At 8:30 PM, I walked back along the Ancient City wall. The lanterns were all lit—red lanterns reflected on the grey city walls with swaying shadows. The sound of a guitar drifted from a bar in the distance, while nearby, pedestrians were releasing river lanterns. The lanterns floated along the water, carrying candlelight toward Erhai Lake. Back at the hotel, the front desk auntie smiled and handed me a cup of hot milk: “Tired today? This milk was sent from a dairy farm in the Ancient City; it’s fresh.” Drinking the milk and lying on the bed, I thought: going to Shuanglang tomorrow, need to get up early; I heard the Rushan there is made differently.

Day 4: Looking for Snacks Around Erhai, Don’t Miss Xizhou Baba

Rented an electric scooter at the North Gate of the Ancient City at 8:00 AM. The owner was a tanned Bai big brother who repeatedly patted my seat to remind me: “Go slow on the East Erhai Ring Road. The rice fields are in full bloom along the way, and there are old courtyards in Xizhou to visit—80 yuan a day, battery is full, enough for a round trip.” I hopped on, and the wind wrapped in morning mist hit my face as I first dove into the paddy field scenery of East Erhai Ring Road—the green rice seedlings were just starting to head, the scent of wild chrysanthemums drifted from the ridges, and occasionally, I could see Bai aunties in bamboo hats walking with hoes, with the distant Cangshan Mountains still veiled in a thin mist.

After riding for 40 minutes, the old locust tree of Xizhou Sifang Street came into view—Yang Shunbao’s Broken Crust Baba sign hung under the tree. The red cloth was a bit faded at the edges, but the queue never broke, including tourists in tie-dye skirts and local old ladies with bamboo baskets. I stood at the end of the line and watched the owner knead the dough: the dough on the board was soft and fluffy, sprinkled with dry yeast, kneaded smooth, and then rolled into thin cakes, wrapped with rose sugar or ham and green onion, and put into a cast iron griddle. The griddle was red-hot, and the owner flipped the cakes with bamboo pieces. Soon, there was a “sizzling” sound—when the Sweet Baba (5 yuan/piece) was done, the crust was so crispy it crumbled, and biting it revealed flowing rose sugar filling, a very clear sweetness, like biting into a fresh rose with honey. The Salty Baba (6 yuan/piece) was even better; the ham bits were from local pigs in Xuanwei, the green onions were tender enough to pinch water out of, the crust was “crunchy,” and the filling was wrapped in the wheat aroma of the dough and the saltiness of the ham; I couldn’t even bear to throw away the crumbs on my hand. The owner chatted with a smile: “I’ve been making this Baba for 30 years. The secret is to knead the dough for 20 minutes and keep the fire even—if you like it, next time take two vacuum-packed boxes; they last for three days.”

At 2:00 PM, I continued riding along Erhai. The rice scent in the wind turned into the saltiness of Erhai—passed a wetland with small blue flowers where egrets flapped their wings and flew up, and fishing boats with white sails were in the distance. Arriving at Shuanglang, the sun was a bit hot on my shoulders, so I ducked into “Seaside Life” bistro at the alley entrance—the owner was a young Bai lad in a floral apron who shouted when he saw me: “The sour and spicy fish is just ready, want a portion?”

When the Sour and Spicy Fish (50 yuan/portion) was served, the broth was milky white with a few slices of sour papaya and millet chili floating in it. The fish was Erhai Gongyu (a local freshwater fish with firm meat), arranged neatly. I took a spoonful of soup; the sourness was the gentleness of sour papaya, and the spiciness was the freshness of millet chili, sliding down my throat and warming my stomach. Taking a bite of the fish, it was tender with few bones, carrying the sour fragrance of the soup; it was so fresh I wanted to suck the bones clean. The lad said: “The sour papaya was picked from the mountain this morning, and the fish was caught at dawn; it’s all about freshness.” I also ordered Cold Tossed Tree Flower (15 yuan/portion)—the light brown tree flower was crisp, like jellyfish but with more plant bitterness. Dipping it in the owner’s vinegar-garlic sauce perfectly cut the richness of the fish. The lad smiled: “Tree flower is a wild vegetable by Erhai; only locals know how to make it. If you like it, I’ll pack some raw for you to toss yourself at home.”

