I just had one of those interesting cultural experiences, both painful and enlightening.

I’m spending a few days in Chengdu, the largest city in southwest China, and my hotel is in an utterly urban neighborhood with almost no sign of Westerners.

Coming back from lunch, I stopped in a small store to buy some crackers to tide me over till dinner. An older woman was tending the shop with what appeared to be her grandson. She smiled and greeted me, then stooped over and whispered into the lad’s ear.

He then pipes up with: “Ni hao, xiao yeye,” which means, “Hello, little grandfather.”

What the, er, heck? Little grandfather? Okay, so I’m 51 and look every day of it. But grandfather I am not. Nor do I plan to be for at least another decade.

This all happened in an instant, and was said in the most polite, affectionate, even adorable, fashion. But my own reaction just reminded me how much perception, and self-perception, of age is a culturally relative thing. For Americans, we are sensitive about getting old, or as my 11-year-old daughter is fond of saying, going “over the hill.”

I’ve never heard my wife bust a gut laughing so hard as when she heard that I’d qualify as a “senior” when reaching age 55. A few weeks ago, when we were at a movie theater in Florida, she promptly cheated and bought me a “senior discount” ticket, followed by more uproarious laughter at my expense. (She’s 10 years younger, but I keep reminding her time marches on for her, too.)

In China, age brings a measure of respect. And my experience is that many Chinese don’t try to hide their age. The exception, of course, are the nine members of the Politburo’s Standing Committee, all of whom have jet black hair, and appear to be heavy consumers of hair dye. I don’t think many Chinese are going around calling those politicos “Gramps,” or “yeye.” Until her retirement early this year, Senior Vice Premier Wu Yi was a remarkable exception, an elegant, sometimes stern-looking, woman with a big crown of pepper hair. It gave her gravitas.

Speaking of Chengdu, which generally is one of my favorite cities in China, not only because of the Sichuan cuisine but also the laid-back nature of the people, the smog this week has been atrocious. Yesterday, one could see about a block. Local media suggest that it’s “fog.” But rarely does fog make my eyes water and my throat burn. Nor does it coat cars with a layer of grime.

Beijing’s smog situation has improved noticeably since measures adopted early last year for the Summer Olympics. Chengdu needs its own measures. Perhaps it’ll take a local gray-haired “little grandfather” to do it. More power to him.