"GUESS WHO CHRISTINA LOVES!"

"Z LAO SHE!"

This is one of my best New Year’s ever and it’s not even over, though I’m about ready to call it a night.

So, because this is China and all "3 Day Holidays" are really, "You work for the weekend and we’ll give you Monday through Wednesday off," I had to work today. However, I only really had to teach two classes and they weren’t even what you would call "class." It was more that the kids and I hung out and they tried out their English on me. And, as my work life is really my community, it wasn’t exactly torture to have to spend the day with all my friends and my babies. We had class, lunch, one of the teachers played some Chopin on the piano for Yente and I and then I went home for my siesta.

After we all had our rest, the partying began. I started the partying in one class and after about a half hour bailed to go visit the class I had earlier promised to visit (my little monkeys’ class). As I came through the door, the entire class erupted into a deafening cheer. Forty 8-year olds then proceeded to launch themselves at me. As is the standard whenever I enter a room at work that I’m not teaching, I am treated as an exalted, honored guest. I was ushered to the special, comfy chair; lavished with delicious and sweet foods; and doted on by all the children who made it their business to personally feed me and fetch everything I could possibly need. There were performances of ass kicking Kung Fu, remarkably sensual belly dancing (especially for 8 year olds) and general dancing periods. My monkeys all took up residence on me and I was beyond the moon.

At one point, towards my time to duck out, I got up and was dancing with all the children. It was such a joy to be prancing about with the little ones as they all fought to be my dance partner. It was silly and fun and lovely. However, I needed to duck out because I had to see my boss, so I bid them all a fond farewell and was on my way.

I headed to the Middle School to see my boss but I could not find him anywhere. As I was looking for him, my gay found me and bid me to visit his classroom. I did and was immediately welcomed with open arms. I was given the honored seat, lavished with food and entertained. Between the students’ performances, I became aware that many of my girl students were so overcome with emotion that they were openly weeping in class. In a class of forty students, twenty of whom are female, easily ten of them were openly, gut wrenchingly sobbing at different times. Each of the girls would take turns consoling the weeping one and then become consumed by emotion herself. No one else seemed to pay their tears any mind and so I was a bit perplexed about what to do. I offered one of the girls who had calmed down a bit a tissue but she declined. She then explained to me that the girls are so hopeful about the promise of the New Year that they are completely overcome by emotion. I thought it was a sweet notion if not a little jarring to realize the intimacy one must feel here in order to allow one’s self to cry.

As I was mulling over my thoughts on the girls’ capacity for raw emotion, my boss’s boss poked his head in through the window of the classroom, looked at me, smiled and pulled the teacher aside. Quickly, the teacher made an announcement and every student popped up, cleaning the room and setting up the traditional Chinese lap harp (I don’t know either its English or Chinese name but it’s the long, flat harp-like string instrument often seen in period piece Chinese films) in the center of the room. The teacher came straight over to me and spoke.

"Please stay seated here." She rested a hand on my shoulder and I watched the students fly about the room and ready themselves.

My gay, who had assigned himself the position of my court eunuch of sorts, took my purse, jacket and scarf and placed himself in the nearest seat off to the side of the room. He typed away on his digital, pocket dictionary and then showed me that the head of the school system my private school is a part of would be making an appearance. The head honcho was led into the room and everyone clapped. Of course, he was led to the seat next to me as my mere provenance puts me at the very top of the very alive and well Confucist hierarchy. One of my more naughty girl students (dear god she’s fabulous) sat down at the traditional lap harp and after the head honcho made his speech, she began to play.

It was a transcendental moment. The beauty of the music obliterated the various noises in the room as, in a Chinese room, there is always a cell phone ringing or a person chatting quietly. For the second time today, I was completely transported while listening to classical music.

As all good things must come to an end, my girl finished up her playing and the head honcho left. I had to head out and try – in vain- to find my immediate boss.

Once I gave up on trying to find my boss, I left the administration building and bumped into one of my fellow Primary School teachers. She invited me out for Beijing (Peking) Duck with she and her boyfriend. I’m a New York girl. I was raised on Beijing Duck. How could I say "No" to tasting the original?

So, we went out to find a taxi and I was swarmed with girl students, all of whom cuddled me and doted on me. The boy students all passed by, being silly and flirting. It’s been hovering for a while but the sensation of being a real part of this community has finally sunk in. I may be exalted but I’m no longer "other."

My fellow teacher, her boyfriend and I piled into a cab after a long wait and we were off to even further North of Xi’An. We arrived at a massive restaurant packed with Chinese folks. Clearly, I am the first Westerner the elegant establishment has seen, at least in a very long while. As it is remote and no public transportation infiltrates that area, the only people who go can afford cars or the friends of people who can afford cars.

I have grown accustomed to going where no foreigner ever does. I have grown accustomed to the stares, the extra attention and the curiosity from young and old. It is strange to see just how comfortable I have grown in accepting that part of my life. Before, I would have completely withered under the glare of such attention and I was always self-conscious about the Chinese speaking English to me. However, now I see their English as the eagerness at the moment their teachers in school always told them would come when they talked about not wanting to learn English. I do my best to reciprocate their gesture and smile as warmly as possible. Tonight was no different and I did my best to be friendly with everyone who had the courage to approach me.

My fellow teacher, her boyfriend and I sat down and I was immediately handed the menu. It is the gesture of generosity that the guest of honor gets the (one) menu the table receives. You can be assured that if your Chinese dining partner hands you a menu, you’re not paying. However, I’m not comfortable ordering on other people’s dime, so I always announce helplessly, "Can bu dong." (effectively "I’m illiterate" which is a bit of a lie because I can actually read food characters but I can read them like a 4 year old would read; super slow, furrowed brow and lips moving) As a woman, it works especially well if there’s a man at the table as it is his public duty to rescue me from the humiliation of illiteracy. I suspect as a male, the counter to that would be to whisper helplessly, "Can bu dong" to one of the women at the table as it is a woman’s private duty to rescue a man.

So, I announced, "Can bu dong. Sorry," (the Chinese understand "Sorry" as we understand "Sorry" in the "please excuse my ignorance," "oh well," or "I offer my condolences" sort of way; "Dui bu shi" is only to be used when you commit a violation) shook my head and looked helplessly at my fellow teacher and then handed the menu to the boyfriend. (As a part of the sisterhood you must acknowledge her possession of him before you approach him directly.) I handed him the menu, they debated for a moment and then he did what I knew he’d do; handed her the menu. However, I was quite relieved that I thought to do the non-emasculating thing of giving him the menu first.

They sorted out what they wanted to order and I resolved myself to eat everything I was given. My coworker grew up without enough food and I knew that it would be an insult to her not to finish almost all of what she gave me. Granted, I knew I was in for a painful night of indigestion but it was more important to me that she know that I value her friendship and generosity.

Now, the thing about the Chinese is that they like their food and they like it fast. I don’t really know why that is but I do know that if they must wait for more than ten minutes for food, everyone I’ve ever eaten with gets really irritated. Then, the food shows up and they scarf it down. I think it might be a reaction to the nobility’s languid eating style or something. Whatever it is, it’s not a lack of manners, merely a difference in priorities.

