The two of them carried their large and small packages away from Thirteenth Hong, strolling through the streets like an ordinary young tourist couple.
The layout of old Guangzhou’s streets and alleys had remained unchanged since modern times. Su Minguan had a strong sense of direction, and after deliberately filtering out the unfamiliar scenery on both sides of the roads, every small path beneath his feet was a route he had once walked.
“Here was Aunt Hong’s courtyard,” he excitedly identified in a low voice like solving a puzzle, “here were two opium dens. I remember one later got refined opium from India and squeezed the other one out… Ah, A’Mei, we had tea here once…”
Lin Yuchan was already dumbfounded. She might not even be able to recognize these places…
She casually pointed somewhere, “What about here?”
“Sold pickled vegetables. It was a secret Heaven and Earth Society stronghold,” Su Minguan said with a beaming smile, “had a tunnel leading directly to the Guangdong Guild Hall…”
Lin Yuchan dramatically exclaimed, “Wow!” and laughed, “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
Without realizing it, they stepped onto a small bridge. Su Minguan suddenly stopped.
A uniformed… constable approached him with unfriendly intent, extending his palm in a gesture to stop.
Without a word, he grabbed Lin Yuchan’s wrist and turned to leave.
Lin Yuchan was baffled and turned back to ask the security guard: “Uncle, what’s wrong?”
The security guard kindly told her: “The bridge railing was just painted, don’t get too close.”
Lin Yuchan nodded and caught up with Su Minguan, grabbing him.
“Xiao Bai, don’t panic,” she laughed breathlessly, “Shamian Island isn’t a concession anymore, you can enter freely!”
He stopped and turned back.
Across the bridge, neat and imposing Western buildings stood in rows, just like in the past. Several young European and American men and women moved among them, holding beer cans and laughing loudly.
Shamian Concession. Except for servants and attendants, ordinary Chinese people were never allowed within half a step.
He was slightly confused, repeating her words: “Can I enter freely?”
Since he could remember, Shamian Island had been the foreigners’ domain. Having grown up to over twenty, his understanding had always been that “wherever there are foreigners, there are concessions, and Chinese people are restricted from entering”—this was the social norm.
He had only been to Shamian Island once in his life. That was when he was pursued by government soldiers with nowhere to run, and he had snuck in through the waterway, covered in wounds, leaving the island before the constables discovered him. He had never seen what was above.
But now… indeed, the high fences had all been torn down. No constable posts were visible either.
“All concessions nationwide have long been recovered. Now on Chinese soil, China has complete sovereignty.” Lin Yuchan seriously educated him on this belated common knowledge: “Let’s go see.”
While speaking, she pulled him running, very unceremoniously jumping onto what was once forbidden ground.
“Come see the British Consulate!” she called loudly, “That’s the French Police Station… Oh my, the old Russell & Company site, hahaha…”
Hearing “Russell & Company,” Su Minguan’s smile broadened, and he gleefully followed her over.
Many Western buildings were constructed at the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries, appearing even more magnificent and imposing than in Su Minguan’s memory. However, they each bore historical preservation plaques, and unfortunately, couldn’t be toured inside.
Still, just wandering a few steps up the entrance stairs and sitting down for a brief rest would have been an unimaginable life-threatening scene for Qing Dynasty commoners.
The dignified foreigners who once strutted about here had now become street sculptures, polished bright by curious local children.
The central park bloomed with flowers, bright yellow bicycles weaving through. Balloons floated outside trendy cafes. White veils danced as several couples posed for wedding photos.
The two sat shoulder to shoulder on the grass, the freshly cut lawn emanating a crisp fragrance.
Su Minguan gazed at the Pearl River waters, lost in thought for a long while. Lin Yuchan quietly photographed his profile.
The young foreign tourists they had seen earlier wandered here, and from their conversation, they turned out to be exchange students. The group seemed tired from walking and discussed going to a cafe for a light meal. Seeing the menu prices at the entrance, they frowned and turned away, discussing going to Shangxiajiu for wonton noodles instead.
Su Minguan suppressed a laugh, his mouth twitching slightly. He had never seen such impoverished foreigners in his entire life.
Lin Yuchan pulled him up: “Come on, let’s go drink coffee and eat pasta to make them jealous.”
