small businesses

Every time I see flowers, I am reminded of my abuela. My fondest memories are of her telling tall tales of her garden in Costa Rica: of wild tiger lilies, roaring dandelions, and cawing birds of paradise that animals all over San José would flock to. If I were to explain this to my walking partner Sissi, who grew up here in Shanghai, I’d tell her 外婆 (wàipó), my mother’s mother. Perhaps she’d have her own stories of a grandparent, and memories of times in gardens, parks, yards — spaces made alive by flowers.

Walking the streets and lanes in the area around the Changshu Lu Metro Station in the former French Concession, I can’t help but notice the rows of flower shops that line the street; the cologne of the scene, with accents of nostalgia and cigarette smoke, begins to clump my throat.

Eventually, after passing by what seems like one upscale café after another, Sissi and I spot a floral vendor hidden by a half-open door in an alley and I immediately turn into it to gape at his cart of colors. 

He sits on a worn-down blue office chair in his corner. The cart construction itself is simple: very obviously handmade blocks of wood create layers for the flower hierarchy. The expensive, exotic flowers sit on their wooden throne, overlooking the more common crowds of tulips and carnations down below. Compared to the more concrete stores a few steps away, his flowers are not only inexpensive, but more carefully tended to.

Soon enough, I pick a bunch of scarlet dahlias to adorn my dorm with and he goes again to a hidden bicycle to wrap them in newspaper with a certain tenderness visible to the watchful eye. Wrapping them is an art form he has practiced many times for his customers; perhaps they were lovers, mourners, or children. They could have been paramours, hiding their affairs in the petals of the roses, or widowers, offering atonement in daisies. But each person receives his dedicated attention nevertheless, for he is only a facilitator for matrimony between them and his precious flora.

It is clear he speaks their language, a loving dialect formed from a subjective, often cultural, human interpretation of flowers. In China, I later learn, magnolias, once reputedly reserved for the emperor, have served as an emblem of wealth, honor, and a high esteem. Likewise, transcending the need for words in this culture are white peonies, whose presence indicates a thoughtfulness the giver wishes to convey. Perhaps instead of replacing words, they could paint a picture or manifest an abstract wish. 

Of course, each culture has their own floral dialect. Back in Costa Rica, a flower known as La Guaria Morada, often tucked behind my abuela’s ear, is associated with her country’s feminine beauty and patriotism. Offering someone a bouquet of these perfumed beauties signifies fortune and good luck for the upcoming future, and many festivals are arranged throughout the year to celebrate their artistry. 

Demonstrated in Costa Rica, flowers are most commonly tethered to the idea of beauty. Delicate, exquisite, and alluring, yes, but also fleeting in nature. When flowers are cut at their stems to act as our offerings, their lifespan rapidly deteriorates. On their destination to death, we humans decorate our spaces with their color to embrace the transience of their grace. In the short period that we are able to hold them, flowers bloom into full radiance, then wither away until their glory we worshipped enough to cut is no longer tangible. There is an emphasis on taking time to savor the little moments in life, ones where we exist at the same time as a flower’s lifespan, ones of Earth’s natural joy and beauty. Walking down Changshu Lu and the surrounding roads, the world suddenly seems a little brighter.

My adventure through these streets has been a bit like Alice’s in Wonderland. Everything seems to be outlandishly upside down and I find myself in a cart-shaped garden where the flowers are singing lovely songs to me. The people are shouting what sounds like nonsense and I’m overwhelmed with a particular nostalgia for home, but I insistingly follow my white rabbit (Sissi, who ironically happens to be running late for an appointment) in hopes to escape the outside world I’ve grown too familiar with. When I come out of the rabbit hole, it will all feel like a distant dream but the sights will be engraved in my mind, so as to not forget this golden afternoon.