Erhai Snacks · Personal Practical Tips

• Rent Electric Scooter: There are reliable shops at the North Gate of the Ancient City or in Xizhou. Choose one with a range of over 100 km, 80-100 yuan/day, and remember to ask for a helmet (owners usually provide one).
• Yang Shunbao Broken Crust Baba: Must go early! I arrived at 9:30 AM and 15 people were already in line. Try both sweet and salty—the sweet isn’t cloying, and the salty is fragrant. Freshly baked is the most authentic.
• Xizhou to Shuanglang: Ride along the East Erhai Ring Road, about 50 km total. Along the way are rice fields, wetlands, and fishing villages. Remember to bring a bottle of water and find a shady tree to rest at noon.
• Seaside Life Sour and Spicy Fish: Gongyu is an Erhai specialty, and the sour papaya broth is the soul. Don’t miss the cold tossed tree flower—a hidden local way to eat, bitter and refreshing.

Riding back to Shuanglang beach in the evening, I sat on a rattan chair at the bistro entrance, blowing the Erhai breeze and munching on the remaining Salty Baba. The distant sunset dyed Erhai orange, and the whistle of returning fishing boats drifted over. I suddenly felt—the meaning of circling Erhai is not to rush, but to stop, have a bite of hot Baba, drink a sip of fresh fish soup, and smell the rice fragrance in the wind.

Day 5: Arrive in Lijiang, Have Cured Pork Rib Hotpot for Lunch

At 10:00 AM, I entered the station with my D8782 high-speed train ticket. Dali’s wind still carried the humidity of Erhai. After getting on the train, I realized the scenery outside had changed—the grey outline of Cangshan slowly merged into continuous green mountains, and occasionally I could see farmers in bamboo hats bending over to plant seedlings in terraced fields. A Bai auntie in a tie-dye skirt next to me chatted while peeling sugar oranges: “Little girl going to Lijiang? The cured pork ribs at Grandma’s in Xiangshan Market are the most authentic. The broth is simmered thick, and the cured fragrance drifts down half the street.” I smiled and responded. When the train entered a tunnel, my ears felt a bit muffled. I pulled out my phone to confirm: Grandma’s place is at the third entrance of Xiangshan Market, with a red-on-white sign and faded plastic lanterns.

At 12:00 PM sharp, I stepped onto the bluestones of Lijiang Station. The wind suddenly carried a scent of osmanthus—it turns out autumn in Lijiang already hides some sweetness. Took a taxi to Xiangshan Market. The driver swung the steering wheel and said: “That market is old Lijiang’s vegetable basket. Every morning, locals go to Grandma’s to pack cured pork ribs. You’re in luck; today’s broth has been simmering for a long time.” The car stopped at the market entrance, and from afar, I saw the “Grandma Cured Pork Ribs” sign. Bamboo baskets were piled with neatly chopped ribs, the oily lean meat glowing jujube red, looking delicious.

Entering the shop, the owner in a dark blue cotton shirt wiped the wooden table and looked up: “Small pot or large pot? Small is enough for two, perfect with potatoes and water chestnuts.” I nodded for a small pot (68 yuan) and found a window seat—the window faced the market alley, where I could see an old lady carrying bamboo baskets of porcini mushrooms with morning dew. Soon, the pot was served: the broth was deep brown with a layer of oil from the cured ribs. The owner handed me a ladle: “Have a hot sip first; this broth has been stewed with cured ribs for 4 hours, no MSG added.” I took a sip—it was savory with a faint smokiness, as if Lijiang’s sunlight was dried into the soup, sliding down my throat and immediately warming my stomach.

