In 1997, UNESCO declared the old city of Lijiang a World Heritage Site. Since then, business owners and town planners have conformed to strict guidelines concerning restoration and new construction in the designated zone. The upgraded status has also brought hordes of domestic tourists. Whenever I ventured along the central streets of the old city, I ran into gaggles of camera-trussed Chinese. They bobbed behind the raised flags of tour guides on their way to the next designated photo site, just like at popular attractions all over Beijing and Shanghai.

I was almost invariably the only foreigner, a curiosity. One afternoon a visiting group of Chinese students asked if they could take my picture, and then all 10 of them ran up to pose with me. It seems inevitable that outsiders will find their way to Lijiang before long. There are more and more English-speaking guides, and restaurant proprietors are starting to learn the language, along with a sprinkling of French. Which isn't to say it's easy to communicate. I know a bit of Mandarin, but the local accent barely corresponds to anything spoken in Beijing. And when I occasionally tried basic English words, such as "food" or "taxi," they drew blank stares time and again.

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With one turn off the main drag, I'd leave the Chinese tourists behind and catch little glimpses of everyday life: a family playing cards by the teakettle, an old woman and her dog fetching water in a leather bucket, young girls laughing and doing their laundry by a well, a woman carrying a large wicker backpack of vegetables into a market and walking out with a small plastic bag of meat. On several occasions, as I admired a traditional home's elaborate entryway, I was invited in. I would praise the courtyard's circular-stone floors and be offered a cup of tea as well as a seat in front of the television.

One day, I rested at the end of a rock-strewn path, where a door displayed the faded red posters and lanterns of the Chinese New Year. An empty can of "natural coconut juice" nailed to the wall held half-burnt sticks of incense. In small patches by the canal's edge, someone had planted lettuce and what looked like mint and chives. From across the water came the barking of a dog, and upstream a man washed his vegetables. He dropped the shucks into the water, and I watched them zip downstream until the last sped away.

Most afternoons, I sat at my favorite café, Piao Yi, which has no sign outside. The owners have strung up strands of hanging bells that jingle merrily as patrons walk to their tables. I ordered the Yunnan coffee, percolated in the French style in portions big enough for four, and watched the tourists pose for photographs in front of the Mu Palace gates, across the way.

I also attended a performance of the Naxi Orchestra, conducted by 76-year-old Xuan Ke. Even before the Cultural Revolution, when China descended into chaos--youth groups were sicced on intellectuals, Taoist and Buddhist frescoes painted centuries before were defaced, and temples in the hills around Lijiang were sacked--Xuan was arrested for his Western leanings. He spent 21 years in a labor camp, and returned to Lijiang in 1978. "There was no classical Chinese music," he told me. "But it had been there when I was young." By 1981, Xuan began to seek out the old musicians; it was safe to perform again. Lijiang became one of the few places in China where ancient music was being played on ancient instruments. The city's remoteness had served it again.

Xuan, who has the cheek muscles of a trumpet player, is famous for his loquaciousness, and he lengthily introduced every piece. I couldn't understand many of his words, but enjoyed the rhythms of his storytelling, and the audience regularly broke into laughter. The musicians were happier when they were playing: The few young members shifted in impatience as Xuan carried on, and their older colleagues appeared to fall asleep.

The night's music kicked off with a gong, the first note of a piece written in A.D. 741 for the dedication of a Taoist monastery. It began as a cacophony, all bells and drums, but as the flutes and strings swung in, it shifted into harmony. In addition to Han and Naxi orchestral pieces, the night's repertoire included an a cappella song called "Swine Herder," bits of which sounded like the squeals of a lost piglet.

My favorite song was one that had been handed down in one family for 12 generations. "Local music, not outsiders'," said Xuan. A flute solo had a full sound you wouldn't expect from a bamboo instrument, especially with acoustics created by I-beam pillars and a fiberglass roof. When the flute finally broke from the soloist's lips, the hall was quiet. Rain pattered on the rooftop like distant applause. And then the real clapping broke out in full force. After the concert, people lined up for Xuan's autograph.

On my last day in Lijiang, I asked the hotel's manager to write the name of a destination in Chinese characters so I could hand it to a taxi driver for a journey out of town. We left the tourists behind and drove past an American-style gated community, but one in which all the homes had traditional Naxi roofs. The narrow road ran through fields and orchards, and the driver dropped me off at Yuhu, a village of rough stone and mud mortar. The sky drizzled lightly, and I walked up a cobblestone path, taking in deep breaths. The air smelled of grass and horses.

I had come to see the house of Joseph Rock, a botanist, explorer, and author who lived in the area periodically from 1922 to 1949 and wrote long histories of the Naxi people. The caretaker unlocked the door and stepped inside to flip a switch, the kind one pictures being used for electric chairs. The small museum's exhibits included a dusty reconstruction of Rock's room from a photo he had posed for, including his bed, a small rug, and a Naxi prayer circle hanging on the wall. Downstairs, glass cases displayed Rock's rifle, saddle, and camera case, as well as local wares that he had collected: a lute, a suit of Chinese armor, Naxi fortune-telling cards.

Afterward, I waited out the rain on Rock's porch. Keeping me company were three old men drinking hard liquor from tall glasses. From over the wall came the sounds of cowbells and the shouts of children.