However, Beijing Duck takes 45 minutes to cook and so from the time you put in your order to the time you’re wrapping your pancakes, you’ve got a long while to wait (by Chinese standards). You order some appetizers and there is a duck broth with chives and cucumbers that comes while you wait. I did my best to always have food either in my chopsticks or on my plate as the job of the host is to make sure the guest of honor always has food. If you are a Westerner, the host takes familiarity into consideration and debates having an extra set of chopsticks to serve you. If you are considered close, the host uses his own chopsticks. My boss (who is, effectively, an older brother) and Z serve me with their own chopsticks, the boyfriend got an extra set.

I was served constantly and did my best to maintain the balance between keeping room for the food to come and not insulting my hosts. We talked about all sorts of things like the restaurant she wants to open with her boy and then my colleague got the most wicked smile on her face.
"I know your secret," she purred.

"What?" I asked, befuddled because I’m slow to catch on and generally out of the loop.

"You have a secret," she nudged.

I’m pretty clear that in China, if one person knows it about me, everyone knows it about me. The price of being the exalted member is that I can have no secrets. Consequently, the notion of "secret" has completely vanished from my daily lexicon. Granted, everyone here is incredibly sympathetic to the fact that I am a human being and they haven’t really judged me in a way that Westerners are accustomed to. They are intensely curious about why certain things are they way they are with me or my country but once the discussion is over and the curiosity satisfied, the matter is put to bed. In other words, all the reasons one needs to have secrets in the West don’t really exist here for me. While I have no real need for secrets, it’s strange and remarkably liberating to live knowing that I am what I am and that’s just fine by all these people who have no real points of reference for someone like me.

"I don’t think so," I said, quite sure that I don’t have a one.

"The PE teacher?" She asked sweetly.

I laughed hard. This is the second time that someone has accused me of having a secret and it is the second time it is about Z. "He’s not a secret. I’m just shy." Under no circumstances do I want him thinking he’s something I would be ashamed of.

"Yes, Ms. S (another coworker in the primary school) asked us (the office of primary school English teachers) who you were in love with. She said, ‘Guess who Christina loves!’ We all said, ‘[Z] lao she.’ We all knew."

"Really?" I asked.

"Yes. You and he are always talking quietly together so we all think, ‘They are in love.’"

I blushed and smiled. It’s true. We are together as much as possible and I must have been incredibly naÔve to think that I could hide that from anyone. "He makes me blush."

"Good. He is a good man. He is my good friend and you are my good friend. I am happy that you are together. When we first met him, we all said we would find him a girlfriend but he said he did not want that. He said, ‘No, I am too busy for a girlfriend.’ He is trying to make money now, you see. He is a good man. He is very helpful."

"I know. He is so kind." I gushed.

"Yes, very kind."

She then shared the news with her boyfriend and we stuffed ourselves silly with the duck. She asked all about our date and I asked all about the fact that while Z feels like my complete equal, he is in fact, over three years younger than I. I don’t know if that combined with my not being Chinese will be a deal breaker. My colleague assured me it was not and I hope she’s right.

We then rolled ourselves out of the restaurant and into a cab, heading home. I was beyond full and the food coma started to hit me hard. I barely made it through my apartment door at 6:30 when I collapsed into bed, exhausted by so much food in my system. I woke up at 9:30 and thought how much I wanted Z to call me and wish me a happy New Year.

Then it occurred to me that he’s shy too and as we’re currently doing things in my language, I think it’s my responsibility to reassure him. So I called the boy and he was eating but the first thing out of his mouth after "Hello" was, "Have you eaten?" or the literal English translation of the Chinese sentiment of, "Hi sweetheart. How are you?" (A good rule to follow is to not ask if someone has eaten [as a greeting] if you wouldn’t call them "sweetheart," "baby," "love" or "honey.")

"Yes, I did. Have you eaten?" I could hear him finishing his mouthful on the other end but that’s more or less the literal English translation of "I’m fine, baby. How are you?" Like I said, translation is not arithmetic.

"Yes."

We spoke for a moment and he said he would call me back later, clearly needing to finish his dinner.

I was unsure if "I will call you back" meant tomorrow or tonight but either way, I was now too giddy to get back to sleep. Lucky for me, it meant tonight and we talked a little about how he’s out with his friends in the South and having a good time. I told him that I went out for Beijing duck and he was excited that I got to try it.

All in all, it’s been the best New Year’s a girl could hope for.

A BUTTERFLY FLAPS ITS WINGS

American and Taiwan piss me off. Neither area upsets me in particular but the exclusive relationship to the exclusion of PRC has left my American web pages fucked.

Due to Taiwan’s unfortunate and deadly earthquake early this week, the connection with America has been broken and I can’t get at my AOL mail. I also can’t get at most of my usual websites (Perez Hilton [because I’m that girl] to Myspace [because I’m that 15 year old boy]). Fortunately, Google and all things Google related either came with a contingency plan or a server that is not involved with Taiwan. Consequently, reach me at cholzer@gmail.com for the next indefinite period of time. They’ve estimated it to be, at minimum, three weeks to repair the broken cable. However, it’s China and 3 weeks can be 2 weeks or 6 months however, one thing is sure; it will not be 3 weeks.

So, what’s a girl landlocked in PRC to do without access to her usual internet outlets? Bother her boy and girls of course.

I dragged my Chinese Angel out to dinner last night. I’ve made the executive decision that she needs to be a writer. She is in possession of such great stories and such an articulate tone that the world simply needs to hear about her life. We’ve made a pact that I will write a series of questions and she will answer them to be compiled into a book.

She then asked me why I liked a "Chinese boy." Race relations and the politics of "White" and "Chinese" have become a topic of acceptable discussion around me, I think, because I’m dating (in Western terms; "good friends" in Chinese) a Chinese dude. My willingness to consider a Chinese mate has shifted me from exotic and benevolent "other" to exalted member. The teachers are now coming forward, comfortable in asking about the perspective of Chinese in within my culture and notably the lines of racism. They are really interested to know what my family would think of a biracial relationship. And, I guess the funny thing is, I never actually asked my mom what she’d think of me dating a different race than myself. It never occurred to me to ask. I’m fully aware that dating a man from a different culture concerns her because that inherently means a divide in value systems and therefore a harder long-term relationship but it never occurred to me that his race would be an issue. Granted, as previously stated, I have problems understanding racial lines (I get, abstractly, that there are African, White, Aboriginal, Asian, etc etc etc but to be totally honest, I can never make it work with actual people I know) and so I am remarkably unprepared to discuss race relations in depth with anyone.

Nonetheless, I find myself to be the spokesperson for all Chinese/White relationships my coworkers have ever seen. The number one question that comes up pertains to why no White women date Chinese men but why White men plunder Chinese women. Granted, before, in my naivety, I would have said something about the perceived subservience of Asian women. However, now I see it as the predatory behavior of my male counterpart. The willingness of the Chinese people to love and love regardless of fault is not an act of subservience but an act of courage. And, it is courageous precisely because there are deceitful and opportunistic men like my predecessor lurking about. Frankly, I can’t say which is better for society (self preservation or blinding love) but I certainly am smitten with the notion of chivalry, the right to work and the expectation by her employers that, as a wife, a woman might need to work a little less in order to make her home. In America, a woman is fortunate to have an employer who would be understanding of that need. In China, it is expected of the employer. I am also smitten with the notion that romance isn’t dead, that people take their time to get to know each other and that a man is not only expected to be able to keep a proper house all by himself but also help his wife when he finally gets married. (Granted, I’m not smitten with the notion that "her" family essentially becomes a footnote.) Nonetheless, I have no idea why White women don’t end up with more Chinese men.

