1. A Scene: A September Dusk in Florence
It was mid-September 2024, and the evenings in Florence had begun to carry a slight chill. Outside the terrace of Giaogiao, the Arno River shimmered with golden light, and the distant Ponte Vecchio looked like an oil painting faded by time.
Hans sat in the corner of the terrace. He is a friend I've known for eight years — fifty-five years old, German, in the wine import business in Florence. His golden-brown hair had started to turn gray. He wore a soft, well-washed blue linen shirt and held a cup of Tieguanyin tea I had brewed for him.
"Liu," he said, pointing at a box on the table, "what's this? Looks like pastries."
I opened the box, revealing four mooncakes. Their golden crusts were stamped with intricate patterns, like four round ancient coins.
"Mooncakes. Tomorrow is the Mid-Autumn Festival."
"Mid-Autumn Festival?" Hans's eyes lit up. "I've heard of it. It's your Chinese Thanksgiving, right?"
I smiled and didn't rush to answer. I picked up a mooncake, broke it in half, revealing the deep red bean paste filling inside.
"Try it first."
Hans took half, bit into it cautiously. His brow furrowed at first, then slowly relaxed.
"Very sweet. But... there's a strange taste."
"Red bean paste. Made from red beans."
"It's not the red bean taste," he chewed, "it's something else. There's a... how do I put it... fatty aroma?"
"Right. Mooncakes contain lard."
Hans stopped and looked at me.
"Lard?"
"Yes. Traditional mooncake pastry is made with lard and flour. It's called 'su pi' — flaky pastry."
He took another bite, this time savoring it carefully.
"Interesting. Germany has something similar — Christmas Stollen, which also uses a lot of butter. But your mooncakes are round."
"Yes. Round."
"Why round?"
I looked out the window. The sunset was slowly sinking behind the Old Bridge, painting the sky orange-red.
"Because the moon is round."
Hans followed my gaze. The moon hadn't risen yet, but I knew it would tonight — big and round, like a thinly sliced mooncake hanging in the Florentine sky.
"You Germans celebrate Christmas," I said, "the whole family sits around the Christmas tree, right?"
"Right."
"Chinese people celebrate Mid-Autumn Festival — the whole family sits under the moon."
Hans was silent for a while, then took another sip of Tieguanyin.
"But there's one thing I don't understand," he said. "Why the moon? Why are you Chinese so obsessed with the moon?"
I laughed. I've been asked this question for twenty-five years.
---
2. A Lighthearted Misunderstanding: The Mid-Autumn Festival Is Not "Chinese Thanksgiving"
"Hans," I said, "do you know how many Europeans tell me every year that the Mid-Autumn Festival is 'Chinese Thanksgiving'?"
"A lot?"
"A great many. I once attended a cultural event in Milan where an Italian lady walked up to me enthusiastically and said: 'I know the Mid-Autumn Festival! It's your Chinese Thanksgiving! A time for gratitude and reunion, right?'"
Hans laughed.
"Was she wrong?"
"Not entirely. But it's like saying 'beer is Germany's Coke' — yes, they're both drinks, but the logic behind them is completely different."
Hans put down his teacup and looked at me seriously.
"So what's the difference?"
"The core of Thanksgiving is 'gratitude' — thanking God, thanking the harvest, thanking the earth. It's a festival of 'human to God, human to nature.'"
"The core of the Mid-Autumn Festival is 'reunion' — family gathering, gazing at the moon, missing loved ones far away. It's a festival of 'human to human.'"
Hans thought about it.
"But you also give thanks for the harvest, right? Autumn harvest, then celebration."
"Yes, but the harvest is just the backdrop. Like your German Oktoberfest — it's also in autumn, also after the harvest. But you wouldn't call Oktoberfest a Thanksgiving, would you?"
"Of course not. Oktoberfest is for drinking."
"Exactly! The core of Oktoberfest is 'revelry.' The core of Mid-Autumn Festival is 'reunion.' The harvest is just a coincidence of timing — autumn does bring harvest, but Chinese people celebrate Mid-Autumn not to thank the harvest, but to sit with the people they love most in the season of harvest."
Hans nodded, but a hint of confusion remained.
"What about mooncakes? Aren't they a symbol of harvest? Round, like the fruits of abundance."
I burst out laughing.
