Nanjing

Every spring, when winter finally grows tired of holding Beijing hostage, Plum Blossom Hill in Xuanwu becomes downright irrepressible, bursting into a frothy, fragrant tantrum worthy of any poetically inclined emperor or Instagram influencer. The Plum Blossom Festival, with its sea of pink-and-white petals draping the hillside, has been seducing folks since the Ming Dynasty-though rumor has it emperors never quite perfected their blossom selfies. Be warned: arriving after brunch on a weekend guarantees you'll be elbow-to-selfie-stick with half of Beijing; instead, roll out of bed early on a weekday and stroll in just as the mist clears, armed with a hot thermos of tea (or, let's face it, coffee), sturdy walking shoes, and about 50 RMB pocket change for snacks and street food-hot plum syrup tea, anyone? Plan at least a week or two ahead, as plum blossoms bloom for just a fickle couple of weeks in late February or early March, depending on Mother Nature's mood. Sure, it's crowded and fleeting, and might verge on twee-but trust me, wandering Plum Hill amidst clouds of blossoms, contemplating ancient poets who composed entire careers out of melancholy and blossoms, is exactly the kind of oddly introspective yet ridiculously photogenic experience you'll regale friends with for ages.

If your idea of meditation usually involves closing your eyes in the cereal aisle and counting backwards from ten, then Linggu Temple Forest in Xuanwu is about to upgrade your enlightenment game considerably. Hidden beneath a lush canopy of ancient trees and whispering bamboo stands, this centuries-old temple complex was once the Buddhist heart of Ming Dynasty Nanjing-meaning just wandering these paths already makes you historically superior to 97% of Instagram spiritual gurus. Arrive early-around 7 a.m.-to experience the smoky incense haze mingling with morning mist, when monks shuffle silently past pagodas, and serenity hasn't yet been bulldozed by selfie sticks. Plan at least a day ahead, and budget about 30-50 yuan for entry and a steaming cup of green tea from the tiny stall near the east gate-after all, enlightenment is easier if you're caffeinated. Bring comfortable shoes and mosquito repellent; nothing tests inner peace quite like frantic scratching in lotus pose. Even if your meditation session is mostly spent realizing you haven't checked your phone in twenty whole minutes, there's genuine magic in losing yourself amid centuries-old stone carvings and whispering leaves-plus you'll leave with one hell of a story about that time you almost achieved Nirvana in a Chinese forest.

Stripping down to soak in Tangshan's bubbling baths might sound like joining a mildly eccentric cult-minus all the chanting-but trust me, it's worth shedding your skepticism (and clothes) for. Nestled in Jiangning's gentle hills, these legendary hot springs were reportedly good enough for emperors and literati of the Ming Dynasty, meaning your weary bones will likely feel aristocratic by the time you're done. Go in the early evening, when the mist rises ethereally from thermal pools lit delicately by lanterns-avoiding midday crowds, selfie sticks, and awkward sunburned tourists. Book your visit a few days ahead if you prefer peace over the panic of last-minute plans, and budget roughly ¥200-¥300 RMB for entry plus all the bells and whistles-robe rental, herbal tea service, and possibly a snack that tastes suspiciously like luxury. Bring a swimsuit (unless you're feeling particularly confident-or reckless), a towel, and flip-flops for shuffling stylishly between pools. Therapeutic properties aside-if soaking in steaming water infused with a sprinkling of mysticism doesn't cure your existential dread, what will?-the experience alone is worth the price of admission. At the very least, you'll come home glowing, refreshed, and armed with a steamy, surreal tale to impress your jealous coworkers.