Maybe it all goes back to Sex and the City… yet again. I am constantly reminded of Carrie dating the Russian and how, at the pinnacle of their romance in New York, she faints. She then informs him she can’t handle all the romance and he needs to take it down a few notches. Ultimately, their relationship ends when he hits her (revealing that a man that romantic is, in fact, the chauvinist we suspected he might be) and she goes running back to the roller-coaster that is Big. Maybe White women are just raised to distrust earnest gestures. After all, it’s easy to feign earnestness if you’re not invested. In fact, "earnestness" seems to be the calling card of the White predator or the irretrievably naive.

I don’t know. Whatever it is, I’m at best built to guess. I’m not built to have the answers. The best way I could answer all the questions my Chinese Angel had about my boy and (essentially) how could a White girl like him was to take her to meet him. Hell, that is the one answer that obliterates the notion of even entertaining all those questions for me. It’s got to at least answer a few for her.

So, I took my Chinese Angel to his gym because it was Thursday night (12/28) and I knew he’d be teaching his class.

His gym is up one flight of stairs and the stairs leading to the second floor are open to the open dance studio environment. My Chinese Angel went up the stairs first and as I poked my head up to view the room, I could see Z at the mirror leading a fleet of stunning beauties in a routine of some sort. He was already looking at the reflection to see the head of my Chinese Angel and at seeing me, the smile that crossed his face obliterated everything else on the planet.

I essentially shoved my shy angel up the stairs and dragged her across the back of the studio to the sofas along the right side of the gym. We flopped down on the sofa and she immediately tried to figure out the routine he was doing. I felt her moving to the deafening music and as I watched my glowing boy try- in vain- to maintain his focus on the class, I realized that I shifted the gravity of the room for him just as he shifts the gravity of the room for me. I was reminded of sports day when he and the other male teachers were competing to see who could clear the highest high-jump bar. After each leap, he would roll off the mat and look straight at me. Frankly, I have no idea why I am this fortunate but I’ll take it. I guess sometimes you just win the lottery.

The class finished the intense workout and as they shifted to the cool down, Z gestured that he’d be just another minute. They finished their workout and he did his best to balance coming to see me and maintaining his professional position. After each class, he works with a few of the women to perfect their motions and he’s clearly got a few groupies. It’s a testament to his focus on me that I’m not completely destroyed by my inferiority complexes. In fact, and inexplicably, I’m not threatened at all. I even found myself thinking, "Damn right girl, he’s worth that attention."

As he worked with several of the women, the Cha-Cha class started up and my Chinese Angel and I were invited to join the class. Now, I’m a belly dancer. Cha-Cha is not my thing. It’s too tight and I lack the discipline to perfect such feats of whatever to be any good at it. My Chinese Angel was interested though and so I helped her as best as I could. We worked on the Cha-Cha for a bit and then Z showed back up.

I finally got to introduce my Chinese Angel and Z. I introduced Z as "Wo hao peungyou" ("my good friend" aka "my boyfriend as soon as he puts the moves on me") and put my hand on his forearm. My Chinese Angel is clear on who Z is but I wanted Z to be clear on who he is. Ultimately, my burning desire to introduce the two of them was fueled primarily by the need for him to hear, publicly, where he falls in my world. I think I miscalculated trying to keep him from the public sphere that regards my every move. I think, in my desire to protect him from the gossip hounds, I may have come off as ashamed or unsure of him. This is not at all what I had intended so I was desperate to clarify. In an effort to be definitive, I threw in the physical contact. Physical contact with the opposite sex definitely does not exist here without intention behind it, so, short of shoving my tongue down his throat I really couldn’t have been clearer.

However, there was one flaw in my plan to be definitive with physicality; lighting. The lighting that flew through my veins as I touched him completely obliterated my ability to talk so, like the ass to end all asses, I stumbled through the introduction and proceeded to utterly butcher his name. Fortunately, he’s got cheetah-fast reflexes and he picked up the conversation, covering for my complete ineptitude.

They talked for a few moments, introducing themselves and then Z told my Chinese Angel that any classes she ever wanted to take, she was invited to take free of charge. They then spoke a little more and Z disappeared into the back.

"He wants you to stay." My Chinese Angel said. "Shy boy. So sweet. A good man with a good business." Frankly, there is something so lovely about seeing a man doing what he is most passionate about. "He wants you to come do your yoga anytime."

We hung around and waited.

"Where did he go?" I wondered aloud.

"Went to shower." She explained. "He wants you to stay."

A few moments later, Z showed back up clean. He pulled my Chinese Angel aside and explained something to her in rapid Mandarin.

She turned to me, "He has American friends he wants you to meet." The Chinese, being a tight knit people, feel that, when away from home and stripped of all things familiar, the best thing is to find your fellow countrymen. Z knows I have no family and no American friends here so he has already expressed his desire to give me that circle of friends. "He wants to have a dinner and have you all together." In other words, he wants to make a happy home for me here.

I turned to him, nodding happily, "Yes, I would like that."

He watched me and then nodded.

"Could you please tell him there’s something I want to show him? When he has time, I want to show him something." I asked my Chinese Angel.

My Chinese Angel told him and he nodded.

"I will call you," Z said.

"Hao." I said. And with that, my Chinese Angel and I left, heading back to my apartment. As we were leaving, Z awkwardly reached out to put a hand on my shoulder. It was the awkwardness of stammering a polite denial for the benefit of society when all you can think is "But YES." He clearly wants to do a lot more than just touch my shoulder and so his gauge for appropriate contact is all off making him far more awkward that I’ve ever seen him. Such a lucky girl am I.

Once we were back in my apartment, my Chinese Angel and I went over the "do’s and don’ts" of Chinese dating. Fortunately, short of "don’t make the first move" I have actually and inadvertently broken all of them. As I cringed with each one she listed and I said, "Oh, but I did that."

"Before or after he said, ‘I think we are good friends’?" She would ask.

"Before" was always my answer.

When she was done listing the commandments I had broken, she paused for a long while. "You need to learn to cook some dishes. Housewives should be able to cook."

And, I am utterly giddy. I just wish I could get at my email addresses to share my happy news. Damn Taiwan and the US’s elitist relationship.

A HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS

It may be remarkably redundant to say but I will say it nonetheless; this year has definitely been quite a learning experience for me. To be totally honest, I can’t really remember what I did this past New Year’s Eve, only that I was completely haggard over having just moved into a new house and all the work that lay ahead of the Jude and I. I was in the midst of falling for one of those tortured artists who loved my talent but not my soul. I was in the midst of lining up a year or projects that would all eventually be short-lived and unfulfilling at best. However, I also found several creative outlets, all of which were lovely and nurturing. I also rediscovered hiking and learned to be still amongst the insanity. I grew in ways I really liked and grew closer to the people who have always populated my life for the better. I feel like it was a moment in my life to say all those things you always mean to say but never get around to. I got to spend time with my mom learning about her childhood as one adult to another revealing their personal history.

And then, one not-so-special day, Xi’An chose me. Xi’An’s history was such a better fit for a girl like me than any modernized city I had been toying with. My school chose me. The contracts I got all discussed severe penalizations for being HIV positive (aside from China’s "deportation" policy) but my school’s contract was the only one that made no mention of it. Ultimately, that was the reason I chose this contract. I absolutely hated being here when I first got here. I felt like I was drowning and I staved off (with varying degrees of success) panic attacks regularly. The last time I felt that helpless, I had to find out from NPR that a good friend of mine died in a fire on Christmas Eve and I realized I had no way to contact his boyfriend.

