Fancy Bread Slice and Muddy Road

In Beijing's spring, the wind is still the same old story – not too strong, not too weak, but it loves kicking up dust, getting in your eyes. Old Liu hunched his neck, pedaling his 'Flying Pigeon' bicycle – the kind where everything rattles except the bell – towards that newly opened 'He-something-Ma' supermarket. His wife had mentioned yesterday that their neighbor, Old Mrs. Zhang, had bought some kind of 'imported, especially soft' bread there. She told him to go check it out too, and while he was at it, grab a couple of slices to try something new.

Truth be told, Old Liu wasn't keen. 'Imported'? What magic could they work on bread? Wasn't it just flour, water, yeast, that sort of thing? Back in the day, the big steamed buns from the grain store, five fen each, solid and filling – that was living. But his wife had spoken. Not going would make him seem out of touch, like an old fossil. Going, though... he felt that brightly lit place wasn't really for buying groceries, more like some exhibition hall. It made him uncomfortable all over.

He parked his bike, fastening three locks – Old Liu never quite trusted these newfangled things. Stepping into the supermarket, wow! The air conditioning hit him with a whoosh, the lights were dazzlingly bright, the floor reflected his image. An indescribable smell hung in the air, a bit fragrant, a bit cool, definitely not the familiar warmth of the pickle shop or the fried cake stall. Men and women pushed gleaming shopping carts, walking briskly, faces blank, as if they weren't shopping for groceries but carrying out some secret mission.

Old Liu felt a bit dizzy, steadying himself against a nearby shelf. He wondered where the bread section was. Following the signs, after a few twists and turns, he finally found it. Whoa! A dazzling array, colorful and varied – baguettes, croissants, toast, bagels... each name fancier than the last. Old Liu squinted at the labels, unfamiliar with many of the words, muttering to himself, "Nowadays, you even need to learn a foreign language just to eat bread?"

He looked for the 'soft' kind his wife mentioned. His eyes scanned the flashy packaging until, in a rather plain transparent plastic bag, he spotted a few pre-cut slices. The small sign next to it read: "Japanese Style Nama Shokupan (Single Slice)". Hey, this must be it. It looked quite thick, should be soft enough.

He reached for a bag, then looked closer. Below the main text was a smaller line: ¥16.90.

Old Liu thought his old eyes were playing tricks. He rubbed them and leaned in closer. Nope, it was sixteen yuan and ninety fen. His heart skipped a beat; he almost cried out. Sixteen ninety? For one slice? He'd lived nearly seventy years, eaten enough bread stacked up to probably be taller than him, but he'd never heard of a single slice costing this much. Sixteen ninety could buy him three jin of cornmeal, pay for several bus rides looping around the Second Ring Road!

"This..." He wanted to ask someone if the price was wrong. Just then, a young man in uniform, badge on his chest, walked past quickly, head down looking at his phone.

"Excuse me, young man," Old Liu quickly stopped him. "Could you take a look? This bread, this single slice, is it really sixteen ninety?"

The young man glanced up, scanned the label, then scanned Old Liu, his face impassive, answering as if it were the most normal thing in the world: "Yeah, that's right. That's the price for this one. Imported ingredients, cold chain transport, handmade." Without waiting for Old Liu to reply, he looked back down at his phone and hurried away, leaving a cool, indifferent back.

Old Liu stood there stunned, his hand still hovering over the bag he hadn't picked up, feeling the plastic was almost hot to the touch. Imported ingredients? Cold chain transport? Handmade? The words circled in his head, but he couldn't make sense of them. Isn't bread just for eating? What did it have to do with all this fancy stuff? Did using these things grant immortality, or instantly turn you into a foreigner?

He remembered his youth, gnawing on a hard steamed bun when hungry, drinking a bowl of plain boiled water when thirsty, still full of energy for work. Things were cheap back then, and people were straightforward. Not like now, where everything is gilded, prices soaring sky-high. But did it really taste that much better? Probably not.

People around him continued their leisurely selection. Someone picked up the 16.90 yuan slice, glanced at it, and tossed it into their cart as if buying an insignificant piece of paper, not bread. Old Liu watched them, a stone heavy in his chest. He felt out of place here, like a fisherman who'd strayed into the peach blossom grove, finding not a utopia but a bizarre, incomprehensible world.

This world, it seemed, wasn't meant for people like him. This bread wasn't meant for people like him to eat. It was like a symbol, a marker, silently declaring some kind of boundary. You're on this side, I'm on that side, and between us lies sixteen yuan ninety – or perhaps, more than just sixteen yuan ninety.

He turned silently, empty-handed. That soft bread, that imported taste – he decided not to try it. Not because he couldn't afford it, but because he couldn't get over that hurdle in his heart. He felt a grit in his mouth, not sand from the wind, but an indescribable sourness and absurdity welling up inside.

Leaving the supermarket, the wind and dust were still there. Old Liu got back on his battered bicycle, the chain rattling noisily as if mocking his earlier confusion. He didn't head home, instead turning into the small shop run by an old neighbor at the alley entrance.

"Yo, Uncle Liu, you're here!" greeted the owner, a chubby middle-aged man swatting flies with a duster. "Give me two steamed buns, fresh from the steamer," Old Liu said, his voice a bit hoarse. "You got it!"

Piping hot white steamed buns, one yuan each. Old Liu carried them in a plastic bag, the warmth seeping through, warming his hand. Suddenly, his heart felt steadier. This was the life he knew, the life he could understand. Even if the road was bumpy, like a muddy path, hard to walk on, at least his feet were firmly on the ground.

He pedaled his bike slowly homeward. The wind still blew; the sky looked a bit overcast. Somehow, the thought of that 16.90 yuan bread slice popped back into his head. What did it actually taste like? Like clouds? Or soap bubbles? He couldn't figure it out, so he decided not to dwell on it. Yet, that hollow feeling inside, like a slow leak in a punctured tire, probably wouldn't be plugged anytime soon. These times, he thought, are getting harder and harder to understand. Just like this dusty spring weather – looks bright, but it gets in your eyes, makes your chest tight, leaves a bad taste. Yeah, a bad taste.