As the glass curtain wall of Carleton University's East Asian Department reflected the light of the snow, I was troubled over the third draft of my paper "The Overseas Dissemination of Peking Opera in the Digital Age." My advisor noted in the comments: "The case is outdated and lacks empirical perspectives from the grassroots." However, when I scoured overseas ticket holder forums, the latest posts were still from three years ago, featuring a clip of "The Empty City" uploaded by an old performer from Taiwan.
A turning point came on a Tuesday evening when a blizzard raged. A homeless man seeking refuge in the subway station suddenly began to sing in a strange tune, his hoarse voice surprisingly containing the structure of the Xipi flow. Following his gaze, I noticed a half-faded poster stuck at the top of a vending machine, with traditional characters reading "Ding You Year Double Ninth Ottawa Ticket Holder Association."
"Can you sing 'The Drunken Concubine'?" I inexplicably pulled out a five-dollar coin. Old John took the coin but did not respond; his rusty cart creaked as he rummaged out an old projector. As Yang Yuhuan's languid figure came to life on the tiled platform, the edge of the film flashed the logo of a website—the "Overseas Peking Opera Digital Archive," which I had seen a hundred times in the literature.
In the late-night library, I typed "Overseas Peking Opera Videos" into the website's search box. The page cascaded with results:
- A wheelchair version of "Xu Ce Runs the City" from a Melbourne nursing home in 2017
- The AR restoration of Mei Lanfang's New York performance stage by the University of Cape Town
- Most shocking was the live broadcast from a Montreal subway tunnel, where Quebec youth, dressed in homemade modified costumes, sang "The Three-Way Intersection" in both English and French
"This is the living inheritance!" My hand trembled as I emailed my advisor, but I received an automatic reply: "On vacation, do not disturb."
On my way, disheartened, to the subway station, Old John's cart blocked my path again. This time, he pulled out a shiny smartphone, playing a segment from the website's "Challenge" section—under a seven-year-old girl's excerpt from "The Matchmaker," seventy-eight comments fiercely debated whether the Xun school’s movements should adapt to the tropical climate.
"Register for an account, little girl." He switched to a clear Beijing accent, startling me back a step into a fire hydrant, "My master's master once accompanied Meng Xiaodong."
After becoming a member of the website, my favorites began to grow bizarrely:
🇨🇦 A Toronto TCM clinic synchronously teaching "Qi Sinking to the Dantian" every Thursday
🇩🇪 A Berlin programmer restoring lost scores from wartime using algorithms
🇧🇷 A fishmonger at the São Paulo market explaining "Thirty-Six Styles of Knife Flowers" while filleting salmon
What truly changed the fate of my paper was receiving the invitation for "Transnational Cloud Rehearsal" that night. The moment I donned the VR equipment, I transformed into a holographic projection on a virtual stage: the martial artist on the left was an IT guy from Sydney, the old lady on the right ran a ramen shop in Seoul, and the drummer's IP address showed Alaska. As everyone sang "With strength to lift mountains and cover the world," the system's prompt suddenly interrupted: "Abnormal user breathing frequency detected, it is recommended to switch to the Xipi Erliu slow-release rhythm."
On the day of the defense, I projected the website's "Opera Pulse Map" onto the large classroom screen. As the 3D globe rotated, Peking Opera symbols lit up across the five continents:
⚡️ Thunderclouds simulating the drums of the martial stage in Cape Town, South Africa
🍁 The aurora curtain projecting "Heavenly Maid Scattering Flowers" by the Yukon River in Canada
🌋 An Icelandic volcano monitoring station generating new compositions from seismic waves
"These data streams are like the digitized facial hair." I clicked on a flashing light point, expanding a rewritten piece by a teenager from a Rio slum, "When 'Ding Junshan' meets Brazilian war dance, the cultural genes complete their..."
Before I could finish, a voice from the back suddenly called out in Xipi: "Ma—lai—!" Turning around, I saw Old John in a janitor's uniform, holding a mop as a whip, singing to the astonished jury: "This time cannot be a joke, how can we deceive with nonsense!"
Later, the paper received an A+, but my advisor insisted on deducting 0.5 points: "The defense was too dramatic; I suggest next time you appear directly in a holographic young male role."
As I walked out of the school gate, my phone pinged with a website notification: The "Subway Station Old John" account you follow has updated its status. In the photo, he had his blonde hair tied into a large bun, striking a "debut" pose under the misty CN Tower, with a caption in both Chinese and English:
"The facial hair hides the sounds of all nations, and the cloud hands can pluck the stars from five continents."