Home / Travel Blog / Blog Details
The moment you step into Xi’an, the ancient capital of thirteen dynasties, you are immediately struck by the contrast between its roaring modernity and its deep, almost tangible history. The city is famous for the Terracotta Warriors, the ancient City Wall, and the bustling Muslim Quarter. But for me, the real magic of Xi’an lies in its quiet corners—the monasteries. These sacred spaces, tucked away from the clamor of traffic and the crowds of tourists, offer a profound sense of serenity that is increasingly rare in our hyper-connected world.
My journey began not in a monastery, but in a coffee shop near the South Gate of the City Wall. I was scrolling through my phone, feeling the familiar anxiety of a traveler trying to optimize every second of their trip. A notification popped up: a new travel trend on Xiaohongshu, the Chinese Instagram-like platform, was promoting “Monastery Meditation Retreats” in Xi’an. Photos of monks in saffron robes, incense smoke curling into the sky, and quiet courtyards filled with lotus flowers flooded my feed.
This wasn't just a trend; it was a reaction. In a world obsessed with "quiet quitting" and "digital detox," the ancient practice of seeking peace within temple walls had become the ultimate luxury travel experience. I decided to abandon my rigid itinerary and follow this path. I wanted to find the serenity that everyone was talking about, not through a screen, but in the stone corridors and under the ancient pines of Xi’an’s most revered monasteries.
My first stop was the most famous: the Great Ci'en Temple, home to the iconic Big Wild Goose Pagoda. This is not a hidden gem; it is a landmark. Tour buses line up outside, and the air is thick with the chatter of school groups and the click of selfie sticks. Yet, even here, serenity finds a way.
I paid my entrance fee and walked past the main hall, where a massive golden Buddha sat in eternal meditation. The real draw, however, was the pagoda itself. Built in 652 AD during the Tang Dynasty, the seven-story structure was originally built to house Buddhist scriptures brought from India by the monk Xuanzang. The climb is steep, the stairs narrow and worn smooth by a millennium of feet.
As I ascended, the noise of the city began to fade. With each floor, the view expanded, but the sounds grew distant. At the top, a cool wind swept across the observation deck. Below me, Xi’an sprawled out like a living map—the grid of streets, the green ribbon of the City Wall, the modern skyscrapers piercing the hazy sky. I stood there, next to a young woman who had her eyes closed, her hands pressed together in prayer. She was a digital nomad from California, she told me later, who had come to Xi’an specifically to “unplug.”
“I spent three hours just sitting at the top,” she said. “I didn’t look at my phone once. The only thing I heard was the wind and the bells on the pagoda corners.”
That is the first lesson of Xi’an’s monasteries: they are not just buildings; they are anchors. They hold the city to its history, offering a fixed point in a world that is constantly changing.
If the Great Ci’en Temple is the grand, public face of Buddhism in Xi’an, then the Wolong Temple (Crouching Dragon Temple) is its quiet, introverted heart. Tucked away on a narrow hutong near the City Wall, this temple is easy to miss. There is no grand ticket booth, no crowd of vendors selling trinkets. Just a simple red gate, worn and faded, opening onto a world of silence.
I arrived in the late afternoon. The sun was low, casting long shadows across the stone courtyard. An elderly monk was sweeping the fallen leaves with a bamboo broom. He didn’t look up. The sound of the bristles on the stone was the only noise. This is the kind of place that doesn’t appear on the “Top 10 Things to Do” lists. It is a living monastery, not a museum.
I sat on a stone bench under an ancient ginkgo tree. The tree was massive, its trunk covered in rough bark, its leaves a brilliant yellow. A small sign nearby explained that the tree was over 1,300 years old. It had been here since the Tang Dynasty. It had seen emperors come and go, wars fought and lost, dynasties rise and fall. And it was still here, dropping its leaves, season after season.
A young Chinese couple walked in, hand in hand. They were not tourists. They lit incense, bowed three times before the main hall, and then sat in silence for a long time. They were not speaking to each other. They were just... being.
This is the new trend in travel: the "slow travel" movement. It’s not about checking boxes. It’s about feeling a place. At Wolong Temple, you don’t feel like a tourist. You feel like a guest. The monks go about their daily routine—chanting, cleaning, meditating. They don’t perform for you. You are simply allowed to witness their life.
Xi’an is not only a Buddhist city. The influence of Taoism, China’s native philosophy, is equally strong. The Temple of the Eight Immortals (Baxian An) is the largest Taoist temple in Xi’an, and it offers a completely different flavor of serenity.
Taoist temples feel different. They are less austere than Buddhist ones. The colors are brighter, the decorations more whimsical. There are statues of the Eight Immortals, each with a distinct personality and a story. The air smells of sandalwood and something sweet, like osmanthus.
I noticed a group of young people, mostly in their twenties, gathered around a small booth. A Taoist priest was offering “fortune sticks” (qiu qian). You shake a container of bamboo sticks until one falls out. The priest then interprets the stick’s number, giving you a poem that reveals your fortune.
One of the young people, a software engineer from Shenzhen named Li Wei, told me he does this every time he visits Xi’an. “It’s like a mental health check,” he said, laughing. “The algorithm of life is too complicated. Sometimes you need a different kind of logic to understand it.”