Then I added potatoes and water chestnuts (the owner said it’s the “soul pairing”): the potatoes were local small ones, boiled until floury and soft, falling apart when picked up, full of soaked broth; the water chestnuts were crisp with a characteristic plant bitterness, perfectly neutralizing the saltiness of the ribs. I added a portion of cabbage and tofu (10 yuan/portion): after the cabbage softened, the leaves soaked up the soup, every bite full of cured fragrance; the tofu was so tender it melted in the mouth, with even the tofu skin soaked in flavor. Finally, I drank the bowl of soup dry; it was so fresh I wanted to swallow my tongue. The owner laughed and slapped his thigh: “Glad you enjoyed it, girl; once the soup is cold, it loses its soul.”

Wandered the Ancient City in the afternoon. The stone path was a bit slippery. I walked along the Middle River where a ginkgo leaf floated in the stream. There were stalls selling handmade silver jewelry; the owner held a small hammer to tap bells, the sound as crisp as snow from Jade Dragon Snow Mountain. Passing Sifang Street, several Naxi elders sat around dancing Dongba dances, their colorful scarves swinging fast, while tourists took photos with laughter drifting far away.

In the evening, I wandered to Dayan Flower Alley. A roasted Erkuai stall at the entrance was steaming—the iron plate on the small stove was red-hot. The owner picked up a piece of Erkuai and put it on; soon it puffed up like a small balloon, the crust “cracking” with crispness. I ordered one with fried dough sticks and peanut sauce (6 yuan/piece): the Erkuai was crispy outside and soft inside, like biting into freshly steamed rice cake; the fried dough stick was freshly fried and crumbly; the peanut sauce was freshly ground, rich but not greasy. Wrapped in the Erkuai, one bite was a mix of crispy, soft, and fragrant, just enough to fill me up. The owner wiped his hands and said: “This Erkuai was made this morning; the rice is from Lijiang, very soft.”

On the way back to the hotel, moonlight spilled onto the bluestones of the Ancient City like a layer of frost. The Naxi courtyard (220 yuan/night) where I stayed was in an alley; opening the window, I could see the eaves of the neighboring old house with a red lantern swaying in the wind. The room had a woody scent, with soft blue-and-white tie-dye sheets. The front desk auntie handed me a cup of hot Pu-erh tea: “Going to Jade Dragon Snow Mountain tomorrow? Remember to bring a thick jacket; the wind on the mountain is strong.” Drinking tea and sitting by the window looking at the moon, the Ancient City night was very quiet, with only faint guitar sounds from a distant bar. I suddenly felt—the taste of Lijiang is the saltiness of cured pork ribs, the crispness of roasted Erkuai, and the wind at the eaves of old houses.

Grandma Cured Pork Ribs · Personal Practical Tips:

• Must order the small pot of cured pork ribs (68 yuan): the broth is simmered for 4 hours, savory with a smoky flavor, fresh enough to drink three bowls.
• Add potatoes + water chestnuts: potatoes are soft and soak up soup, water chestnuts are crisp and cut the greasiness; the local “golden combination.”
• Cabbage + tofu (10 yuan/portion): cabbage soaks up the soup, tofu is melt-in-the-mouth tender, very cost-effective.

Day 6: Eating Snacks in Lijiang Ancient City, Busy Day and Night

In the morning, I hopped on a small green minibus with 2 yuan. The bus body had “Lijiang Bus” in red. It bumped through the vegetable fields outside the Ancient City. The foxtails by the road were dazzling, and occasionally I could see old ladies in dark blue tie-dye skirts carrying bamboo baskets with radishes still covered in mud. Shuhe is much quieter than Dayan; the bluestone paths are so narrow they almost touch the shop signs. I went straight to “A’an Yogurt” at the alley entrance—wooden tables and chairs were crowded together. The owner was an auntie in a blue cloth shirt; seeing me, she scooped a bowl of yogurt into a coarse ceramic bowl and handed it over: “Just out of the pot, very thick.”