But, for some reason, I stuck it out. I truly, genuinely did not want to. Culture shock sucks. A lot. Slowly I came out of my culture shock, got my "Xi" legs (as it were) and the haze of suckitude lifted. As I came out of the haze, I met a number of foreigners who, had I met them earlier would have reinforced my culture shock, but having met them after the haze lifted, reinforced my embracing of the Chinese culture. I made friends with an angelic Chinese woman who has saved me on more occasions than I could possibly count. All the while, the boy who makes me feel like Molly Ringwald sitting on that glass table with the dream boy who’s remembered your birthday was watching me and doing his best to make himself visible. I have no idea why he chose me as he has no references for a girl like me but there can be no doubt that he chose me as I make him nervous and in retrospect he’s done a lot of things to be seen by me. There can also be no doubt that I have a fleet of guardian angels pulling for me. I also know that had I come here last year, I would not have met him. If I came next year, I probably would not have met him either. I’ve never been clearer that this is my sliding-door moment.

And so, while I’m not exactly where I want to be for the holidays, I’m not overwhelmingly depressed about that.

I started the day early because I had to work and Mondays are my big day. I was surprisingly nervous about seeing Z on Christmas because our date felt like a dream and I was afraid to see him in the cold light of day. Frankly, I found myself in the old clichÈ of "if it’s a dream, don’t wake me but if it’s real, don’t let me sleep." And when he finally made an appearance, it was just before the morning calisthenics period (he leads the whole school in a 20 minute period of calisthenics) and he was walking ahead of me, clearly in the working-zone.

He unlocked the office with the exterior sound system to put on the soundtrack for the calisthenics. I decided to bite the bullet and find out if my dream was a waking dream or not.

Poking my head into the room I said, "Hello."

He glanced briefly at me, not really seeing me. "Hello." The mask was up and he was elsewhere. He returned his gaze to the sound system in front of him for a brief second.

As I can never really tell the "zone" from "upset," I meant to say, "How are you?" I had a brief moment of thinking, "Shit, maybe it was just a dream."

However, all I got through was "How…" before he glanced back up at me, dropped the mask, lit up in that way that only men can when they see the girl they’re confident in liking and said "Hello."

Yeah, he makes my toes curl.

"Hi" I said, smiling and then I ducked back out of the office, leaving him to his work.

The rest of the morning, whenever he would pass by any of my classes, he’d make a note to smile and wave. As he’s watching the kids again this week during lunch, he’s not in the lunchroom, which sucks, but whatever.

When I was leaving the primary school just after lunch, I bumped into him again and he lit up again at seeing me. His eyes stayed on me and then shifted to see the movement next to me. When he saw my lunch mate, his face half slipped behind the mask and half panicked. He immediately turned back to me for a cue on whether or not it was okay for my friends to know we have a connection. I get the sense he’s not sure I’m fully on board with where he wants to go. So, I did what any woman not hemorrhaging from the ears with stupidity would do, I maintained my smile, waved and said "Hello." He really seemed to like that. Needless to say, I’ve had Van Morrison’s "Into the Mystic" and Nick Drake’s "Pink Moon" on heavy rotation since then.

As I came home glowing, I could hear my phone ringing through the door. I hurried in and it turned out to be my boss. My boss invited me out for a big banquet to be thrown in my honor to celebrate Christmas. I had been hoping to invite Z over to show him pictures from around the world for his birthday (one of our many common interests is international travel) but the reason I know Z at all to say nothing of the time I am afforded with him is my job and consequently my bosses must be kept happy. And really, who can complain that their lovely and highly grateful bosses want to throw them a lavish party?

And the party was beautiful. All of the head honchos, their assistants and I were shuttled from the school to the South side of the city to the most famous restaurant in all of Xi’An. In total, there were about twenty of us and while I am friendly with all of them and friends with most of them, I am good friends with only one of the women there. So, before dinner, she and I went for a stroll through the restaurant.

The restaurant is stunning and if I remembered the name (it was mentioned once, briefly, to me), I would share it. However, it is clearly the place the Chinese go, not the foreigners, so there was very little in pinyin, much less English. Hell, the men at the front entrance were not your usual bellhop-types but actual army guards.

As we went through the massive revolving front door, the first thing I was hit with was the familiarity of the air. The cold desert night is not where I grew up. I like it, it’s nice, but it’s not home. My body has grown accustom to the lack of humidity but I am distinctly aware of the lacking ocean. I miss that here. However, the air inside the building was humid. The ground was cement and pebbly like the rocky West Coast.

As I got my bearings under the shock of feeling the clean, wet air of home, I looked up and saw a massive, winding Chinese garden with weeping bamboo, a pool and ending at a forty foot waterfall. To the right running several hundred yards deep were tanks of live seafood set up in a fish market style. To the left of the entrance, walls of live bamboo obscured the massive greenhouse environment.

We took a brief stroll about the winding water garden and saw the pool with the tiny seal in it. I couldn’t help but feel sad for the friendless seal. I related a bit too much to the caged critter all alone being studied and adored by the Chinese while being bribed to do tricks for the cameras. As the seal put me at risk of being melancholy, I wandered away quickly and studied the waterfall. Just as I wandered close to the waterfall, we were led to our seating area.

Our seating area had complete privacy as it was an island wrapped in walls of bamboo. However, in a quintessentially Chinese stroke, you can clearly hear all the tables around you. (For whatever reason, the Chinese are the only people I’ve ever met who have less of a problem with sound pollution than Americans.) Within our island were two round tables that could comfortably seat ten and each had a giant, glass lazy Susan in middle. I was immediately led to the seat to the left of the head of the entire school’s system, or "Number 1" as I like to think of him. Though most of the people I am closer to sat at the other table, my immediate boss was asked to sit to my left to translate for me.

We chatted briefly and then Number 1 suggested we take a longer tour of the restaurant grounds. I got up and found my good friend to escort me about. I took her hand and we left our area holding hands (a sign of good friends). She and I went wandering and had a good time chatting. She is incredibly sweet and she told me how nervous she was that this was her first dinner with such important people at school. She told me that she really wanted to make a good impression. I made a mental note when she said that to make sure we returned I would be holding her hand or arm and appear very happy to give her a good name.

When we returned, we were arm in arm and she was returned to the kids table while I returned to the grown-ups table. I waved "hello" to her when she sat down and glanced back up at me and stage whispered "thank you" to make it all the more obvious how much I adore her. The moment I said "thank you," Number 1 informed one of the hostesses waiting on us to bring another setting for our table (two had been taken when we first sat down, so we could quite comfortably seat another person). Another place was set and much to my pleasure, my good friend was told to come join us.

And then the booze showed up.

Number 1 made a great toast (in Chinese) about how we were all there to celebrate me and my holiday. And then we drank. And then I made a toast to Number 1 about how happy I was and I thanked him (all in Chinese, thank you).

And then we ate a bit and I hit the fatty foods hard because if we were starting with drinking this hard, my liver was going to need all the extra time my stomach could afford it. While I was gorging myself on fatty foods and given the last piece of all the special dishes, I was also lavished with token gifts, praise and questions.

We talked about America and how much the Chinese like and respect America. All the men at the table who had been to America talked about how clean the environment was and how inspiring it was to be in my homeland. They then spoke of how much they like and respect that America looks to protect the globe. I explained that as Americans, by and large, come from other countries we see it as our duty to take care of places that are home.

