Chun Li Ji: Collecting Fleeting Moments in Shanghai's Old Houses

A sliver of blue-gray light filters through the window on the second floor of Chun Li Homestay, and you wake up amidst the folds of the curtains. Bare feet step onto the teak floor, and coolness climbs up your ankles. Outside the terrace, rows of plane trees catch the first chirps of birds. The housekeeper gently knocks on the door to deliver jasmine tea. As the boiling water blooms at the bottom of the white porcelain cup with last year's dried petals 🌸, the entire old house awakens. The sunlight finally climbs over the dormer window, imprinting diamond-shaped spots of light on the mosaic floor tiles. The aroma of basil scrambled eggs wafts from the kitchen 🥘. Sizzling in the cast iron pot is the croissant 🥐 that the housekeeper bought from Yongkang Road. At this moment, Chun Li is like an amber museum—the wall lamps flow with verdigris, the teak staircase handrail is embedded with fingernail marks from half a century ago, and you are becoming a grain of solidified morning light. The clothesline writes cursive in the wind, and the pingtan radio 📻 of the old woman next door flows over the brick wall. You curl up with your laptop in the rattan chair in the patio, watching the shadows of the clouds slowly crawl on the clear water red brick wall. The copper weather vane on the third-floor terrace suddenly turns, startling the tortoiseshell cat 🐱 dozing on the corrugated tiles. At this moment, the food delivery app loses its magic. You learn to brew a pot of Earl Grey tea 🍵 with an enamel stove, listening to the housekeeper tell the story of this alley. The setting sun cuts the homestay into two halves, one bright and one dark. You push open the carved glass window and lean out. The neon lights of the Henglong Plaza in the distance begin to breathe, but the satin cheongsam hanging nearby is still dripping water, refracting the twilight into tiny rainbows. The sound of water comes from the 🛁 bathroom, and the homestay's homemade orange blossom bath salts float on the clawfoot bathtub. You suddenly hope that time will get stuck at this moment, like an old record needle stuck in the grooves of a vinyl record. When packing your luggage, you find that the linen sheets have wrinkles in the shape of plane tree leaves. The housekeeper puts the dried magnolia petals into a kraft paper bag and whispers, "They saw the moon 🌛 on the Bund before they withered." At the moment when the brass door lock is closed, you hear the old floor sighing behind you—those moments that were properly collected by the camphor wood wardrobe are now quietly overflowing from the cracks in the door, dripping into the plane tree rain in Shanghai in April.