Before saying goodbye, let's have one last slice of cake from PuLi.

As a child, I found the name "The PuLi" mysterious and sophisticated, like a piece of warm jade hidden in the bustling city. Later, it became known as a "metropolitan paradise," its low-rise buildings, dim lighting, iconic long bar, and water feature in the courtyard creating an atmosphere completely different from the vibrant street just steps away. I heard it's getting a complete makeover, and the name has changed from "The PuLi Hotel" to "The PuLi Shanghai," emphasizing its geographical identity. My feelings are mixed. Rationally, I wholeheartedly support it. Everyone wants their favorite hotel to have more modern and comfortable facilities. But emotionally, I feel a pang of reluctance. The warm, worn Shanghai gray brick walls, the "golden brick" floor in the lobby supposedly from the Forbidden City, the quiet moments in the library, and the stone lions, hitching posts, and wooden lucky dogs silently guarding the corners… these are not just designs, but traces of time, an irreplaceable chapter of "locality" in the city's hotel history. Countless visitors have come to observe and imitate, yet few have replicated the effortless, ethereal blend of East and West that emanates from within. This weekend, I decided to visit again. I didn't stay overnight, but simply enjoyed a winter afternoon tea brimming with Christmas elements. The Christmas tree in the lobby was already lit, its starlight casting a warm, understated glow—the same kind of gentle light I remembered. Few guests were moving about; everything was orderly, yet the air seemed thick with a quiet farewell intertwined with anticipation. The waiter recommended the seasonal "Yule Log Cake," saying it was made with Belize's single-origin dark chocolate and filled with homemade pine nut spread. I tried a small piece; the flavor was indeed unique. The rich dark chocolate had a distinct nutty aroma, and the pine nut spread brought a wonderful forest-like quality—very "Pure"—unassuming, yet possessing solid craftsmanship and layers of flavor. I didn't immediately buy the two-pound cake. For someone living alone, such a large portion always feels awe-inspiring. But that taste lingered in my memory even after I left. Until Monday, sitting in my office, looking out at the gray sky, I suddenly remembered it. A substantial, flavorful cake—wasn't that the perfect solace against the year-end restlessness and chill? With so many people in the office, sharing it was perfect. So, I decided to make a special trip there next week during my lunch break. It's like a small ritual: before the familiar surroundings might change, to experience once again the unchanging warmth and sincerity it conveys through its food. Sitting by the window, looking at the still tranquil water feature in the courtyard, I suddenly understood the source of my complex feelings. I like The PuLi, probably because I like its "arrogance." Not arrogance, but a certain composure that knows who it is and who it wants to attract. It doesn't rely on glittering gold to intimidate, nor does it disdain using a multitude of logos to flaunt its value, and it doesn't turn every room into a scenic view room, as if afraid you'd miss the excitement outside. It seems from the very beginning that those who walk in here aren't looking for those other things. What they might be seeking is a "right frequency" that allows them to find peace. Like its name, "The Phoenix Only Perches on the Wutong Tree," it emphasizes mutual selection. That's why I'm particularly worried about its "renewal." I fear that in trying to keep up with the times, it will lose this rare "pride." I fear it will become too new, too flashy, indistinguishable from other hotels. In my opinion, what it needs isn't to become something else, but to polish and preserve its best essence. Now I hear that "The PuLi" has become a group and will open hotels in more places. This is a good thing, but also a test. From Shanghai to Beijing, then to Kuala Lumpur, and perhaps even further afield in the future. I hope it remembers that this isn't just about opening more hotels, but about bringing the "peaceful and quiet" atmosphere of The PuLi to different corners of the world. In this era of speed and sensationalism, the true skill lies in protecting the tranquility within guests' hearts. The best service is when you feel everything is as it should be, naturally and effortlessly. The future of The PuLi will unfold under different city skies. They will likely all have a familiar feel, but they should also have their own new stories. What I most want to see is that wherever it goes, the place where the phoenix lands will still be a sycamore tree that makes it feel at ease and gives us peace of mind. As for that Christmas cake, its delicious taste is probably a small testament to this philosophy: unpretentious, but one bite and you know the ingredients and care put into it. That in itself is quite "proud." When I go to buy a cake next week, I'll probably carry this anticipation and revisit this familiar place.