I was then asked what my impressions of China before and after were. I explained that I cam to China because I didn’t know what to expect and wanted to find out.

Then, it was said that, "You were beautiful when you came to China but you get more and more beautiful as you stay here." Apparently, this is a common theme amongst foreign women in China and there was a lengthy discussion about our progressive beauty. I explained this phenomenon by saying, "Well, yes because we become more and more happy."

And then there was more toasting. And my friends from the kids table got up to toast me as I was the reason we were feasting and they’re my friends. Now, the thing about toasting in China is that the highest compliment you can give a person toasting you is to down your glass. So, I drank. A lot. And I realized how grateful I am for my Irish, German and French heritage as I didn’t get sloppy drunk and I didn’t have a hangover this morning.

We closed the restaurant down and as my good friend and I piled out of the restaurant, the van that took us from work pulled up. I climbed into the back of the bus and there in the back was sitting the head of the primary school. He and I have always had a bit of a flirtation as he’s clearly a pensive lad and I like to flirt with the pensive lads. After a few moments, it was clear he was happily toasted and he started speaking to me in English. He’s always been shy about his English so it was a surprise to have him all of a sudden so comfortable attempting English with me.

And as we rode in the back of the bus, I realized that the flirtation was mutual. Z’s affection has given me the confidence to see myself and the fact that some men might find me desirable. I saw it last night and in our stolen moments of broken English and Mandarin I saw how affairs begin. He’s coming upon his midlife crisis and I’m sweet and young but mature enough to be sensitive. Alas, I am no longer the mistress. I’ve been down that road and been burned badly enough to know it’s not worth the damage it would cause me alone, much less risking Z.

We got back to the compound and I then poured myself into my apartment to call my mom. It was so good to hear her voice. The shenanigans of the holidays were reaching a full-tilt and home was just as it always is at Christmas. I wished more than anything that I could have home, Z and Xi’An all together but I’m infinitely grateful that I’ve known any of them and have all of them to long for.

SINGLEDOM IS DEAD! LONG LIVE SINGLEDOM!

I would like to say that I love the sensation of falling for another human being but I’m not sure I’m familiar with it. I’ve never been this girl falling for that boy before. In that I have all the typical flu-like symptoms of a spinny head, butterflies in my stomach and the shakes, I’m just like every woman who has ever fallen in love. However, unlike my normal self, I don’t have the flu like symptoms when he’s around. When he’s around, my world is crystalline, still and comfortable. There is no sensation of desperation or frantic need to accomplish anything. What goes through my head is not "Kiss me now. Now!" but rather, "God, I would love if he kissed me right now but I think I could stay here, just talking, forever." I never knew I liked my life as much as I do when I’m with him.

Our date started at 6 on Saturday night (12/23) and he walked me home at 1:30 this morning. There was dinner, laughing, confusion, karaoke and general fun hanging out shenanigans. He managed the bulk of the conversation in a language he hasn’t used in 5 years. He was polite, wonderful, open, honest and generous and generally took care of me.

I called him about 15 minutes before we were supposed to meet because I was supposed to make sure he didn’t forget again and he was already waiting for me. (I could hear the street traffic below my window echoing from his mobile.) I went outside, met up with him, gave him a birthday card as Christmas is his birthday and we went to the gym where he works part time. We sat down on one of the couches and he immediately popped up to get me a glass of water. Considering that we live in a desert area, making sure someone has water is second only to making sure someone has food in terms of caring for them. We talked for a bit and he was clearly nervous about trying to communicate with me. At first, he didn’t say much so I decided to make an ass of myself with my terrifically bad Mandarin. After all, when all else fails around nervous students, I’ve learned to show them just how much of an ass I’m willing to be and things always get a lot smoother super fast. So I did and they did.

Bless his heart, he claimed to be impressed with my grasp of Mandarin but not surprisingly, was very soon comfortable using his English. We got to talking about all sorts of things and all of those discussions were of his making. At one point, he got up, got some paper to write out what he was trying to say and he placed the paper on top of the magazine in my lap. As he was drawing, his hand kept brushing my knee. I’ve been in China long enough to know that there are no mistakes of that sort and on the incredibly rare occasion that there are, they never happen again.

For my part, I simply stayed and resisted the urge to reciprocate. In China, women do not escalate the initiation and I didn’t want to throw him off. Spending the night in a foreign language you’re embarrassed about being bad in is discombobulating enough, the poor thing didn’t need to have to figure out new gender rules as well. So I did the "Yes" I think he’s familiar with which is accepting without allowing his advances to shift our dynamic. It seemed to work as his English got better and better.

His classmate from the sports university he attended showed up with his girlfriend and it soon became clear that they and the receptionist were there to be our chaperones for the evening. He had apparently pulled in his friend and that friend’s girlfriend and receptionist to make sure I felt comfortable. We all got up to got to dinner and he made sure that I went through all doorways first. I was beyond impressed with the planning and composure he is capable of.

At dinner, I didn’t eat much as I don’t ever eat much for dinner and Z teased me about not eating much. I explained if I eat a lot at dinner, I can’t sleep. I eat a large breakfast, smaller lunch and tiny dinner. He understood and explained to our group who seemed rather flabbergasted at my lack of appetite.

I then told him I had never seen a population that could eat as much as the Chinese and the insane thing is that they’re all incredibly small.

"Small?" Z asked as he flexed beneath is winter parka, smiling. "Not small."

I couldn’t help but laugh. "No, not small, slim" I corrected myself.

And for the first time in China, there was no discussion of Americans being "fat." In fact, Z asked if everyone in America was as good at sports as I am.

"I’m not good at sports." I said.

"Yes, you are. Volleyball and, um, and basketball, you are very good. You are good at sports." He protested. It was such a relief to finally be seen the way I see myself; as a jock. And I was reminded of our lunch on Friday where Yente was discussing how "fat" her Kate-Moss-Is-Pudgy-In-Comparison frame is. She explained that her arms are slim but actually her belly is fat and that makes her a fat slob. I explained that I am just fat everywhere and Z looked at me like I was insane and laughed the laugh one does upon hearing the absurd. I can’t even begin to express how nice it is to know that my weight is a non-discussion.

During dinner, it was sorted out that the gym is not, in fact, his part time job but his creation. His coworker, best friend and classmate is also his business partner and they have plans to take their gym global. However, they’ve only just opened their business and so he must work at the school as the gym teacher to make ends meet as the business starts up. Z is the business end of the business and his best friend is the face of the business. As dinner wrapped up, Z got up to pay as no one here questions that even non-romantically interested men always pay for women. It would appear that the first date requires that the boy pay for everyone involved in creating her comfort sphere.

We all walked back to the gym (which is a large dance studio space) and crashed on the couches to watch the yoga class going on. Z sat with me, quiet for most of the time to let me watch the yoga class as it is what I had expressed most interest in.

After the yoga class, one of the students approached me and tried to barter me teaching her English for her teaching me Tai Chi. Z very politely declined for me and explained that I had just had dinner so Tai Chi was out of the question. Instead, she showed me the complete cycle of Tai Chi and we applauded her when she was done.

When the yoga class was over and the lady gone, his best friend decided to take over the stereo system and start up with the karaoke (every sound system here has the karaoke option) to serenade the girlfriend. Z and I got to talking and it got really involved though we always stopped to applaud his friend when he finished a number. It was then that I began to realize how comfortable I felt under his constant gaze.

