The air thickens before you reach the gate — sandalwood, joss paper, and the soft percussion of beads on wrists. Yellow-glazed roofs mark this as imperial grade, but the crowd moves like a market: buy incense, light, bow, drift north through a chain of halls.
This was a prince’s mansion; when the prince became emperor, the house was handed to Tibetan Buddhism. Walk the axis and the architecture stays court-polite while the rituals turn Himalayan — prayer wheels, butter-lamp offerings, monks in saffron at festival time.
雍和宫 (Yōng Hé Gōng) names harmony and ease, then “palace.” The job today is simpler: stand in the incense lane, let the smoke tell you which door is next, and save your neck for the last hall’s giant Buddha.