing the same tiresome play, shooing a herd of illegal outdoor eateries and guests back inside where they belong.