One can spend a lot of time in Beijing without any sort of cultural adventure. I’ve managed to live in the city for three years, to write four guidebooks and still avoid any immersion into the culture. However, after passing by near infinite games of xiangqi without knowing what the hell was going on, I set out to learn how to play Chinese chess.

The Hutong School has offered a host of cultural classes since 2005, but somehow I, a philistine of a community columnist, had been unaware of its existence. The courtyard has all of the accoutrement a hutong fetishist could possibly desire—right down to the host of old Chinese men shuffling between rooms with their slippers, fans and stretched out wife-beaters.

The lesson began with an explanation of the pieces. Like Western chess, there are the king (called jiang or shuai) the pawns (bing or zu), the knights (ma), and the rooks (ju). Other pieces somewhat resembled bishops, but are used only for defense. Finally, there are the cannons (pao), which move like rooks.

My partner never learned how to play chess in the West, and all comparisons were lost on her. When I relieved her of a ma, a ju, and her pair of pao, the teacher reprimanded me. “It is considered good sportsmanship to inform your opponent if you are going to take their important pieces.”

“Any advice for me?” my opponent asked. “Know when it is time to admit a loss with dignity,” I replied.

The beginning of the second game went so well I began to wonder if I was actually good. I imagined myself as a kind of idiot-savant xiangqi Bobby Fischer. This surge in confidence came crashing down when one of the wife-beatered men began advising my heavily out-numbered adversary. “Jiangjun,” he said, after two moves. I looked to the instructor for a translation.

“Checkmate.”

By Jonathan Haagen