Chapter 143: The City of Romance

Lijiang—here, time is the cheapest commodity, while sunlight is the most precious treasure.

After settling into a guesthouse in the ancient town, one drifts to sleep accompanied by the melodies from nearby bars, only to awaken to the chorus of cicadas and birds. A breakfast of local specialties awaits: either grilled rice cakes or rice noodles.

Thus begins another day.

Lijiang has long been famed as the city of romantic encounters, its streets dotted with bars—be they DJ lounges or rock venues—and deeper within lies a haven for folk music.

I once watched the first season of “Good Songs” and was captivated by Wednesday, a middle-aged man who, with nothing but his guitar, sang each word simply and sincerely.

Online whispers say he runs a bar here, named Jianghu.

With time to spare, I wandered about, arriving at the renowned Sifang Street. Shops selling hand drums lined both sides, while catchy tunes buzzed in my ears. If fortune brought interesting companions at the guesthouse, sharing songs and learning a few melodies would make the visit truly worthwhile.

I bought two bottles of plum wine, aged for five years, the owner said. The people of Lijiang truly cherish their infused wines—plum, rose, mulberry, and even maca—perhaps a reflection of the generous spirit of the Naxi people.

I opened one bottle right away. The taste was sweet and sour; the alcohol seemed mild at first but revealed a lingering strength afterward. Hence the name: “Bittersweet Soul.” That balance of sour and sweet left an unforgettable impression.

I also purchased several “baba,” a Naxi delicacy made from finely milled local wheat flour and spring water from Jade Dragon Snow Mountain. Inside, fillings like sesame and walnuts are wrapped in dough and pan-fried to a golden crisp.

They come in savory and sweet varieties, their golden hue and fragrant aroma irresistible. A bite reveals a crispy yet tender texture, and when paired with butter tea, the flavor is endlessly satisfying.

A leisurely stroll around town reveals much the same as other so-called water towns across the country—commercialism encroaches, and the original customs fade.

As night fell, I ventured to the bustling bar street. From the North Gate Slope heading toward the South Gate Bridge, I sought the Jianghu Bar. Though its location was not prime, it drew a fair crowd.

Inside, I tipped two hundred yuan to the attendant for the best seat. After ordering drinks, I asked, “Any lovely ladies to drink with me?”

The waiter, taking a five-hundred yuan note from Xia Longsai, understood immediately and soon brought over a young woman, lightly made up, her age youthful.

She settled beside me with practiced ease and a coquettish smile. “Handsome, first time here?”

I replied casually, “Two thousand to keep me company for a few drinks, and maybe introduce me around.”

“No problem!” Her smile widened. She seemed delighted to meet a wealthy patron, pouring drinks with familiarity. “Most folk music bars here in Lijiang are ‘fire pit’ style—simple places where singers and guests gather around a fire, singing, chatting, and enjoying each other’s company.”

“Since tourism is the lifeblood here, this format easily warms and welcomes strangers. It’s a modest investment; even if the bar is a bit off the beaten path, word of mouth through social circles spreads quickly. These are the gathering places for many young artists.”

“The main draw is hearing original songs by local singers, sipping some wine, and swapping stories with friends from all corners of the world. With a young, handsome guy like you, many girls…” She trailed off shyly.

Noticing my impassive expression, she smiled awkwardly. Just then, a tall, dark-skinned man took center stage. Lighting a cigarette, his gravelly voice filled the room:

“Mandarin ducks nesting in pairs fly side by side, the garden in spring intoxicates all. Quietly I ask the holy monk: is the daughter beautiful? Is the daughter beautiful?”

His opening note silenced the once raucous crowd. That husky, smoky timbre pierced every heart—this was the legendary Jianghu Bar.

Guests pulled out their phones to record. The lights dimmed, and countless screens flickered like stars scattered across a deep night sky, the music drawing them in.

“That’s Xiao Song, third brother’s apprentice,” the girl whispered with a smile. “Someone once described his voice as capable of stretching thoughts far and wide, evoking a somber mood. Many drifting memories quietly assail you in the dark. From flawless to riddled with holes, that’s his whole being.”

I remained silent. His voice resembled Su Yun’s—rough yet alluring. I listened closely as a familiar figure appeared, quietly sitting beside the singer with a guitar in hand.

Wednesday.

Xiao Song sang three original songs consecutively, each followed by teasing the stoic Wednesday, whose simple, reserved expression betrayed little.

I took a sip of beer and asked, “Won’t Wednesday sing?”

The girl paused, then understanding dawned. “So you came all this way for third brother?”

“A few years ago, on the first season of Good Songs, third brother sang ‘A Singer’s Love Letter.’ Simple guitar accompaniment, straightforward lyrics, and a peculiar accent. At first, some thought it odd, not exactly beautiful, but incredibly relatable.”

“That song exploded overnight—maybe because of its heartfelt lyrics and unique accent, or his earnest, nervous singing. All four mentors turned their chairs and even moved Tanya Chua to tears.”

“Third brother’s stories are all true. His wife is called Xuanxuan; we all call her Third Sister-in-Law.”

“Meeting Third Sister-in-Law marked his darkest days. His ex-girlfriend had swindled all his money and run off with another man. He stopped speaking, eating, and leaving the house, dedicating himself solely to his guitar.”

“When things got unbearable, he planned to leave for the plateau—a place with the winter fiddle—but Xiao Song stopped him, and so he came to Lijiang. He started busking on the streets, often bullied and beaten. That’s when I met these two kindred souls.”

The girl sighed, her gaze lingering on Xiao Song with some unspoken emotion. “In those days of having nothing, they made many friends. Eventually, they decided to open a small bar—a place to cry when sorrow struck…”

I remained quiet. Once, hearing Wednesday’s song on TV struck me like a blow.

I kept the recording on my phone, and in the quiet of night, with headphones on, I played it on loop, tears often streaming down, enveloped in loneliness.

“Upside down and backwards until age thirty, he met Xuanxuan—a girl who, after knowing him only seven days, ran away from home to be with him, utterly determined to spend her life by his side.”

“The night before their escape, Third Sister-in-Law received a message: ‘Though I have no money, if I had a bowl of gruel, I’d share most of it with you.’”

“She was only twenty-two then; everyone thought she was crazy. Her father cut off her bank cards, hid her ID, and locked her in a room.”

“She secretly fled from Yibin to Lijiang—a journey over a thousand kilometers—without a phone or money. She hitchhiked for more than fifty hours, starving, clutching a pair of scissors, afraid to sleep, refusing even kind offerings…”

“She cried all the way until she found Third Brother.”

“At their wedding, I’ll never forget what Third Sister-in-Law said: ‘Some people know each other for seventy years and never come together; others meet seven days and are inseparable.’”

If they are the right ones, why be reserved? Why cling to pride? Why let each other slip away?

“To us, Third Brother seems awkward and unromantic, barely knowing how to propose. Yet the most romantic thing he ever did was waking Third Sister-in-Law every day with his guitar and song…”

“On the wedding day, even after bridesmaids collected the envelopes, they wouldn’t let the groom in. He hadn’t formally proposed, so they made him shout ‘I love you’ a hundred times through the door.”

“He obediently called out, reaching ninety-seven before the door opened. The bride’s false eyelashes were soaked with tears. He grinned foolishly: ‘Don’t cry, wife, only three more to go.’”

“Then, kneeling on one knee, he earnestly declared: ‘Marry me, I love you. Marry me, I love you. Marry me, I love you!’”