In Dali, the must-experience Moonlight Through Pines · Erhai Hotel offers breathtaking views

## Moonlight Through Pines: A Heterotopia by Erhai Lake I've always believed hotels to be merely temporary shelters during travels—just a bed for the night. Yet Moonlight Through Pines · Erhai Hotel in Dali, with its almost stubbornly unconventional approach, completely overturned my shallow assumption. When I first arrived, dusk was falling. The hotel is hidden in Wase Town on Erhai Lake's eastern shore, far from the ancient city's bustle. Its Bai-style residential facade was so understated that I might have missed the inconspicuous entrance had my navigation not insisted. Pushing the door open, I suddenly stepped into another dimension—a soaring lobby in muted grays and whites with minimalist lines, where floor-to-ceiling windows framed Erhai Lake shimmering in twilight. The reception desk wasn't called a reception desk but "Moonlight Terrace"; the staff weren't staff but "Pine Grove Attendants." Such naming already revealed this place's refusal to conform. The room names were equally peculiar—mine was called "Sea Mirror." Upon entering, floor-to-ceiling windows framed Erhai Lake as a living painting, its glittering waves lapping right up to the bed. All furniture was custom-made, blending rustic wood tones with cool metallic accents. The most magical feature was the balcony—barely two square meters yet daringly cantilevered over the lake. Sitting on this tiny perch watching clouds roll by, I felt the illusion of "floating freely through vast emptiness." Waking at midnight, I found moonlight pouring into the room—truly "moonlight shining through pines." Barefoot on cool floors, I opened the glass door to the balcony. Erhai Lake had transformed into a silver foil under the moon, dotted with distant fishing lights, blurring the line between reality and dream. The balcony's precarious design felt perpetually on the verge of plunging into the lake, yet it firmly cradled my reverie. The designer, I thought, must understand the allure of "dangerous temptation." At breakfast, I discovered there was no fixed menu. The attendant—ah, "Pine Grove Attendant"—gently inquired about preferences and soon presented a bowl of Yunnan wild mushroom congee with freshly baked flower cakes. All ingredients were locally sourced yet crafted into extraordinary flavors. A book titled "Ancient Dali Culinary Studies" in the dining area revealed the flower cakes' recipe evolved from Nanzhao Kingdom's royal desserts. Exploring the hotel by day, I found thoughtful details everywhere. The tearoom, set at a corner requiring one to stoop, embodied "only by bowing can one taste tea's truth"; the library held no bestsellers but only Yunnan local chronicles and Bai culture studies; even the spa's aromas used only herbs from Cangshan Mountain. Most extraordinary was the basement "Erhai Gallery"—a submerged glass wall where swimming fish cast dancing light, creating an underwater crystal palace. At night, the hotel grew even more unconventional. Instead of a bar, there was the rooftop "Star Plucking Platform," serving only Yunnan ancient tree tea and house-made plum wine. The butler—called "Moonlight Steward"—would narrate Bai folkloric stories about visible constellations. That night happened to be the lunar 16th, the moon astonishingly large, its reflection doubling in Erhai Lake. The steward suddenly produced a xiao flute, playing Bai melodies that melted into moonlight, inexplicably bringing tears. While tourists flocked to Shuanglang and Xizhou, here remained profoundly quiet. The hotel deliberately provided no TVs and spotty WiFi—initially frustrating but gradually revealing its virtue. Modern people are too accustomed to information feeds; occasional fasting sharpens the senses. In my "Sea Mirror" room, I finished a long-neglected book, wrote several diary pages, even painted a clumsy watercolor—my last attempt at painting likely twenty years prior. On departure morning, mist rose over Erhai Lake. The hotel flickered in and out like a mirage. Suddenly I understood the designer's intent: the architecture itself was a vast blank space for guests' imaginations. It pleases not all but awaits travelers who resonate with it. Looking back at the mist-veiled building, I recalled Borges: "I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library." For me, perhaps Paradise is just this—by Erhai Lake, between pines and moon, a heterotopia where time stands still.