In the alleys of my hometown, characterized by its distinctive brick houses, lie numerous small convenience stores. These quaint establishments, often challenging to locate, require both a keen eye and patience to find. With rusting storefronts and aging plastic curtains, they frequently serve as extensions of family homes. The locals fondly refer to them as “Xiao Mai Pu,” meaning “small concession stand.” Each summer, during my annual visits, my cousin and I seek out these stores, drawn by the familiar aroma of grilled sausages and the lingering scent of cigarette smoke.
This particular Xiao Mai Pu feels remarkably similar to others we have discovered. As we push apart the plastic curtains, we encounter shelves overflowing with instant ramen, household necessities, candies, and stationery. The ceiling fans creak overhead while the hum of freezers competes with a Chinese drama playing on an old box television—one that my cousin mentions she has seen multiple times. Upon entering, we greet the elderly woman behind the counter, addressing her as “Nai Nai,” or Grandma. Her permed hair, flecked with white, appears slightly frizzy in the summer heat. As her jade bracelet jingles on the counter, she rings up her regular customers while inquiring about their adult children: Are they visiting after moving out? Did they receive promotions? Do they have children of their own?
Approaching the counter, I order roller sausages to stave off hunger while shopping. As she hands me the sausages in a paper bag, she calls out to her husband, who is sneaking a cigarette in the back, instructing him to repair the unsteady ceiling fan. I then head straight to the aisle of colorful candies situated above the meat freezer. Meanwhile, my cousin searches for sketchbooks among the cleaning supplies for her art class, dusting off their covers before ensuring the pages are clean. Soon, our baskets are filled with an assortment of Garden Lucky candies, dried squid, Wang Wang rice crackers, melon popsicles, and candy sodas.
Over the years, our explorations have led us to never visit the same Xiao Mai Pu twice. Each time, we find ourselves lost in the maze of alleys lined with identical brick houses. My cousin and I argue about which passage we missed, but ultimately, it does not matter. We inevitably stumble upon a new store, where once again a grandmother runs the counter, offering the same candies and grilled sausages. The prices are surprisingly low, and the clientele typically consists of repeat customers—elderly individuals buying groceries, home goods, snacks, and sodas for their grandchildren. While senior loneliness is a global concern, the elders in Jinchuanyuan do not seem isolated; they gather at these Xiao Mai Pu to chat, share gossip, enjoy dried yams, read newspapers, and occasionally play games in the back.
I recall a bald, red-faced uncle who visited nightly in his blue mechanic”s uniform, offering to unclog pipes ahead of the rainy season before joining his friends at the mahjong table. For many years, these townspeople at the Xiao Mai Pu felt like custodians of a hidden gem that symbolized the essence of Jinchuanyuan for me. Even as I sat on the outskirts of the lively interactions, I found myself reflecting on the burdens I carried from the school year—worries that even the sweet sodas could not alleviate. Friends were moving away, and those who remained seemed to be forging new connections without me. Amidst this buzz, the grandmothers behind the cash register seemed to know everyone and everything, exemplifying what it means to truly care for one another. In their presence, my worries began to fade.
It is difficult to pinpoint when my cousin and I ceased visiting these Xiao Mai Pu. In recent summers, we have opted for commercial malls featuring the same supermarket chains, hotpot restaurants, and overpriced arcade games. Gradually, but unmistakably, clusters of rudimentary concrete buildings have begun to encroach upon Jinchuanyuan”s tranquil landscape—apartment complexes and cranes cutting into the skyline, self-service stores, elevated train tracks, and Wi-Fi towers pressing into the neatly arranged fields. Yet, I continue to reminisce about the grandmothers at the Xiao Mai Pu, their permed hair and the background noise of Chinese dramas, the sound of plastic curtains flapping, and the sausages sizzling on the roller grill.
Angel Wang is a freshman from Vancouver, Canada, studying Writing Seminars.