In China, they always answer their mobile. Always. It doesn’t matter where people are or who they’re with, they answer their mobiles first. I’ve seen people answer it in board meetings to just chat away. I’ve seen people answer it in the midst of a heated fight. I’ve even heard that people do it during movies, though I haven’t been to a movie here so I can’t attest firsthand to that. Z, however, started screening his calls. The few that he did take, he watched me the whole time he was talking and most of them were asking how the date with the "foreigner" was going. In Chinese, the slang word for "foreigner" is considered somewhat rude and definitely, as an adult, not something you would say to someone you considered a human being. (Case in point: the few times I have called people I know out on calling me a "foreigner" by simply repeating the word "foreigner" they have giggled nervously, apologized profusely, bent over backwards to make amends and never did it again) I would hear the word come out of the phone and each time it did he would argue with the caller that I was not a "foreigner" but "American."

When his friend finished singing, Z took over the mic for a bit and sang a few numbers. I applauded him after each song but he quickly relinquished the mic and sat back down with me.
After Z’s performances, his friend and the girlfriend bailed while the receptionist stayed but went off to the back room somewhere to leave us alone. It was then that his phone, now on vibrate not the usual ring mode, started to go utterly unanswered.

Z and I talked some more about things that move him, movies and music and he was amazed that I know of all the Chinese movie stars that I do. He was utterly flabbergasted that I could name multiple Korean movie stars. As we hung out and things got quiet, I explained to him that the reason I can count in Chinese is because I listened to him. He became very earnest and said, "You have taught me so many English words tonight. Thank you."

I shook my head and said, "No. We’re friends. That’s what friends do."

"I think. Um. I think, we are good friends. Good friends, yes?" He asked so earnestly and with such vulnerability that I almost kissed him. "Good friends" you see, is the Chinese term for what men and women are right before they become boyfriend and girlfriend.

"Yes. We are good friends." I smiled and nodded.

He studied my face, clearly unsure if I understood his meaning. "Good friends."

"Yes. Good friends." I nodded again.

We then sat back to enjoy the silence between us and I glanced at the clock on the wall that read 1:30. I gasped and said, "It’s late!" feeling a bit like Cinderella as the words came out of my mouth. It was only just 7. "I should get home" I blurted out, realizing the poor receptionist guy was stuck there until the wee hours of the morning because I had lost track of time.

Z nodded and stood up, putting on his jacket. "I will, how do you say?" he gestured walking me home.

"You will walk me home." I said.

He nodded, "I will walk you home."

As we were crossing the street to the apartment complex (his gym is visible from my balcony) I turned to him and said the line Yente had fed me so many weeks ago. "Jin tian, wo hen kaixin." Which loosely translates to "Today [jin tian], I [wo] had a good time [hen kaixin]" but in Chinese, "hen" means "very/much/really," "kai" means "open(ed)" and "xin" means "heart." In other words, to "have a good time" with someone means that the person has "really opened your heart." Like I said, translation is not a mathematical science.

However, before I got a chance to finish my sentence with "Xie xie" (thank you) he had already said, "Xie xie." I shook my head and said "Xie xie ni" (roughly; "thank YOU"). That rendered him silent for a few moments.

He then told me how much he would like to take me to see his home in "perhaps a few months or a year."

I was beyond happy that I was able to give him something honest, earnest and in the language he feels most comfortable in. He busted his ass for over 7 hours, ended the evening unsure if I understood the idea of "Good friends" and never forgot his manners for a second. The least I could do is give him a token of confirmation on his terms. After all, he’s made me the happiest woman on the planet for at least one evening.

ANATEVKA, 1905

It would appear that in Anatevka, even Nancy Drew needs Yente. (For those of you unfamiliar with that reference, Anatevka is the town in which "Fiddler on the Roof" is set, Yente is the matchmaker and Nancy Drew is the naÔve girl-detective who stumbles into success with each case despite her Pollyanna lack of reality.)

So, Z had been avoiding me because "fighting" is seen as an incredibly intimate thing to do and to put a woman you’re not officially involved with in the position where she needs to fight with you is seen as very rude. Z is nothing if not a sweet, well-mannered man. Consequently, it was going to take more than me to fix what only me had sown.

Because I’ve found myself trapped in a "conveniently timed" Meg Ryan romantic comedy, it would appear that I was in fact clear about going trying to go to the museum again that next Saturday. Z works a part time job on Saturdays (he’s a Pilates trainer at a nearby gym) and was so busy he forgot to call me. He wasn’t at lunch on Monday and then I bumped into my boss leading to my freak out.

When we both saw each other later, we both had our respective bullshit issues going on and he did the Chinese-right thing by leaving me be. The issue with the Chinese-right thing is that he must have down my schedule as he manages to avoid me completely when trying to avoid me… and I tried hard to find him.

Which meant all I could do was employ my lunch-mate/Yente to fix it. Yente went to find him at lunch on Friday (12/22) and told him to come to our lunch table.

Now, the thing about the men around here is that they don’t apologize. I know this may come as a shock to most women to read but the men around here don’t like to apologize. (I would venture to take the wild guess that the men from around here don’t ask for directions either but I’ve yet to be lost with a dude from around here.) "If a man [around here] apologizes to you, he puts you in the position of being ‘the boss.’" Or so it has been explained to me on many, many occasions. I know, WILD, CRAZY country this China. Next, they’ll tell me the men have penises, the women have vaginas and that candy is bad for your teeth.

Crazy, whacked-out cultural differences aside, Z sat down and immediately turned to Yente and said (in Chinese) "Please, please tell her I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please tell her. Speak, say it." And so on and so forth.... in front of the room full of teachers, all of whom were watching us. Here was a man so desperate to have it known that he was sorry for fucking up, he didn’t care who witnessed it despite the fact that "saving face" is even more important in China than it is in the States. And his words weren’t a show for my benefit as he was still under the impression I speak NO Chinese and he did his best to be cool about his physical mannerisms.

Yente was as surprised as I was by his outburst and so she didn’t explain the apology to me. To be totally honest, we were both struck dumb.

Immediately, Z turned to me and said, slowly, loudly, desperately and clearly, "Dui bu shi!" The look on his face was so earnest, desperate and indifferent that there were several tables full of colleagues silently watching us that I really couldn’t be pulled from my being-struck-dumb state.

When he finally broke eye contact with me to implore Yente again to explain he was sorry I did all I could think to do, which was shake my head and hand (like you’re waving "hello" with limp fingers) both of which indicate "No." Words still failed me but I did remember body language. I remembered that both heartfelt apologies and heartfelt thanks are to be dismissed as redundant, not to be accepted.

I stumbled about in trying to find the right way to explain that it was okay but I think I didn’t explain properly. Nevertheless, the conversation moved along and somehow it came up that he doesn’t teach yoga but he teaches Pilates. He wanted to know if I would like to join him in a class of Pilates. So I said, "Yes" because I enjoy being humiliated by my lack of coordination in front of the boy I like.

Actually, I said "Yes" because there’s no way I could say, "No" to that boy, especially after the inadvertent scene he made.

So, we talked a little, he in his stilted English and I in my stilted Chinese. Both of us were rendered multi-lingual-challenged by the attention we were getting but we managed to muddle through it. I must say, my favorite parts of our conversation were where he forgot what he was saying simply because I was looking at him.

At one point, he was stopped so long that several of the tables of women near us who had been spellbound and wrent silent (no joke, no one is ever silent for anything, so the silence around us was staggering) by our episode of "As the Lunchroom Serves" all fed him the next line in unison the way people tend to do when the cinematic, suspenseful silence becomes too much to bear.