He held her, gently pleading: “I want to eat wonton noodles too.”
Firstly, he didn’t particularly like coffee. Secondly, with just a glance, the afternoon tea set was 128 yuan per person—enough to buy a hundred jin of fine salt. A’Mei was now just an ordinary student; there was no need to show off with him.
Lin Yuchan was delighted. Getting authentic Cantonese traditional snacks wasn’t difficult—she knew exactly where to go.
“Shangxiajiu is now a commercial pedestrian street,” Lin Yuchan reminded, “they’re controlling foot traffic now, don’t forget to have your temperature checked at the entrance.”
During the late Qing period, after the decline of the Thirteenth Hong, Shangxiajiu became the new commercial center. But the former foreign trade shops, academies, and Xiguan mansions were gradually replaced by more populist arcade buildings and bamboo-tube houses. After multiple changes since the founding of the nation, the shops now housed small eateries and budget stores.
Sure enough, Su Minguan looked up carefully—the street layout was vaguely familiar, but most of what the shops sold was unrecognizable to him.
Where the former tea trade giant Defeng Trading House once stood had been completely transformed, split into three shops selling wonton noodles, old Xiguan rice rolls, and bubble tea, respectively.
Su Minguan was somewhat puzzled and again consulted Lin Yuchan: “Does Guangzhou still have major tea export trading houses?”
Lin Yuchan could answer this. After returning to modern times, she had specifically researched related industry information.
China still exports large quantities of tea. Last year’s export volume was about 300,000 tons. Due to the pandemic, it was 30% less than usual.” She said, “But Guangzhou isn’t the only trading port anymore, and there are no monopoly merchants. Any enterprise can export tea from any port as long as it completes the import-export procedures. So you won’t see large tea houses here anymore.”
Su Minguan’s eyebrows moved, quietly confirming: “How many open ports are there now?”
Lin Yuchan smiled slightly, opened her phone, and accessed the China Customs website.
“As of 2016, China has 305 officially opened national-level ports. Including 137 water transport ports covering coastal and inland waterways, 73 aviation ports, 20 railway ports, and 75 highway ports…”
She smiled as she turned off her phone: “I won’t count them all for you.”
Su Minguan’s expression froze for quite a while, a flash of indignation crossing his dark eyes.
“Why still…”
He took a deep breath, guessing with some difficulty: “Open to specific countries, or shared benefits?”
Lin Yuchan didn’t want to frighten him further and immediately explained: “We opened them all voluntarily. Fair trade, autonomous interests, all tariffs go to the national treasury, no foreign interference.”
He didn’t believe it: “Just let foreign merchants dump goods freely?”
“Foreign merchants are already accusing us of dumping goods abroad.” She laughed, “But this matter is quite complex. I organized materials on trade wars for competitions—I’ll give you supplementary lessons later.”
Su Minguan remained silent.
The chain of anti-Qing revolutionary secret societies was gone, and familiar business models were gone. In this world, apart from relying on his face to sell products, he seemed to have no use for his talents.
But the dejection lasted only a second. The aroma from the old-style wonton noodle shop drifted out, and he finally caught a whiff of something familiar.
“Two bowls of xi rong.”
Su Minguan looked up at the prices and entered confidently to reminisce.
Xi rong—what old-school Guangzhou people called small portions of wonton noodles. No complex ingredients like shrimp or mushrooms, just the most ordinary pork filling. One jin of meat, after removing bones and tendons, left only six or seven liang, chopped fine and mixed with egg liquid. A master chef at least sixty years old, using techniques unchanged for decades, took a bamboo stick and with one pick, one spread, one pinch, wrapped the meat filling in transparent, chewy noodle skin. After entering the pot, they became pure white, swaying their heads and tails, plump as little goldfish.
Hearing Su Minguan’s accent, the old master beamed with joy, thinking he’d met an old Guangzhou neighbor. He especially poked his head out from the wonton pile, but seeing his age, was surprised again.
Lin Yuchan sat in the decor that was at least thirty years old, eyes wide, staring at the bowl of wonton soup noodles on the table.
The wontons weren’t displayed on top like Hong Kong-style tea restaurants, but buried under golden, springy bamboo noodles. The soup was broth made from pork bones, dried shrimp, and ham simmered all morning, with only fresh sweetness on the palate.
