Living Like a Local: A Day in the Life of a Chengdu Resident Amidst Baozi Stalls and Teahouses

Alright, so picture this — it’s 6:30 a.m. in Chengdu, and I’m already wide awake, not because I’m some fitness guru or early-bird productivity hacker, but because my stomach is doing backflips over the thought of hot, fluffy baozi steaming away at the corner stall down the street. Yeah, that’s how we roll here. No fancy lattes or avocado toast (though, don’t get me wrong, those exist too). Here, breakfast means meat-filled buns, chili oil-drenched dan dan noodles, and a thermos of strong jasmine tea that somehow kicks more ass than three espressos.

I throw on some comfy clothes — nothing too flashy, just a loose cotton shirt and sandals, ‘cause in Chengdu, comfort is king. The weather? Always somewhere between ‘mildly humid’ and ‘feels like a warm hug from your grandma.’ Perfect for wandering. I step out of my apartment building, which, by the way, is one of those classic five-story walk-ups with laundry dangling from balconies like colorful banners. Old-school charm? You bet.

The streets are already buzzing. Aunties in floral pants are doing tai chi in the park across the way, their movements slow and graceful, like they’re pushing invisible clouds. Meanwhile, grandpas are playing chess under a tree, yelling dramatically every time someone takes a piece. It’s loud, chaotic, and absolutely beautiful.

I make a beeline for my favorite baozi vendor, Old Li, who’s been running this spot since, like, the 90s. His hands move like lightning — grab dough, stuff filling, pinch shut, steam. Repeat. He doesn’t even look up when I say, “Two pork buns, extra chili!” He just nods, tosses them in the bamboo steamer, and slides them into a paper bag like he’s done it a million times. Because he has.

I take a bite — oh man. The bun is soft as a cloud, the pork juicy and spiced just right, and that chili oil? It hits you slow, then BAM — warmth spreads through your chest like you’ve been hugged from the inside. Perfection.

After breakfast, I stroll through the neighborhood market. This isn’t your sterile supermarket with squeaky floors and sad-looking lettuce. Nah. This is real — vendors shouting prices, fish flapping on ice, mountains of Sichuan peppercorns glowing red like little jewels, and old ladies haggling over bok choy like it’s the Olympics of negotiation. I grab some fresh greens, a block of tofu, and a jar of homemade pickles — all for less than $2. Chengdu life is kind to your wallet.

By 10 a.m., I’m chilling at a local teahouse in People’s Park. This place? Legendary. Wooden tables, mismatched chairs, smoke from incense curling into the air. Locals come here not just to drink tea, but to *live*. Some are reading newspapers, others playing mahjong, and a few are even getting their ears cleaned by a guy with a tiny flashlight and a feather-tipped tool. Yep. Ear cleaning is a thing here. And honestly? Worth it.

I order a cup of Emei Mao Feng — light, floral, and slightly sweet. They serve it in a glass gaiwan, the kind with the lid and saucer. You swirl it just right, sip slow, and suddenly, time slows down too. No rush. No stress. Just tea, chatter, and the occasional bird chirping from the trees above.

Around noon, I meet up with my friend Mei near Chunxi Road. She’s dressed like she walked out of a fashion magazine, while I’m still in yesterday’s vibes. But hey, in Chengdu, both styles coexist perfectly. We hit up a hole-in-the-wall joint that serves the best mapo tofu in the city. The dish arrives — bubbling, crimson-red, covered in that numbing Sichuan peppercorn magic, with ground pork swimming in sauce and tofu so soft it melts before you even chew. We pair it with rice and a cold Tsingtao beer. Spicy food + cold beer = Chengdu’s version of therapy.

Post-lunch, we wander through Kuanzhai Alley — old Qing-dynasty courtyards turned into hip cafes, art shops, and souvenir stalls. Tourists love it, sure, but locals still hang around too. There’s a guy playing the erhu on a bench, its haunting melody floating through the narrow lanes. We stop to listen, buy handmade sugar sculptures from an old artisan, and snap a few pics — not for Instagram, just ‘cause it feels right.

By 4 p.m., I’m back home, kicking off my sandals and crashing on the couch. Chengdu pace is slow, and I respect that. I scroll through Douyin (China’s TikTok), watch a panda sneeze (again), and laugh at memes about office workers avoiding their boss. Then, nap. Essential.

Waking up around 6, I head to Jinli Street as the sun dips low. The lanterns start glowing, turning everything golden. The smell of grilled skewers fills the air — lamb, tofu, mushrooms, all brushed with cumin and chili. I grab a few sticks, eat them walking, grease dripping onto my fingers. Zero regrets.

Evenings here are for strolling, chatting, and people-watching. Couples hold hands, kids chase each other with sparklers, and old folks dance in groups to pop songs blasting from portable speakers. It’s joyful. Unfiltered. Alive.

Later, I end up at a late-night hot pot spot with a few friends. Table full of raw meat, veggies, tofu, and bowls of raw egg (yes, we dip our beef in egg — trust me, it works). The broth starts boiling — fiery red, bubbling like lava. We dunk, swirl, fish out, and eat. Sweat pours, faces turn red, but no one stops. This isn’t just dinner. It’s bonding. It’s culture. It’s love in a pot.

As midnight rolls around, we stumble out, full and happy, walking under neon signs and quiet streets. Chengdu never fully sleeps, but it does exhale at night — calm, content, humming with quiet energy.

Back home, I sit on my balcony, sip herbal tea, and look at the city lights. No skyscrapers piercing the sky, no insane hustle. Just life. Simple, spicy, and deeply human.

This is Chengdu. Not perfect. Not flashy. But real. And if you ever visit, skip the guidebooks. Wake up early, follow the smell of baozi, sit in a noisy teahouse, burn your mouth on hot pot, and let the city welcome you — not as a tourist, but as one of us.