Upon hearing countless female voices say simultaneously, "’Saturday,’ tell her" in breathless Mandarin, I turned from Z to see tables of women wide-eyed, mouth agape, chopsticks-stopped-in-mid-air-with-food-still-pinched-between-them enraptured by the shenanigans of our table. I know I’m a sucker for romance but wow, I’ve got nothing on these ladies. I couldn’t help but giggle from all the attention we were getting and respect Z all the more for being able to muddle through anything with me.

As we wrapped up lunch, he did the possessive-guy thing of first making sure I had enough to eat and then carrying my things as we left. He even went so far as to carry Yente’s things too but made sure he had all my things first.

I must say, the schtetle does have its finer points.

LORD OF THE FLIES

I love my babies more than anything. They are beyond cute. They make me happier than I could have ever imagined. The thing is, they’re crazy. Not "Girl, you so crazy" crazy; I mean full-on, batshit insane. And, it’s not just my babies, it’s all kids. I mean, how the hell did any of us survive childhood?

I see the bumps and bruises and crazy hits children take. It’s lunacy. Any one of the number of hits kids take on a regular basis would send my ass to the hospital. They hit each other hard, love each other hard and hate each other hard. It’s a wonder any of us ever made it through alive. And they’re so blasÈ about it.

As I walk to my office every morning, "Hello Teacher!" is hollered out by all the students I pass as they briefly look up to smile at me while they beat on each other. I’d be in traction from either giving or receiving such beatings but they can pause casually to smile broadly at the teacher walking by and then return casually to slamming each other.

Case in point: My gay. My gay has taken to giving me little candies when I go by his classroom. He’ll come out of his class with the boy in his class in love with me and they both approach me shyly (neither speaks English in a capacity that they’re comfortable with) to hand me little candies. (Food is a major measure of love because there is not enough to go around and most of the teachers I work with literally grew up hungry. If someone gives you food, it is because they love you and want make sure you are taken care of. Close friends greet each other around lunch by offering to feed each other.) They both share the responsibility of explaining in English what they are giving me, I thank them, they get all nervous and shy saying "No thank you" (the literal translation of Mandarin’s "You’re Welcome") and then they punch the hell out of each other. And I don’t just mean a few whacks, I mean full-on, grab each other, wrestle to the ground and pound on each other relentlessly.

What is that? (Other than the homoerotic [not-so]subtext) More importantly, how the hell did any of us survive?

OH, FOR FUCK’S SAKE

You’ve got to be kidding me. Fucking hell. Fuck fuck fuck.

My boss has been “informed” by “someone” that I have found a “boyfriend.” My boss, with whom I’ve been playing door-knock-tag (like “phone tag” but in a country where voice mail and answering machines literally do not exist) for weeks now, happened to bump into me on my way between classes.

“I hear you’ve found a…” he drifted off looking at the English speaking students passing between us and I look at him questioningly. He clearly wanted to express something basic and easily comprehended but also something that might compromise my position as a teacher. In other words, something sexual.

“A what?” I asked, amused but pressed for time. That my boss might wander anywhere near the territory of my sexuality is beyond entertaining to me. I figured he was going to tease me about my groupies in class.

“A [insert his gesture of elongating a blank] friend. You’ve been keeping secrets from me.” He said in a tone that twisted my upper hand and crossed into the plains of truthful territory.

“What?” I asked, confused and forgetting my time pressure. This was not about the giggling bad boys who breathlessly await my punishment. This was not about the boys that will, in the future, arrive in an S&M dungeon with a suitcase full of NYC MTA Subway maps to be swatted with, a pair of New York pseudo-intellectual glasses for the tall dominatrix to wear and a desire to scolded in English and demeaned in broken Mandarin. This was about something current.

“A [insert gesture of elongated blank and widening of eyes] kind of friend” he says as my stomach drops realizing he means “B.O.Y. friend.” He looks at me a nods and I have think for a moment.

“No, I haven’t brought anyone back to my place. I haven’t even made out with anyone, much less in public.” I think to myself. “I’m not sleeping with anyone and I’ve done nothing of real note. Hell the only boy I’m interested in…” Then I had a flash of my boss pulling Z into his office and giving him the stern once over to treat me well and not upset me.

“Oh. Shit.” I think and am flooded by memories of the boys I liked that prematurely fled in fear once they heard through the grapevine that someone (read: NOT the gossip hounds who were, at best, rushing things but “me” who wasn’t actually saying anything) had laid claim to them. Once the commitment phobic white boys caught wind that I might have laid claim to them, instead of talking to me about it or mentioning it or any other scenario in which I have a chance to reveal that I have laid no such claim, they ran for the hills. I have gone to great measures to prevent any such scenario from happening with Z. It’s difficult enough getting things off the ground with Z without gossip hounds watching our every move, to say nothing of our BOSS. Regardless of my effort, the BOSS has caught wind of this.

I’ve done everything I can to keep things quiet in order to keep Z from the spotlight by which this local celebrity is illuminated in the most unflattering of fashions. I’ve sworn my lunch mate to secrecy and I’ve told no one else about anything. My Chinese Angel knows I have a crush on Z but I’ve not told her a thing about our ongoing flirtation and she certainly does not have the kind of relationship with our boss in which she would even reveal the flirtation.

I watch the smile spread over my boss’s face and he laughs, amused.

“No, I don’t.” I stammer out, realizing the moment the words are out that it’s a bigger confession than if I had been mooning over him.

The first response he answers is greater laughter. “You’ve been keeping secrets from me.” He teases.

“No, I’m not keeping secrets.” I answer truthfully.

My boss shoots me a knowing look.

“I’m not, I swear. There’s no secret to keep. He’s not…” I stammer. It suddenly occurs to me that the leak is not coming from my camp because there is no one to leak anything. “How did you know?” I ask levelly.

My boss shoots me the most wicked look. “I have my sources” and he smiles.

It takes me a moment but then I realize the leak’s coming from the only place it could; Z’s camp. I immediately turn the color of chili peppers and speak, “Who told you?”

My boss smiles, “I have, how do you say, spies?”

The face of Z’s lunch mate flashes in my head. Recently (pre-volleyball game), I’ve gone from nonexistent to suddenly worthy of a proactive “Ni hao.” I’ve gone from “nothing” to “actively-embrace-her” status. Clearly something has shifted his perspective of me and as he and I have no contact, the most obvious answer is Z.

Z and his lunch mate’s immediate boss is the father of the young man in the Bitch Slap fight and good friend to the uber-boss (aka “My boss”). Their boss has great interest in me because I’m not only the English teacher, kicked his ass in volleyball (even though he’s a gym teacher whose forte is volleyball), have no fear of him (everyone here is terrified of him because he’s easily 6 foot 5, politically and physically powerful and well-disciplined but I can spot a man desperate to be seen for the pussy cat that he is from a thousand yards) and told him his son is very clever (because he is) but I’m also one of the few teachers able to reach his son. (His son now leaps to hug me every time he sees me, actually will obey me if he understands what I say and does his best to speak in English with me.) He wants to be proud of his only son and even though I have nothing to fear from him, I fully, honestly believe he should be. I have definitely piqued that man’s interest and I catch him watching me every time we’re in the same room.

