Crazy Fun in Alleys and Military Chess Battles: The Youthful Era in the Streets of Old Shanghai

Recently, an old friend sent me a collection of images depicting the street scenes of Old Shanghai. Besides the bustling Nanjing Road and Sichuan Road, most of the images showcase the everyday life of residents in the alleys: the small shops at the corners, the old coal stoves, and the snack stands. The colorful clothes hanging like “national flags” in the narrow lanes seem to belong to a different space compared to modern Shanghai.

The seemingly dirty and chaotic alleyways were a paradise for the youth of my generation. The most striking scenes of Old Shanghai were the groups of boys in patched clothes chasing the wind.

In the 1950s, my family lived in Lane 593 on South Zhongshan Road, between Wangjia Wharf and Fuxing East Road, just across the Outer Wharf Road from the Huangpu River. The 593 Lane was only about 100 meters long and around 2 meters wide, accommodating about eight Shikumen houses with over a hundred families. My parents lived there for over 40 years, while I stayed for six years before entering Fudan University.

Every morning around 5 a.m., the entire alley woke up to the ringing of the dung truck’s bell and the shouting of “time to clean the toilets,” followed by the sound of toilets being scrubbed and the foul smell of waste. Shortly after, the smell of coal stoves filled every household. This was the typical “morning song” for the people of Lane 593. After breakfast, crowds of people headed off to work or school, filling the alley. Not long after, various small vendors began to flow in with the sounds of bells and shouts.

“Do you have any bamboo or palm roofs for repair?” This was a vendor ringing his bell as he entered the alley. “Do you have knives or scissors to sharpen?” The shouts sounded like a line from the Peking Opera “The Red Lantern.”

“Osmanthus cake, sesame pastry!” Cash was accepted, but more often it was bartered for with old clothes, worn-out shoes, or old newspapers and magazines. “Sesame paste, red bean soup, delicious and sweet!” This tune was sung by someone tapping on a bamboo tube.

“I need a clothesline pole!” One person staggered in carrying a dozen long bamboo poles, an essential item for hanging clothes.

Finally, around 5 p.m., came the meat vendor’s cart, offering chicken hearts, duck wings, beef tripe, pig’s tongue, liver, and head meat—these were the snacks for the working crowd returning home.

The small alley was never lonely. Once it hit 4 p.m., children were dismissed from school, and the alley instantly came alive with noise. In Lane 593, there were five or six boys around my age of twelve or thirteen. Between Wangjia Wharf and Fuxing East Road, there were dozens of such alleys. Despite attending different schools, the school dismissal times were synchronized. Upon returning home, we would drop our school bags and gather at the alley entrance to play.

What did we play? Here’s a list of games I enjoyed: spinning tops (which we called “cheap bones”), rolling hoops, marbles, playing with copper wire, scraping cigarette cards, weightlifting, stamp collecting, playing the harmonica, flute, and erhu…

These were our toys; we had no toys and still played by competing with neighborhood kids in somersaults, jumping over backs, wrestling, and, of course, sometimes arguing or fighting. It was common for me to return home with a bleeding nose or cracked lips, using cotton balls for my nose and iodine for my lips. The next day, I would still play with the neighborhood kids. If a child was beaten and cried, their parents would come to demand an explanation, and that child would become a “pariah,” no one wanting to play with them, facing ridicule and taunts like, “Stop crying, stop laughing, your eyes are cannons, aiming high, you eat cake, aiming low, you eat snot!”

None of these activities cost money. If I had 5 cents in my pocket, I would play ping pong or go to the sidewalk comic book stall to enjoy comics; 5 cents could entertain me for half a day!

Of course, these were all outdoor activities and required good weather, at least no rain. On rainy days, we had our way of playing. During a drizzly Sunday, we would find a secluded corner and set up a military chess battle, arranging four or five boards in a row, with one or two players representing different alleys. More spectators lined up than players, creating a grand sight, with everyone tense. Once the winner was decided, the loser had to stand up and admit, “I am your defeated opponent,” as it related to the pride of the whole alley.