The yogurt was really like solidified double-skin milk; a spoonful could coat the spoon, and the surface was sprinkled with a layer of toasted fried rice. I licked the milk from the corner of my mouth; it was sweet but not cloying, the crunch of the fried rice mixing with the milk aroma. The auntie wiped her hands and said: “This milk is fresh from the back mountain pasture, no gel added; it won’t separate even if left for two hours—if you like it, take a box back, but don’t put it in the fridge or it will release water.” I sat on a stone pier at the door to eat; a child nearby stared at my yogurt, and his mom poked his forehead with a smile: “When you grow taller, auntie will give you more fried rice.”

Then I wandered to Zhongyi Market. As soon as I entered, I was enveloped by noise—stalls selling porcini and termite mushrooms with morning dew on their caps; an auntie selling fruit shouted: “Just picked, sweet as honey!” I squeezed to the Chickpea Jelly stall. A plump lady in an oily apron waved: “Cold tossed or fried?” “Both!” I pulled out 10 yuan. The cold tossed version came with a thick layer of red chili flakes; after mixing, the sour and spicy scent “boomed” out—the jelly was slippery like crystal gel, appetizingly sour and satisfyingly spicy. The fried version was sliced thin and so crispy you could hear the “crunch,” soft inside, and eating it with her coarse chili flakes made it more fragrant with every chew. The lady wiped her sweat and laughed: “Chickpeas grow on Lijiang’s mountains; the jelly must be simmered just right to be Q. Next time I’ll give you two more spoons of vinegar.”

Returned to Dayan Ancient City at noon and headed straight for “Naxi Barbecue” on Guangyi Street—the old wooden sign had four crooked characters. The owner was a sturdy Naxi man who patted the grill and shouted: “The pork belly is ready!” A portion of barbecue (48 yuan) was served; the fat-and-lean meat was grilled crispy with small bubbles on the skin, oil dripping onto the charcoal with a “sizzling” white smoke. The man handed over a plate of fresh mint: “Pair it with this; it cuts the greasiness.” I picked up a piece; the skin was so crispy it made a sound, the fat melted like cream, and the lean meat was tender with a bit of chew. The coolness of the mint immediately cleared the grease; I ate three pieces without feeling stuffed. The man wiped the grill and said: “The meat was marinated with salt and mint this morning; you have to watch it while grilling, or it gets bitter if burnt—see this charred edge? It locks in the juices.”

In the evening, I sat by the river on a stone bench at the foot of Lion Mountain. The wind carried the scent of osmanthus. Ordered a bottle of Wind-Flower-Snow-Moon Beer (10 yuan/bottle), chilled just right. One sip, and the refreshing malt aroma with a hint of bitterness slid down my throat. Watching the lanterns by the river light up—red, yellow, reflecting like broken silver in the water. The laughter of tourists and the guitar from the bar drifted over. Feeling the leftover chickpea jelly paper bag in my pocket and thinking of the morning’s yogurt and noon’s pork belly, I suddenly felt—the comfort of Lijiang is not having to rush, just sitting down for something hot, something cold, and watching the lanterns slowly light up.

Lijiang Snacks · Personal Practical Info Table

Type	Shop/Stall	Recommended Dish	Price	Core Features/Experience
Fresh Yogurt	A’an Yogurt (Shuhe Branch)	Freshly Brewed Yogurt	8 yuan/bowl	Thick enough to coat spoon, sprinkled with fried rice; milk is fresh from pastures, no additives; don’t refrigerate if taking to go.
Chickpea Jelly	Zhongyi Market Stall	Cold Tossed/Fried Chickpea Jelly	5 yuan/portion	Cold version is sour-spicy and appetizing; fried version is crispy and fragrant. Chickpeas are local; jelly is Q-textured.
Naxi Barbecue	Naxi Barbecue (Guangyi Street)	Roasted Pork Belly	48 yuan/portion	Marinated with salt and mint, grilled crispy; paired with fresh mint to cut grease; lean and fat mix isn’t dry.
Beer	Riverside (Lion Mountain Foot)	Wind-Flower-Snow-Moon Beer	10 yuan/bottle	Icy malt aroma with slight bitterness; perfect with evening lanterns and river breeze for relaxation.