The Temple of the Eight Immortals is also famous for its vegetarian restaurant. In recent years, “temple cuisine” has become a hot topic on food blogs. It’s not just about eating vegetables; it’s about mindful eating. The food is simple—tofu, mushrooms, seasonal greens—but prepared with incredible care. There is no garlic, no onion, no meat. The goal is to calm the mind, not excite the palate. I ordered the “Luohan Zhai” (Buddha’s Delight), a stew of gluten, bamboo shoots, and wood ear mushrooms. It was humble, earthy, and deeply satisfying.
Why are so many young people, especially from the West and from China’s bustling first-tier cities, flocking to these monasteries? The answer is simple: burnout.
In China, the term “healing economy” (liaoyu jingji) has become a buzzword. It covers everything from spa retreats to forest bathing to, yes, temple stays. A report from a major Chinese travel platform last year showed that bookings for monastery stays and meditation retreats had increased by over 300% compared to the previous year.
These are not religious conversions. They are a form of mental hygiene. In a society that glorifies “996” work schedules (9 AM to 9 PM, six days a week), the idea of sitting in a quiet courtyard for three hours doing nothing is radical. It is a form of rebellion.
I spoke to a blogger named Sarah, who runs a popular travel account called “The Wandering Monk.” She had just finished a 7-day silent retreat at a monastery in the Zhongnan Mountains, just south of Xi’an. “It was harder than any marathon I’ve ever run,” she told me. “The first two days, I thought I would go crazy. My brain was screaming for stimulation. But by day four, I started to hear the silence. It wasn’t empty. It was full. Full of the sound of my own breath, the rustle of the wind, the distant chant of the monks. I realized that my entire life, I had been running away from this silence. Now, I was running towards it.”
If you want to avoid the crowds entirely, head to the Guangren Temple, located in the northwestern part of the city. This is a Tibetan Buddhist temple, and it feels like a little piece of Lhasa dropped into the middle of Xi’an.
The architecture is different here. The roofs are not the sweeping curves of Han Chinese temples, but the flat, multi-layered structures of Tibetan monasteries. The prayer wheels line the corridor, and the walls are painted with vivid murals of the Buddha’s life. The monks here wear maroon robes, and some of them are from Tibet, speaking a language that sounds like a song.
I arrived during a prayer ceremony. The deep, guttural sound of the monks chanting, accompanied by the clang of cymbals and the deep boom of a long horn, was overwhelming. It was not peaceful in the way a Zen garden is peaceful. It was powerful, primal, and moving.
A group of young backpackers from Europe was sitting on the floor, their eyes closed, trying to meditate. One of them, a German student named Lukas, told me he had been traveling through China for three months. “I’ve seen the skyscrapers of Shanghai and the neon lights of Chengdu,” he said. “But this is the first place where I felt like I could breathe. The noise of the city is so aggressive. Here, the noise is intentional. It has meaning.”
If you are planning your own tour of Xi’an’s monasteries, here are a few things to keep in mind, based on my experience and the latest travel trends.
The most serene time to visit any temple is early morning, just after they open (usually around 8:00 AM). The air is still cool, the incense is fresh, and the crowds are thin. Alternatively, visit late in the afternoon, about an hour before closing. The light is golden, and the atmosphere is contemplative.
This cannot be overstated: dress respectfully. Cover your shoulders and knees. Remove your shoes when entering a prayer hall. Do not point your feet at a Buddha statue. Do not take photos of monks without asking. These are not theme parks; they are places of worship.
Try this: leave your phone in your bag for the entire duration of your visit. No photos. No check-ins. Just you and the temple. You will be amazed at how much more you notice. The grain of the wood. The pattern of the incense smoke. The sound of your own footsteps.
Don’t miss the temple vegetarian restaurants. They are often located within the temple grounds or just outside the gate. The food is not just food; it is a form of practice. Eat slowly. Taste every bite. You will leave feeling lighter, both in body and mind.
As I walked back to my hotel, the sun was setting over the City Wall. The sky was a gradient of orange and purple. I passed a group of young people doing a “night tour” of the wall on rented bicycles, their laughter echoing in the dusk. They were having fun, but it was a different kind of fun.
The future of travel, I believe, will be less about “seeing” and more about “being.” The pandemic taught us that we can live without constant movement. What we cannot live without is meaning. The monasteries of Xi’an offer that meaning. They are not just relics of the past; they are blueprints for a more peaceful future.
I returned to the Great Ci’en Temple one last time, just as the lights came on. The pagoda was illuminated against the dark sky, a beacon of history in a sea of modernity. A young couple was taking a selfie in front of it, their faces lit by the glow of their phone screen. They were smiling. But I wondered if they had climbed to the top. I wondered if they had felt the wind and heard the bells.
Perhaps next time. Or perhaps they will discover another temple, a quieter one, and find their own version of serenity.
In a world that is always shouting, the monasteries of Xi’an are a gentle whisper. And sometimes, that whisper is all we need to hear.
Copyright Statement:
Author: Xian Travel
Link: https://xiantravel.github.io/travel-blog/discovering-serenity-a-tour-of-xians-monasteries.htm
Source: Xian Travel
The copyright of this article belongs to the author. Reproduction is not allowed without permission.