In heavy summer rains, we became even more excited, running out in shorts and bare-chested, linking arms in groups of ten, singing at the alley entrance, “It’s raining, it’s closing time, the Little Eight Peppers are having a meeting!” “Fry, fry, fry, good yellow beans and green peas, good green peas do somersaults!” “Doo doo doo, selling sweet soup, three jin of walnuts and four jin of shells, eat your flesh, and return your shell!”

In heavy rain, we invented a game, possibly a global first. We would drink the rainwater flowing down from the eaves, stand in a line, and spray it against the wall. Whoever missed hitting the wall had to stand in the rain for five seconds. In the end, everyone was soaked. When I got home, my mother never scolded me, just tossed a towel and said, “Dry yourself and change your pants.” When the sun came out, I would go outside again to play, coming back all sweaty, and my mother would also throw a towel at me, saying, “Wash under the faucet.” My mother was forgiving because I never crossed her bottom line.

At that time, my mother practiced “bottom line management” on me: do not cause trouble or get into trouble, and everything else was mine to handle. My father practiced “performance management”: he only cared about my final grades and teachers’ comments, paying no attention to anything else. Fortunately, I studied hard, finishing from elementary school to high school without ever falling below the top three grades in any semester.

I didn’t know if it was age or the pressure of the high school entrance examination, but by ninth grade, I suddenly became more disciplined, giving all my toys to my younger brother and focusing on studying after school.

My happy childhood flew away with the wind, but I quickly found new joy: reading. Besides school assignments, I read all sorts of books, with each book opening a window to a new world.

Setting Up Shop on Flower Clothes Street

Flower Clothes Street was just across the road from my home, a 10-minute walk away. The street had many small shops and was a lively commercial hub for nearby residents. In summer, it became the meeting place for boys during cricket fighting season. The approximately 150-meter street was lined on both sides with cricket stalls. Among these, a few were well-established, but most were run by young individual vendors; some sat on small stools, while the majority sat directly on the ground. The sounds of chirping crickets, vendors shouting, friends calling out, and arguments filled the air, creating a bustling scene. At that time, small crickets cost 2 cents, slightly larger ones 5 cents, and the most expensive no more than 50 cents. With only a few pennies in my pocket, I could not afford to buy, but could not resist the temptation of cricket fighting, so I decided to go to Pudong to catch crickets.

To get from Puxi to Pudong, I took the ferry on Fuxing East Road, which cost 10 cents. I purchased my ticket for the outward journey and was able to return without buying another. Not having enough money, I teamed up with a friend, and we took a small boat to Pudong Tangqiao, then came back on the ferry, spending a total of only 3 cents.

Once we arrived at Tangqiao, I immediately dove into the edamame fields, where crickets jumped with delight. The two of us quickly caught around 20. The air in the edamame fields was muggy, and we soon had to scurry out for some fresh air, stashing the crickets in a small bamboo tube. Back home, we smashed the edamame to feed them, ensuring each cricket was well-fed.

What to do with so many crickets? We both agreed, “Let’s go sell crickets on Flower Clothes Street!” We were extremely excited and set clear prices: the biggest one for 10 cents, another sizable one for 5 cents, and the smaller ones for 2 cents each. Eagerly, we hurried to Flower Clothes Street, found an empty spot, and set up our stall. However, despite the number of onlookers, no one bought anything, and after an hour, we hadn’t sold a single cricket.

Just as we began to worry, a cocky teenager approached, glanced at our basin marked “10 cents,” and provocatively challenged me, “You dare sell this junk for 10 cents? I have a 2-cent one; want to fight?” He opened his basin to reveal a rather small cricket. Seeing his mocking expression ignited my stubborn spirit, and I yelled back, “Let’s fight, who’s afraid of who?”

News of the cricket fight attracted a group of spectators. As my basin was larger than his, the rules dictated he had to place his cricket in mine. Cricket fights did not involve betting money; the loser simply had to surrender their cricket to the winner. My cricket was particularly vigorous; as soon as it entered my basin, it spun its