What could Qingdao, Richard Clayderman, and my childhood in the mountains of Armenia possibly have in common?

At first glance, nothing.

And yet, as I wandered along Qingdao's seaside promenade, the sound of a lone piano from the speakers drifting over the waves pulled me backward through time. In an instant, I was no longer by the sea, but a child again, curled up in a quiet mountain home where my mother's hands moved gently across the piano, Richard Clayderman's melodies lulling me into sleep. It's strange how one fleeting detail, a note of music spilling from the promenade speakers, can dissolve the years and carry you straight back to a place of innocence, where things felt simple, and life seemed easy.

Nestled into the bay and facing May Fourth Square, the Qingdao Marina was where I began my walk on the first misty evening of my visit. 

Qingdao is a city of history layered in red tiles and shaped by the sea, and it was the sea that greeted me first – vast, blue, its surface broken by the silhouettes of boats rocking gently at anchor. The masts rose like a forest of poles against the horizon, creaking lightly in the wind, while gulls wheeled and screamed overhead along the promenade. Families strolled in clusters, children darted between food stalls, and the air was rich with the smell of grilled squid and sweet bread mingling with salt spray. 

I slowed my pace deliberately, letting the rhythm of the city merge with the rhythm of the waves.

A little further on, I reached the Olympic Sailing Center and the Sailing Museum. Their wide plazas and crisp modern lines still carry the splendor of 2008, when Qingdao hosted the Olympic sailing events. Standing there, I could almost hear the echo of cheers carried across the water. Today the center feels alive in a different way: local sailing clubs rigging their boats, people posing for photos in front of the Olympic rings and a red dragon installation, the whole space buzzing with everyday life.

By chance, I had stumbled upon a festival-celebration. The square was crowded with stalls and displays, souvenirs laid out alongside memorabilia. Marines in pristine white uniforms marched in precise lines, while singers and dancers performed on a stage. I watched a sailor demonstrate on a fidgeting teenager how to wear an anti-gas mask. The boy shifted and squirmed, impatient to be done, but the sailor's patience never faltered – his voice steady, every motion careful. I found myself amused but also strangely moved by the discipline, the duty, and the warmth in that small, ordinary exchange.

As dusk settled deeper, I followed the tide of people into the Sailing Theater, tucked within the Sailing Center complex. That evening's performance was "Dreaming of the Sea," a sweeping epic projected on an enormous wrap-around screen. I sank into my seat, not knowing what to expect, and soon realized I was not a spectator so much as a passenger. Storms crashed around me, waves thundered through the hall, and boats seemed to leap across the screen with a force that shook the floor. Voices rose in chorus like wind against sails, carrying the story from ancient tribes who dreamed of horizons, to Xu Fu's legendary voyage to modern sailors battling both sea and self in their pursuit of survival. One sequence of a naval clash at full scale was so immersive I felt myself bracing as if I too were being caught into the swell.

When I stepped back outside, my eyes adjusting slowly to the night, the air seemed different – saltier, sharper. It rained while I was inside, leaving the ground peppered with shallow pools. The lights from the moored boats glittered with new intensity and beyond them, the skyscrapers along the bay had erupted into their nightly light show. Reds, blues and shifting waves of neon rippled across the high-rises, their reflections splintering in the puddles underfoot. The whole promenade felt suspended between worlds – half seaside town, half cyberpunk dream, as if Qingdao had quietly rewritten its skyline while I was watching the sea inside.

As I lingered there, watching the reflections ripple, I caught the faint sound of piano from the promenade again, a tune I knew too well.

And just like at the beginning of my walk, the notes carried me back – to Armenia, to my mother at the piano, to a child's half-sleeping wonder. It struck me then that Qingdao, with all its ships and sails, its festivals and history, was pulling me into a conversation between sea and memory, between sound and soul. The waves might belong to the city, but this music belonged to me. And in that brief convergence of sound and sea, I realized that travel is never just about places – it is about the unexpected ways the world reminds us of who we are and where we come from, while inviting us to fully savor the beauty of the moment we are in.

*This article is part of China, Soft Focus – a slow journalism series that offers textured, human-centered glimpses into everyday life across China through measured pace and intimate detail.