"Hans, do you know that mooncakes were originally not meant to be eaten at all?"
"What?"
"Mooncakes were originally offerings to the moon."
"Offerings?"
"Yes. In ancient China, on Mid-Autumn night, every family would set up a table in the courtyard with mooncakes, fruit, and osmanthus wine as offerings to the moon. Only after the offering would people eat them."
"So mooncakes were... sacrificial items?"
"Once upon a time. Later they gradually became food. But their shape — round — was never meant to symbolize the fruits of harvest."
"Then what was it for?"
"To symbolize reunion."
Hans looked at me, his eyes gleaming with that characteristic German thirst for knowledge.
"Liu," he said, "I'm starting to think my understanding of the Mid-Autumn Festival is far less than you might imagine."
"It's alright," I smiled. "Twenty-five years ago, my understanding of the Mid-Autumn Festival was also far less than it is now."
---
3. The Chinese Explanation: Why Are Chinese People So Obsessed with the Moon?
Night deepened. The lights on the terrace came on, casting a warm yellow glow over the wooden table. I brewed another pot of tea — aged Pu'er this time, suitable for telling a long story slowly.
"Hans, have you read Greek mythology?"
"Of course. Apollo, Artemis..."
"Right. Your moon goddess is Artemis. She's the goddess of the hunt, representing wildness and power."
"Yes."
"The Chinese moon doesn't house a goddess. It houses a woman — Chang'e."
"Chang'e?"
"The story of Chang'e is one every Chinese child has heard."
I put down the teapot and began telling that story I had heard since childhood and told countless times since.
"Once upon a time — how long ago? Roughly the same era as your Greek mythological heroes — there were ten suns in the sky."
"Ten?"
"Yes. Ten suns hung in the sky together. The earth was scorched, rivers dried up, crops died."
"Then there was a hero named Hou Yi. He drew his divine bow and shot down nine suns, leaving only one."
"The earth recovered. Hou Yi became a hero."
"But Hou Yi was no ordinary man. In the process of shooting the suns, he gained the power of the immortals. The Queen Mother of the West — the mother of all Chinese gods — bestowed upon him a pill of immortality. Take this pill, and one would ascend to become an immortal, living forever."
Hans leaned forward, like a child listening to a fairy tale.
"Hou Yi had a beautiful wife named Chang'e. Hou Yi loved Chang'e. He didn't want to become an immortal alone — he wanted to become one with Chang'e. So he didn't take the pill. He gave it to Chang'e for safekeeping."
"But Hou Yi had an apprentice named Feng Meng. When Feng Meng learned of this, he broke in while Hou Yi was away and forced Chang'e to hand over the pill."
"Chang'e, with no way out, in her desperation, swallowed the pill herself."
"As soon as the pill entered her mouth, her body began to float — lighter and lighter, higher and higher, until she flew to the moon."
"Hou Yi returned home to find his wife gone. He looked up at the sky. The moon was big and round, blindingly bright. He knew Chang'e was there, never to return."
Hans was silent for a long time.
"This... this is a tragedy."
"Yes," I said. "The love stories Chinese people love most are almost all tragedies."
"Then why celebrate?"
"Because what we celebrate is not the tragedy itself, but what lies behind it."
"What?"
"Longing."
I lifted my teacup and took a sip.
"After Chang'e's ascension, every Mid-Autumn night, Hou Yi would set out Chang'e's favorite pastries in the courtyard and offer them to the moon from afar."
"Gradually, this custom spread. Chinese people began to offer sacrifices to the moon, admire the moon, and eat mooncakes on Mid-Autumn night."
"But why?"
"Because every Chinese person has a Hou Yi living in their heart."
"We have all loved someone, missed someone, or are missing someone right now."
"On Mid-Autumn night, the moon is at its roundest and brightest. You look up at the moon. No matter where you are in the world, you see the same moon."
"The person you miss is also looking at the same moon."
"The moon becomes the only connection between you."
Hans was silent for a long time. Then he said softly:
"So the Mid-Autumn Festival is not about gratitude. It's about longing."
"Yes," I said. "Not about thanking God for the harvest, but thanking the moon — because it lets us know that even when we are thousands of miles apart, we still share the same sky."
---
4. The Deeper Cultural Logic: Why Do Chinese People Always Embed Emotion in Food?
The night on the terrace grew deeper. The wind from the river carried the chill of autumn. Hans buttoned his shirt one button higher.