How had she never discovered this place before…
Ancient people’s noses were quite sensitive.
After eating wonton noodles, they ordered beef brisket noodles. This place’s beef brisket was tender but not mushy, each bite perfectly coated with sauce. The small wooden table held red Zhejiang vinegar and homemade pickled radish. Behind them were clean water brick walls, beneath their feet worn granite slabs—everything became very, very slow. Those tourists coming and going with raised phones seemed not to belong to this time.
The two people at the small square table looked up from their soup noodles, met each other’s eyes, and smiled. In that instant, they too didn’t belong to this time.
“Haven’t had authentic xi rong in ages,” Su Minguan said quietly, “Shanghai has no restaurants like this at all.”
Lin Yuchan laughed: “Maybe they do now.”
He insisted: “Definitely not.”
The world changed rapidly; fortunately, some things didn’t change so fast.
The only difference was that the “apprentice” behind the counter was a young girl, and instead of the clinking of copper coins, there were the constant beeping sounds of QR code scanning.
Su Minguan weighed the plastic bowl printed with the shop’s name, surveyed the old decor, and again consulted Lin Yuchan: “Of the items here, which ones can Chinese factories produce?”
Lin Yuchan pondered. This question needed reverse reasoning: what things couldn’t China make yet?
She instinctively wanted to say “we still have many technologies that haven’t caught up with world leaders,” but looking specifically at daily items in this small shop, she moved her neck, observing up, down, left, and right—the shop’s air conditioning, electric fans, surveillance cameras, people’s sports bracelets, car keys, phones, Yangcheng cards on tables…
The shop was small with few samples, not even a single iPhone user. But thinking again, iPhones were mostly assembled domestically anyway…
“Ah, chips and operating systems,” she finally remembered, “we’re just starting, currently mainly dependent on imports.”
Su Minguan: “…”
Another incomprehensible concept.
But from her implication, apart from these few mystical technologies, everyday pots, bowls, ladles, tables, chairs, benches, and even most industrial products—”foreign goods” had little advantage.
This was unimaginable in the old era when even a match or needle depended on imports.
His eyes suddenly brightened, voice lowered, excitedly saying: “Domestic industrial products can also be sold abroad? Like…”
Lin Yuchan saw through his ulterior motives and doubled over laughing: “We don’t practice imperialism… Besides, today’s foreigners are much smarter than before, not so easily cheated.”
He ignored this response, contentedly finishing his wonton soup as if suddenly discovering a new world.
Drinking all the soup from a bowl of wonton noodles was the highest praise a customer could give the boss.
Lin Yuchan laughed at him: “Since we’re here, save room to try several more places.”
Su Minguan nodded, stood up, took out the old phone Lin Yuchan had given him, imitated others’ actions, opened the blue app, and held it up to the scanner.
“Good, where to next?”
He took her hand, smiling as they stepped out the door, not hearing the jarring sound behind them:
“Payment failed.”
The cashier girl ran out: “Handsome guy, wait!”
While shouting, she grumbled internally: such a put-together handsome guy, bringing his girlfriend shopping, buying so many things in big and small packages, yet trying to skip out on a forty-yuan bill for noodles. She’d post on social media later to complain: men have no bottom line!
Su Minguan was stunned, rarely blushing, asking quietly: “Don’t you extend credit here? Isn’t this a bookkeeping machine?”
The cashier girl looked confused.
In old society, food vendors didn’t necessarily collect payment from regular customers each time, often extending small amounts of credit, then settling periodically. This was customary.
In the technologically advanced 21st century, people still didn’t pay after eating, just making a “beep” sound before leaving. Su Minguan reasonably deduced that the machine must automatically identify credit customers’ identities and consumption amounts, eliminating manual ledger recording.
Lin Yuchan covered her mouth laughing and quickly paid with her phone.
“Your thinking isn’t wrong. You can scan to buy on credit now, paying monthly,” she whispered to him, “but you haven’t activated Huabei yet. And I suggest you better not activate it. It’s a bottomless pit.”
Su Minguan learned from experience, swallowing her words whole, immediately smiling apologetically at the cashier girl.
“Sorry. I haven’t activated Huabei yet.”
The cashier girl looked at that impeccable smile, nodded, already composing her social media post: choosing men requires not only good looks but also intelligence…