Xiaochun & Jason | “Old times · Raining Season in Dali”
After working for the day, the sky darkened, and I thought I should go out for a bit. I took my dog Zha Mao, got into the van, and drove towards the Old Town without a specific destination, just following the flow of traffic. After passing the Three Pagodas, I stopped on Cangshan Avenue to handle an order.
A car pulled up and called my name. It was Xiaochun, who had brought guests back from Huo Mountain and was dropping them off at Pushi. He teased the guests, saying, "This is our big boss." The guests, sitting in his Tank 300, might have been skeptical if they noticed my worn Wuling van. I told him I'd head over to Pushi soon.
After finishing the order, I drove to Pushi, where Xiaochun was waiting by the car. Pushi was already closed. After work, sitting somewhere and having coffee is a tradition for us. At this time, there weren't many coffee shops open nearby, so I called Aruna, who had just returned from Xipo. She excitedly invited us over.
We arrived at Zayaa, where Aruna made us coffee and prepared some pastries and fruit at the bar. Xiaochun and I sat across from her, casually chatting about what happened during our hiking trips. Summer had been busy with lots of guests, and many things happened. Some people we got along with really well, and it made the work feel meaningful. But there were also some less pleasant experiences, like those whose interests didn’t align with ours or customers who lacked basic kindness, making us not want to take on another one.
Soon, the tailor arrived. Xiaochun always remembers to call him when we chat. Then we started teasing each other about our current situations, and before long, we were reminiscing about the days we worked together at the late-night diner many years ago. We had told these stories dozens of times, but every time we retold them, they were still interesting, sometimes with new twists. Huahua and Xiao Hai also came up in conversation, and those moments still felt fresh.
The time we spent working together was from 2013 to 2016. Back then, everyone had just arrived in Dali, and life and work were new to us. We met a lot of people. Dali was a small community, only around the Old Town, so the density of interactions was high, and many things happened. There were so many people and memories to recall.
In the five years we lost touch, everyone scattered into their own lives. There didn’t seem to be many shared memories, and many things were skipped over in conversations.
However, in the last two years, we’ve been together again, leading travel activities, going through many shared experiences, and spending more time together. New people have entered our lives, and deeper connections have formed. Many details have emerged. In a few more years, these recent years will turn into vivid memories, and we’ll willingly reminisce about this time.
If there’s one thing that keeps us repeating the same stories without getting tired of it, it’s Xiaochun’s subtle new interpretations every time. Like that evening, when he recalled how after a late-night diner shift, the tailor would pull a poetry book from the bookshelf and recite Yeats’ poems to him. He remembers it clearly, even though he always thought Yeats was a woman. But that didn’t matter: Yeats' poem, “This World Has Too Many Cries, You Don’t Understand.”
In addition, he flipped to an article he wrote ten years ago after working a year at the late-night diner, and read it aloud with emotion.
We had agreed to wrap up the chat by 1:30 AM because Aruna had to lead a bagel baking experience at 9:00 AM the next morning, but Xiaochun managed to stretch it until 3:00 AM. He wasn’t done yet, and I said, "We really have to go." Aruna still had to clean up. We left, and outside, the night was pitch black. We each drove home, and Zha Mao was waiting for me in the car.
by Jason：2024.08.15
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June 17, 2014, Dali Rainy Season
by XiaoChun
It’s the rainy season again in Dali, the rain lightly washing the stone streets of the Old Town, and also washing away people’s memories. Some memories blur with time, while others become clearer.
It’s been exactly two years since I came to Dali, and almost a year since I started working at the late-night diner. When I first arrived at the diner last year, it was also the rainy season. Every morning, it would rain lightly, and after closing, Jason and I would sit at the lowest wooden table by the door, sometimes peeling eggs, other times just smoking and chatting until the rain stopped. There was a small Xiao Long Bao shop just a few steps away, and once the rain stopped, we’d go for breakfast—two servings of soup dumplings and two bowls of white porridge.
Jason is a decade older than me, experienced, rational, unkempt, and our humor aligns. His usual outfit is a tight white T-shirt, faded jeans, and shoes that have seen better days. He’s from Shanghai, I’m from Hebei, a South-North pair with a twelve-year age gap. I’m not sure if this counts as a friendship across generations, but it doesn’t matter.
To this day, when I think back to those days at the late-night diner, the most relaxing part was simply sitting there with him, chatting casually about anything. Sometimes we’d sit quietly, drink coffee, and not speak, yet there was no awkwardness—just listening to the rain and thinking about our own things. That rainy season passed like this, and I don’t remember the specific topics we discussed, but more often, it was me talking and him listening. He rarely spoke about himself, and I didn’t want to know. This didn’t hinder our conversations.
Around 10:00 PM was probably my happiest time. The business hours had just begun, and I’d play Shanghai oldies from the 50s and 60s, waiting for the guests to arrive. Many of them felt like old friends to me. Their arrival wasn’t just for food; they brought something else I can’t quite put into words, but it always felt familiar. This was the busiest time, and I would rush into the kitchen, often without having a chance to talk to the guests, only managing a brief “goodbye” when they left. But that was fine; no need for small talk.
Around midnight, we’d have some quiet time. Jason and I would declare the battle over, sit down, and have a cigarette. Jason always rolled his own cigarettes, carefully preparing them with patience. I tried rolling my own once but gave up after half a pack—too impatient.
After midnight, guests became more sparse. This was the time I preferred, when the work was lighter, and the pace slower. I could take my time in the kitchen, and when I had a moment, chat with the guests through the curtain at the door. My mood during this time was always pleasant—it was what I envisioned for a late-night diner.
There were still many people in Dali who stayed up late. Some sought a place to read, write, or just sit for a while. I remember a few who would come in around 2 AM. They’d order a bowl of glutinous rice balls or just pour themselves a cup of buckwheat tea, then sit quietly for an hour. Occasionally, they’d chat with Jason or me, but mostly, they sat quietly by themselves. Both Jason and I enjoyed these customers—they were quiet and didn’t disturb others.
There was also a girl named Xiaomao. For a while, she came regularly between 2:00 and 3:00 AM. She’d pour herself a cup of buckwheat tea and head to the second-floor loft to paint. When she was tired, she’d lie down for a bit. Jason and I never disturbed her. Sometimes, when we were hungry, we’d cook a little extra fried rice and share it with her. This went on every day until closing time, when we’d all leave together. Near the end of the rainy season, she was leaving Dali, and before she left, she gave me a painting of the late-night diner, quite abstract. Although neither Jason nor I understood art, we placed it seriously on the wooden stand where we put our cups. I still miss Xiaomao now and look forward to her return.
4:00 AM was closing time. The whole Old Town would be quiet, and it was the most relaxing time for Jason and me. If there weren’t too many ingredients to prepare for the next day, we’d sometimes sit and drink coffee in the shop. If it rained, we’d stay and chat until the rain stopped. The enjoyment of those moments, I think only Jason and I truly understand.
Since last year’s rainy season, I’ve been busy, and it’s already this year’s rainy season. The change in work distribution has meant I’ve spent less time working with Jason. But even when I’m alone, I still enjoy sitting in the shop after closing, listening to music, scribbling a bit, smoking, drinking coffee, and just clearing my mind. On rainy mornings, I wait until the rain stops. And I don’t feel lonely.
Every day, leaving the late-night diner, stepping out into the side alley, breathing in the fresh air, walking on the stone path, and seeing the lantern hanging outside as the sign, I always feel grateful and think: this is enough.
June 17, 2014.