"Liu," he said, "I still have one question."
"Go ahead."
"Why do you Chinese people always embed so much emotion in food? Mooncakes, dumplings, tangyuan, zongzi... every festival has its specific food, and every food has its symbolic meaning."
"Don't Europeans do the same?" I said. "Christmas roast goose, Easter lamb, Thanksgiving turkey."
"Yes, but we eat these foods because of 'tradition' — grandma did it, mom did it, so I do it too. We don't assign a 'symbolic meaning' to every single food."
"You wouldn't say: turkey symbolizes gratitude, roast goose symbolizes the birth of Jesus. You just eat."
"But Chinese people will articulate the meaning of every food."
I thought about it. I had actually been thinking about this question for twenty-five years.
"Hans, do you know why Chinese people don't have a unified religion?"
"I know. China has no state religion. Confucianism, Taoism, Buddhism — they all exist simultaneously."
"Yes. But this also means: Chinese people have no 'unified God' to confide in."
"When Europeans face difficulties, they can go to church and pray. When they feel sad, they can confess to a priest."
"What about Chinese people?"
"Chinese people embed their emotions in food."
"Why are dumplings a symbol of reunion? Because their shape resembles gold ingots, and also like ears. Eating dumplings in winter keeps your ears from freezing — that's the surface explanation. The deeper meaning is: the whole family sits together making dumplings, each person wrapping one, putting them into the same pot to boil. When they're done, everyone picks from the same plate."
"That process itself is reunion."
"Why is tangyuan a symbol of reunion? Because it's round, and it's 'sticky' — sticking together, inseparable."
"Why is zongzi in memory of Qu Yuan? Because Qu Yuan drowned himself in a river, and people wrapped rice in bamboo leaves and threw them into the river to prevent fish and shrimp from eating his body."
"Why is the mooncake a symbol of reunion? Because it's round, and it's 'cut open and shared' — a family sharing the same mooncake is like sharing the same moon."
Hans listened, spellbound.
"So for Chinese people, food is not just nutrition?"
"Not just nutrition."
"It's language?"
"It's language, it's ritual, it's memory."
"In 1998, I spent my first Spring Festival in Germany," I said. "I had only been in Germany for three months. My German was halting, and I lived alone in a student dormitory in Frankfurt."
"On New Year's Eve, I cooked a bag of frozen dumplings by myself. The dumplings broke open, skins and filling separating, floating in a pot of cloudy water."
"I sat at the table, looking at that pot of dumplings, and suddenly burst into tears."
"Not because the dumplings tasted bad. But because that pot of dumplings reminded me of home in China — every New Year's Eve, the dumplings mom made, the skins dad rolled, the whole family around the table, the Spring Festival Gala on TV."
"That pot of broken dumplings was my only connection to home."
Hans looked at me, saying nothing.
"Later, in Spain, in Italy, every time I arrived in a new place, I would buy a mooncake for Mid-Autumn Festival — even the cheapest kind from the supermarket."
"I don't necessarily like eating it. But I need that act."
"Taking a bite of mooncake is like saying a word to the moon: I'm alright. I'm still thinking of you."
---
5. Learn a Chinese Word: 圆 (Yuán)
"Speaking of mooncakes and reunion," I took out a pen from my pocket and wrote a character on a napkin, "let's learn a Chinese word today."
On the paper was one character: 圆.
"This character," I said, "might be the most important character for the Mid-Autumn Festival."
Hans leaned in to look.
"Its traditional form is written like this: 圓. A square frame on the outside, with '員' inside."
"The simplified character streamlines it, but the meaning remains the same."
"圆, at its most basic, means 'round' — circular. The sun is round, the moon is round, plates are round, coins are round."
"But in Chinese culture, 圆 is far more than a geometric shape."
"Chinese people say '圆满' (yuánmǎn) — meaning complete, without flaw."
"Chinese people say '团圆' (tuányuán) — meaning scattered family members coming together again."
"Chinese people say '圆梦' (yuánmèng) — meaning a dream has come true."
"圆 represents an ideal state — no缺口, no edges, no separation."
Hans thought about it.
"But the moon isn't always round."
"Exactly!" My eyes lit up. "You've hit the nail on the head."
