Shanghai: the bustling city by the sea, a mirage of flowers and water
My first encounter with Shanghai began at the Bund.
Only later did I realize that was just the city’s youngest face.
Before neon lights and skyscrapers appeared, this land already had its own name: Huating.
At that time, it wasn’t a global financial center, just a quiet Jiangnan town growing by the Wusong River.
Later, my impression of Shanghai was one of distance:
People here walk fast.
The subway is crowded, yet few people chat.
Neighbors for years might still only nod in passing.
“Shanghai people are hard to approach” seems to be the most common and one-sided description outsiders have of this city.
But living here, I gradually sensed that beneath the coldness lies a subtle warmth that’s hard to express.
The “coldness” of Shanghai people is often not rejection but a sense of boundaries.
In a city of over 20 million people, everyone carries their own life.
And when you truly need help:
The auntie downstairs tells you which hospital is reliable.
An elderly neighbor quietly shows you shortcuts only locals know.
A small shop that’s been open for decades, where the owner always remembers regular customers’ tastes.
Sometimes hearing Shanghai people say, “Nong hao, ala Shanghaining,” can unexpectedly make a stranger feel a bit of warmth and spark a desire to learn more about the Shanghai dialect.
Shanghai’s warmth is never fiery.
It’s more like a lone lamp in winter:
It won’t embrace you first, but it’s always there.
Yet it’s in these subtle moments that I suddenly realize: the city is slowly losing its voice.
When a dialect gradually fades from daily life, what disappears is not just an accent but a city quietly saying goodbye to its past.
The Shanghai dialect has never been just a communication tool:
It carries the neighborhood ties in the alleys, the lifestyle in old-style Western houses, and generations of Shanghai people’s understanding of “home.”
But today, the Shanghai dialect is slowly fading from the daily lives of “new” Shanghainese:
Many children can understand it but can’t use it naturally.
To adapt to a bigger world, more people choose to speak Mandarin.
This isn’t anyone’s fault. Shanghai’s greatest strength is openness and inclusiveness.
From the bustling city by the sea, Shanghai has always been a city that actively embraces:
It connects East and West,
welcomes people from different regions,
and through repeated blending, creates symbols and marks unique to Shanghai.
But the other side of inclusiveness:
When a city constantly embraces the outside world, could it at some point lose its original character?
I once lived in Quebec. What impressed me most there was their protection of the French language.
At first, I even scoffed:
Isn’t this a bit extreme?
Why does a language need to be protected so seriously?
Later, I slowly understood:
In Quebec, there’s a phrase everywhere:
Je me souviens (I remember).
They protect not just the language itself but a confirmation of “who we are.”
Language is never just a communication tool.
It is the carrier of a city’s memory.
Old Shanghainese tell the past in the Shanghai dialect,
Quebecers insist on French,
and both point to the same thing:
Don’t let the tide of time
wash away your traces completely.
And perhaps the most charming part of Shanghai is hidden in these disappearing details.
In Wong Kar-wai’s In the Mood for Love, some scenes intertwine with the light and shadow of the old city:
Chow Mo-wan and Su Li-zhen live in the same old building.
The stairs are narrow.
The lighting is dim.
They meet repeatedly in the stairwell.
They don’t embrace.
They don’t say much.
Many feelings are restrained in silence.
What flows slowly through the lens is a flickering yet deeply captivating aura:
The color of the cheongsam.
The worn old staircase.
The ambiguous relationships between neighbors.
And a slowness that is becoming rare today.
What we miss is not the old buildings or a bygone era but the unique character a city holds onto.
Today’s Shanghai is certainly stronger:
It has an unparalleled business environment, elites from around the world, countless possibilities—these are the ingredients for greatness.
But a city’s true charm shouldn’t be just becoming more like the world.
It’s about retaining its own tone after becoming a global city.
Suddenly I feel that many people think they already understand Shanghai.
A city’s roots are never its skyscrapers or dazzling wealth, because those things will eventually be surpassed.
In my view, a city’s identity is more about a language, a posture, a memory.
A confidence that, amid the changes of time, can calmly answer “who we are.”