Chris Gassner | November 5, 2025 |
There are days that aren’t official holidays but behave worse than Christmas, Easter, and the World Cup combined. November 11th is one of them. Once just a tongue-in-cheek “Singles’ Day,” a little excuse for single people to buy themselves a gift, it has mutated into a digital eruption so massive that the cardboard alone could easily build a second Great Wall of China. Only flimsier, but taller.
The countdown starts weeks in advance, like a rocket launch. Livestreams everywhere: hosts screaming into cameras, influencers in headsets and glitter jackets bouncing in front of shelves as if humanity itself depends on selling that blender. Instead of a sermon there are discount codes, instead of a hallelujah someone yells “Buy now!”—and millions click as if their lives depend on a USB vacuum cleaner.
And in that stretch of time there’s an unwritten law: two weeks before 11.11, nobody buys anything. Nothing. Not in the office, not at home. Printer broken? “No, no, wait ten days, it’ll be cheaper then.” Shoes worn out? “Are you crazy? Don’t buy them on November 3rd, just wait until the 11th.” Fridge dead? “Come on, the butter will survive another week.” Whole companies grind to a halt because everyone is frozen, staring at the promise of that sacred discount day. One week before 11.11, online shops look like ghost towns. Digital tumbleweed rolls by.
Then midnight. 00:00 sharp. A collective tremor. Hundreds of millions of thumbs on millions of screens. Server farms roast, the power grid groans, and somewhere in Hangzhou an algorithm grins like a fox in the henhouse. Seconds later, logistics centers swarm across the country like locusts in uniforms: pallets of mixers, sneakers, lipsticks, humidifiers, cat food. Everything you need—and plenty you never knew you needed.
The couriers? Heroes in neon vests. Scooters stacked so high you can’t even see the rider anymore—just a wobbling tower of cardboard inching through traffic. Brakes? Optional. Visibility? Luxury. But as long as the QR code beeps, the mission is accomplished.
The next morning in the office, no one talks about projects, deadlines, or clients. The only conversation is tracking updates. “My blender’s already in Wuhan!”—“My sneakers are stuck in Hefei!”—“My toaster just left Shanghai!” Colleagues staring at their screens as if they were monitoring the heartbeat of a newborn child.
And then the cardboard. Mountains, avalanches, whole continents of it. Piles of boxes outside every apartment door, higher than the tenants themselves. Recycling turns into a national sport. Yet no one complains—on the contrary. People proudly post unboxing videos as if they’d just received the Holy Grail. Ten minutes of suspense for an electric toothbrush that does exactly what the old one did—only with an app.
And me? Every year I swear: not this time. I’m out. I need nothing. I am immune. Then, 11:57 p.m., it happens. The toaster with Wi-Fi. With Wi-Fi! Who wants toast without a firmware update? Click—bought. Algorithm laughs, credit card cries.
That’s 11.11: not a bargain hunt, but a national state of exception. A digital carnival, a logistical operetta, a collective sprint through the world’s biggest warehouse. Black Friday looks like a kids’ birthday party with pin-the-tail in comparison.
And in the end? Empty wallet, full cupboards, and the feeling of having taken part in a giant synchronized shopping ballet. A country that quotes Confucius with one hand and drops three air fryers into the cart with the other—without blinking.
Maybe that’s the true strength: 11.11 is not just buying. It’s a mirror. A mix of tradition and turbo-technology, of red envelopes and QR codes, of the moon goddess Chang’e and smoothie makers.
And while my package rattles along some highway, I think of Chang’e, the moon goddess, who according to legend once drank the elixir of immortality and has lived on the moon ever since. Long ago people said she shone down on humanity from above. Today, I imagine her looking down at our discount frenzy and shaking her head.
But if she ever does return, she probably won’t come down on a cloud. She’ll land on a tower of cardboard boxes—dropped off by an exhausted courier with 200 deliveries still to go.
Chris Gassner