A floral sea check-in spot in Mengzi

The French Garden in Mengzi is hidden in a corner of the old town, like a green gem forgotten by time. Walking along the stone path, the mottled wrought iron gate is half open, with unknown vines entwined around the door frame, blooming with pale purple flowers. The garden is not large, but it exudes French charm everywhere. The rusty fountain has long dried up, with a few dead leaves accumulated at the bottom. Several damaged marble statues stand by the poolside; the angel's wings are half broken, and Venus's right arm is missing. These relics from the last century quietly weather under the subtropical sun. The most eye-catching are the tall palm trees, said to have been transplanted from North Africa by the French over a hundred years ago. The trunks are covered with moss, but the crowns stretch out spiritedly against the blue sky. On the benches under the trees, a few elderly people always sit, speaking French with a strong local accent, occasionally letting out hoarse laughter. Deep in the garden, there is a small café whose owner is a fourth-generation Chinese descendant but bakes authentic croissants. Sitting on the terrace, you can smell the aroma of fresh bread mixed with the fragrance of Jiuli flowers. Order a cup of Vietnamese drip coffee and watch the sunlight filtering through the palm leaves cast scattered light spots on the stone floor, as if you can hear the colonial-era gramophone playing "La Vie en Rose." Every evening, local residents come here for a walk. Children chase and play by the fountain, couples whisper secrets in the shade of the palm trees. When the sunset dyes the entire garden honey-colored, someone always leans against the rusty iron railing to take photos—this is probably the gentlest "France" in the memories of the people of Mengzi.