My earliest memory of my grandfather was on the back of his bicycle. At that time, I was only ten, and my grandfather had picked me up from my morning calligraphy lesson. It was a daily routine I had when I stayed in Shanghai over the holidays, and my grandfather was responsible for picking me up after lesson. My grandfather, oblivious to the cold winter winds, was shouting over the cacophony to ask me what I wanted to have for lunch. It was a treat for me after the morning lesson everyday as he would always brought me to an eatery which served piping hot dumplings. Moreover, that day's journey was unique, ice pellets began falling from the sky as my grandfather peddled furiously to get me to the nearby eatery while I held on tight to his waist behind his black, old bicycle.
The long-standing eatery was filled with people during the lunchtime hours. Queuing up for food or being polite was not the way of life in Shanghai, people were pushing and shoving at each other to get a seat or order their food. My grandfather, with his big built, stood between the crowd and me as he did not want me to be knocked off my feet. Finally, we found seats and our food came a short while later. I gingerly took a pair of cho