BEIJING — The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, or so they say. If the two points are the border cities of Blagoveschensk and Heihe, China, and the person navigating the distance is neither Russian nor Chinese, this is not really true.

With the lovely old buildings and weedy lots of Blagoveschensk behind me, the snazzy hotels and belching smokestacks of Heihe before me, I traced that straight line: down the Russian embankment, across the Amur River, and up the Chinese shore to, I imagined, a steaming bowl of noodles.

But a Sino-Russian agreement easing restrictions on travel between the two border cities applies only to Chinese and Russian nationals. As an American student studying in Blagoveschensk, I was unable to join the caravans of tourists and traders crossing the Amur.

Over the course of the spring, China came to me in bits and pieces. I ate Chinese cucumbers and tomatoes, dried myself with a Chinese towel and slept under a Chinese blanket. When I fiddled with my radio dial in search of a Russian radio wave or two, I often ended up with an earful of Chinese opera. I even breathed the Chinese smoke that blew across the border – the border I could not cross.

I was beginning to accept that China would never be closer than Heihe’s distant hotels, apartments and poplar-lined streets when my Russian visa expired. I decided to apply for a new visa at the Russian embassy in Beijing. But first, I needed a visa to China. I traveled to the Chinese consulate in Khabarovsk, left my documents, returned to Blagoveschensk to wait for 10 days, then headed back to Khabarovsk to pick up my visa. The logistics were loony: all that travel for a stamp to go to China… for a piece of paper allowing me back into Russia. But after months peering at China through binoculars, I was ready.

I arrived in Harbin, and immediately experienced Russia. Perhaps it was the hotel full of Russian shuttle traders whom I had traveled with from Khabarovsk. They spent their time scouring markets for the next wave of Russian Far Eastern fashion, while their tour leader tracked down requests from Khabarovsk’s new Russians for pet turtles, basketballs, diuretic tea for weight loss, and anti-balding cream.

Maybe it was Harbin’s architecture. Once the largest Russian settlement outside the former Soviet Union, Harbin boasts old-style Russian buildings with spires and columns, cupolas and scalloped turrets. A Russian Orthodox church presides over a central square, its patterned, red-brick body and green onion domes almost freakish in the Chinese setting.

The Chinese guide I hired for the day gave the church a cursory glance then turned to me. “There’s nothing interesting inside,” she said. “Let’s go shopping!”

Despite the Russian look of Harbin, the spirit is entrepreneurial Chinese. The row of fine old Russian buildings in the Daoliqu shopping district houses fancy boutiques. Stores are packed – and not just with goods and customers. Rows of mannequins line walls in scary numbers. Perhaps what appears a battalion to the Western eye is here considered a congenial crowd.

Decidedly uncongenial is what I expected crowds to be on the overnight train from Harbin to Beijing. Warned that hard-sleeper would be “uncomfortable,” I was prepared for 15 hours of something awful. But the open compartments with half a dozen bunks in three tiers were clean and bright. The passengers were subdued, their energy directed toward tending cellular phones. The only disturbance was the intercom’s constant stream of prattle and Muzak. At nine o’clock, the lights went out.

In the morning, the loudspeaker announced: “The past night might not have been as comfortable as in your home, but the new day will bring you a new feeling. Don’t litter and spit on the floor. We believe a clean environment will help you enjoy your trip.”

We passed expanses of fields, dwarfing the farmers working them. Every so often I saw brick compounds surrounded by tiny gardens.

In Beijing, Russian students from Blagoveschensk invited me to stay in their dormitory. It was a strange context for a Beijing visit: morning calisthenics over the university loudspeaker; evening vodka, manti and pickled herring; and midnight Monopoly, the rules fluctuating with the intake of Chinese beer.

Tiananmen Square was massive, the Summer Palace splendid, and the Forbidden City breathtaking, with a touch of intrigue: James Bond actor Roger Moore narrates the English audio guide. Climbing the Great Wall, I fancied myself a Qin Dynasty warrior until a pack of sweaty French runners charged over the horizon on the final leg of a Great Wall marathon.

I found the pulse of today’s Beijing on popular transit. The transport of the masses remains the bicycle, which flies down avenues and bumps over back streets in numerous incarnations. The riders’ innate sense of balance and harmony gives bicycle traffic the feel of poetry.

For the foreigner not confident enough to take the cycling culture, but still wanting a part in the action, there are buses (some double-decker) and battalions of taxis, from teensy vans to comfortable sedans. Or, try crossing the street.

The minivan was my favorite mode of transport: raised for an overview of the street scene, but low enough to still feel involved. Attendants vie for customers, singing out destination and price as they pull passengers toward the door.

I wanted to head north to Heihe, but I never made it. Maybe one day I’ll complete that circuitous route. I hope that bowl of noodles will be waiting.