The first time I recorded Yuan Zhao Bao, I went to his home, a shack at the back on the bank of the Suzhou River. He decided to set up shop in his neighborhood instead of the hour walk away where he usually sells. It turned out to be an unpleasant experience. It was clear he was clinging to the bottom rung of the social ladder, living rent-free in exchange for doing odd jobs in a poor community. His neighbors couldn't believe I was interested in interviewing him and didn't hide their disdain.

Yuan Zhao Bao, a popcorn vendor in China. Photo by Rebecca Kanthor.

As they crowded around him waiting for their puffed rice, their comments were thinly veiled insults, ridiculing him for being a migrant, for being a street vendor, for paying a fine to have a second child. It was humiliating, but through it all he smiled and continued working. Only when we talked privately later on did Yuan let on how uncomfortable his neighbors had made him feel. The next time I visited him, we walked across the river, passing busy streets to the backstreet where he usually pops. He set up shop and immediately I could sense he felt more comfortable on his own turf. His regulars came over when they heard him begin to pop, including teenagers and one woman in her 80s. No one made fun of him. Customers reminisced about their childhood, when there wasn't such a variety of snacks and everyone would save up grains to give to the wandering vendors to pop.

For older people, the popper is a reminder of simpler but also more desperate times. One woman shared a mix of emotions — a fond nostalgia for her youth, but an embarrassment for China's poverty. For all of Shanghai's modernization, some remnants of the past remain.

A taxi driver I shared popcorn with later on told me he thinks that within 20 years popcorn poppers will disappear from Shanghai's streets. Perhaps the municipal police will ban them altogether. How will Yuan Zhao Bao support his family then?

Already poppers are an uncommon sight. Try tracking one down. Just a few weeks before, I had seen a popcorn vendor on my street almost every afternoon. But all of a sudden it seemed he and the others had disappeared. I asked everyone from old aunties to street cleaners and other street vendors. Everyone gave me a different answer. They don't come out in the summertime. They've gone home for the harvest. They only pop on the weekends. But I just heard him yesterday down the street.

When I finally did find Yuan Zhao Bao, I realized that the poppers' trade has been affected in large part by the 2010 World Expo. Just like in Beijing before the Olympics, there is a move to sweep the streets clean, and that means that the municipal police are cracking down on illegal street vendors. I have seen them go after vegetable sellers in the early morning rush hour — as soon as the vendors see them, they jump on their cargo trykes and pedal away. Popcorn vendors are no exception. So vendors play it safe — they keep an eye out for the police and often come out in the late afternoon and early evening to avoid being caught. It's a tough existence.

For those that make their living as wandering vendors, how should city governments regulate their businesses? Should street vendors be made legal or be eliminated? And what about the hardworking migrants like Yuan whose lives are in the balance?