The taxi crosses the intersection of Jiankang Street and Dongfeng Street, and the light turns green before the driver even lifts his foot. Eight lanes stretch straight as a ruler toward the horizon, empty enough to land a cargo plane. On the median, a row of ginkgo trees drops yellow fans onto the asphalt. This is Weifang in late autumn: a grid so wide it swallows traffic, a wind that tastes of salt from Laizhou Bay, and kites already climbing above the rooftops before the festival season officially opens. Getting Oriented on the Grid Weifang sits in the center of the Shandong Peninsula, roughly halfway between Jinan’s springs and Qingdao’s piers. The city plan is a chessboard of boulevards spaced a kilometer apart, each flanked by service roads and bike lanes wide enough for a delivery truck. For a newcomer, the logic is a relief: addresses follow the grid, and “north of Beigong Road, east of Yuhe Road” actually means something. The downside is distance. What looks like a ten-minute walk on the map often turns into forty minutes because the blocks are massive and the pedestrian crossings are spaced for cars, not people. Grab a shared e-bike from a blue Meituan rack near any subway entrance; the deposit is a few yuan via Alipay, and the electric assist makes the long straightaways painless. Reading the Wind and the Calendar The wind here is not background noise. It shapes the day. In the third lunar month, when the peach blossoms open in People’s Park, the breeze steadies out of the northeast at force three or four — perfect for the big dragon kites that need lift but not chaos. By the fifth month, the humidity climbs and the wind turns fitful; kites stall, and the locals switch to smaller swallow shapes. Winter brings a dry, biting northeaster that cuts through a down jacket. If you arrive during the Qingming holiday, expect the skies above Binhai District to fill with hundreds of reels singing at once. If you come in the heat of the seventh month, the festival grounds are quiet, but the kite museum on Xinhua Road stays cool and empty, giving you the exhibition halls to yourself. Ordering the First Meal Without a Menu Picture Walk into a lunchtime canteen near the railway station. No English, no photos, just a steam table and a chalkboard. Point to the tray of braised pork belly — hongshao rou — where the fat has melted into glossy amber and the lean strips hold a faint star-anise perfume. Ask for a bowl of mianjin, the wheat-gluten pillows that soak up the sauce. Add a plate of cold smashed cucumber dressed with garlic, vinegar, and a splash of sesame oil; the crunch cuts the richness. Finish with a cornmeal steamed bun, dense and slightly sweet, to mop the bowl clean.