"The moon is round only one day out of the month — the fifteenth of the first lunar month, or the fifteenth of the eighth lunar month. The rest of the time, it's incomplete."
"But precisely because the moon is mostly incomplete, the round moments become precious."
"Chinese people deeply understand this."
"Our festivals almost all fall on full moon nights — the fifteenth of the first month is Lantern Festival, the fifteenth of the fifth is Dragon Boat Festival, the fifteenth of the seventh is Ghost Festival, the fifteenth of the eighth is Mid-Autumn Festival."
"Why?"
"Because full moon nights are rare. Moments of family reunion in life are also rare."
"We might only get to reunite with family during Spring Festival and Mid-Autumn Festival, once or twice a year."
"So we especially cherish the full moon."
"We don't reunite because the moon is round. We need something as round as the moon to symbolize our longing because reunion is so rare."
"Mooncakes are round, tables are round, the family sits in a circle."
"圆 is the Chinese longing for 'wholeness.'"
"But Hans, do you know? It took me twenty-five years to understand one thing."
"What?"
"圆 is longing, not reality."
"True reunion is never perfect."
"There's always someone who can't make it. There's always a topic that can't be spoken. There's always a dish that doesn't taste like mom's cooking."
"But Chinese people still celebrate Mid-Autumn Festival. Still eat mooncakes. Still look up at the moon."
"Why?"
"Because imperfect reunion is still reunion."
"A moon missing a corner still illuminates the night sky."
Hans was silent for a long time. Then he said softly:
"This is beautiful. Germans might not express it this way, but we have similar feelings."
"At Christmas, the whole family gathers. There are always arguments, always awkwardness, always someone who sits too long and wants to go home."
"But the next day, everyone still says: 'This Christmas was good.'"
"Yes," I smiled. "Because the value of reunion lies not in whether it's perfect, but in that it happened at all."
---
6. One-Sentence Summary: What It Took Me 25 Years to Understand
Night had grown very late. Only our table remained on the terrace. The lights from across the river reflected on the water's surface, like a road paved with shattered gold.
Hans stood up, draping his jacket over his shoulder.
"Liu," he said, "thank you for the mooncakes and the stories tonight. I'm going back to Germany tomorrow, but I want to take a box of mooncakes to my daughter."
"She's never had them."
"No. But I want her to know: there is a festival in the world that is not for thanking God, nor for revelry, but to tell you —"
"Even when we're not together, we are still looking at the same moon."
I smiled.
"You understand."
After Hans left, I sat alone on the terrace, looking up at the sky. The moon had risen — not completely round, still a little short. But bright enough.
Twenty-five years.
In 1998, I was in Germany, spending my first Mid-Autumn Festival abroad. The moon that night was also very round, but I didn't look at it. I only felt homesick, lonely, like the world was too big — so big I couldn't find my way home.
In 2007, I was in Spain. On Mid-Autumn night, I went to a Chinese restaurant and bought a mooncake by myself. The mooncake was terrible — dry and overly sweet. But I finished it. Afterward, I stood on a street in Barcelona, looked up at the moon, and suddenly felt less lonely.
In 2015, I opened Giaogiao in Florence. The first Mid-Autumn Festival, I gave each employee a mooncake. They came from different places — Chinese, Italian, Albanian. We sat together on the terrace, eating mooncakes, looking at the moon. No one spoke, but everyone had a smile on their face.
In 2024, tonight, a German friend sat across from me and said: The moon lets us know that even when we're not together, we still share the same sky.
It took me twenty-five years to understand one thing.
> The Mid-Autumn Festival is not about celebrating the harvest. It is about celebrating a kind of courage — in a world where the moon is mostly not round, still believing that reunion is worth waiting for.
>
> It took me 25 years to understand: the taste of mooncakes has never mattered. What matters is the person who breaks the mooncake and shares it with you. Whether the moon is round or not doesn't matter either. What matters is that when you look up at the moon, you know someone, somewhere in the world, is doing the same thing. This is the real reason Chinese people celebrate Mid-Autumn — not pursuing perfection, but in imperfection, still choosing to believe in wholeness.
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Have you ever missed someone especially much on a full moon night? Not because that day was special, but simply because the moon was too round — so round you couldn't help but wonder: is he/she looking at it too? Tell me your story, and xiaokz's next article might just be written for you.