Qingdao is a memory of the salty sea breeze. On the decks of yachts and on the bows of sampan boats, the cool wind brushes against your ears, carrying the sound of waves. Climbing up to the Laoshan Pass, the air is as clear as a wash, and the city shrinks into a quiet ink painting at your feet, lying between the mountains and the sea. The scenery here, always love to hide in the twilight of the old streets and alleys, disappeared in the morning fog shrouded sea, or solidified in the storm will come to the skyline, that kind of calm and vivid beauty, as if at any time can be taken away, but always can not catch.