It’s like a fucking chess match but I think I get the chain of events. Z talks to lunch mate, lunch mate talks to their boss, their boss talks to our boss and you have “spies.” People who have a pointed interest in me (either good or bad) discuss me at great length (see any number of entries for my thoughts on this). I suspect the idea of a white woman expressing interest in a Chinese man is extra fascinating to everyone because it’s so rare I’ve never actually seen it. The idea of me with a Chinese husband actually made my fellow female teachers laugh out loud with surprise. My male counterpart (White Male) often comes and pilfers the Chinese women (and I use “pilfer” because my male counterpart makes no secret of discussing their multiple conquests with anyone who will listen, even their students and colleagues, before they settle down with one; a distasteful habit in looser Western countries and downright destructive in the more traditional China) but I have yet to meet a single white woman with a Chinese man. I don’t know why that is but everyone here seems to think that’s totally reasonable and so my raised interest in one boy in particular seems to have garnered some attention on his end.

Nevertheless, I was freaked out by the grapevine “She’s got a boyfriend” talk because it has always been followed by nothing but the craptastic splendor of mortification. I’ve always been a bit too earnest when it comes to matters of the heart and I found myself utterly panicked at the thought of the public humiliation awaiting me at the end of this in the form of well-intentioned lectures to be less emotionally invested in the emotional. I swan dive from high up and tend to get royally banged up. I always have and probably always will. I fall down hard, cry hard and then move one with my life. What upsets me about the public humiliation is that some of the people I care about are going to lecture me on all the things I did wrong and all the warning signs I ignored. Oddly losing the thing I’ve invested in isn’t the thing I worry about most because if it’s lost, it’s lost. I’ve lost many things in my life and my one consolation is that I know I did everything in my power to keep them. I have no regrets about that. Sometimes, things just will not be and I can do nothing about that. No, what worries me is all the people I’m going to have to hear from about what I did wrong and all the reasons I should have chosen the safe path of an emotional-free life. Mourning loss is hard. The self-righteous lectures are untenable because they serve no purpose than comforting other people under the guise of helping me. So, not only must I deal with the depths of crappy, I must also be polite, considerate of other’s feelings and accept the lecturing that illuminates nothing save the discomfort of my friend’s sadness at my pain.

At my boss’s words, I briefly glimpsed of all the “You shouldn’t have attempted a cross-cultural relationship in the first place” lectures that would now not just await me at my email inbox but my English teachers’ offices as well and freaked the fuck out. They would all say the same thing and accomplish nothing but kicking me while I’m down. In more than enough ways I’m alone enough out here without the alienation of finger wagging heaped upon romantic rejection as well. And, considering the lectures I’m still getting about being fat, I know that it will be a LONG time before anyone here lets go of a crash and burn scenario with Z. Needless to say, I had a mini panic attack after the brief meeting with my boss. I actually had to lock myself in a bathroom stall (the only place for privacy in school) to talk myself down from a full-blown panic attack.

So, with karma’s twisted sense of humor, I found myself completely backing off from Z for the remainder of the week like one the countless men who’ve jilted me. Instead, I took time out to learn a new lesson from one of my students.

My little monkey was pulled into my office this week by one of my fellow teachers.

“You like this boy, yes?” She asked as I was busy working at my desk. I turned around to see her holding hands with my little monkey.

At the sight of my little monkey, I hopped out of my chair and squatted down to be at his level. He walked over to me and stood between my knees, putting one hand on my wrist, as my hands were resting on my knees. Unsure why he was there, he had the anticipatory look of a boy unsure if he was going to get a spanking or a treat.

My fellow teacher sat down in her chair as he slowly inched closer and closer to me. She said something to him in Chinese and he turned to look at me questioningly. She said something else and he turned back to her and nodded.

He squeezed my wrist with one hand and stroked my cheek with the other. He then dropped his hand from my cheek and lowered his gaze. I lowered my head to catch his gaze and he smiled shyly at me.

“Hello teacher.” He whispered to me in English. He’s never spoken to me in English that wasn’t a part of his lesson. I was completely taken aback and could merely watch him as he hurried out of the office.

The teacher then told me what a naughty boy he is but we both agreed we liked naughty boys because naughty and clever (the Mandarin-English translation of “bright/smart”) are always together. She then said, “You like slim but strong boys.”

“What?” I asked, completely confused.

“You like boys who look slim but are strong. Even the PE teacher is slim but strong.” She continued, leaving me still confused about the physical basis for my “like” but clear on the power of the grapevine.

“No, it’s not about that. I like physical boys.” I explained. “Besides, all the boys in China look slim to me.” Let’s be frank, Vin Diesel doesn’t really exist in China. The “bulked up” look is not desirable in China. The general consensus seems to be “lanky is better.”

Just then a heavyset boy passed by the office and the teacher gestured to him. “He’s very fat. You don’t like boys that look like that.” She proclaimed.

“We would call him ‘heavy’ not fat and that doesn’t mean anything.” I explained. “I like tactile boys with courage, manners, intelligence and silliness. I doesn’t matter what they look like.” I then had to explain “tactile” while steering her away from the rather vulgar interpretation but I don’t think she got it. I certainly was in no position to try to explain why the hottest men on the planet (in my book) all know how to use their bodies expertly but don’t necessarily look good in a picture. To me, “hot” is all in gesture, movement and that “it” factor lurking behind their eyes. To be totally honest, I don’t even really remember what my closest friends look like in a way that would help a sketch artist, only that they inhabit their space in certain ways. In college, I once made pillars of my friends repeating their signature gesture into clay; it was the closest thing I’ve ever made to portraits and to this day those pillars look more like them to me than any picture I have of them.

Later that day, my little monkey found me in the hallway and took my hand, walking me to my class, hand in hand. He is very serious about the business of being my beloved. Now, whenever I see him in the hallway, he organizes the students to carry my things and insists that he escorts me to class.

I do love how seriously they take emotional commitment here. I decided to knock my shenanigans the fuck off and act like an adult just in time for my Saturday date with Z.

Alas, I did not make myself clear and my Saturday date with Z never happened. I think we’re running out of reasons to run into each other and so now I think I have to make some up. Though he’s made it quite evident he’ll run with it once I give him the go ahead, I think he’s going to need a pretty big, clear “Go Ahead” sign from me. To be fair, I am certainly a minefield with a pretty good poker face and so one can’t blame the boy if he’s unclear about what I want.

Which leads me to find my inner Nancy Drew. I’ve decided to foil the Old Mill Owner Mr. Jenkins with my plot to corner Z into hanging out with me. I think what we need is more time alone to get to know each other and I need it to be away from school. Essentially, my plot boils down to the fact that I’m lazy. Candy coat it however you want but the fact remains that I’m just lazy. I wouldn’t get out of bed if I didn’t have to and I don’t when I don’t have to. While as a youngin’ this served me no good and I had to work extra hard to overcompensate for the truth like a post-Wham pre-public-toilet George Michael, I am now an adult who has decided to embrace her true nature and revel in my sloth-like behavior. I’m here! I’m a lazy motherfucker! Get used to it!

How does this become a benefit to my love life? Well, I’ll tell you. I’m a yoga fiend. I love yoga. I love what it does for my head and my body. I love being flexible and I love being centered. However, I’m lazy. Unless I’ve got a class to whip my ass to do it regularly, it tends to fall by the wayside. The classes here are ridiculously expensive because the only people who want to take yoga are the elite foreigners.

Z, however, teaches yoga. I teach English which he has already said he wants to study with me. I figure we can barter. As both yoga and English are absurdly priced in Xi’An, perhaps we can help each other out. And, if he happens to need to come to my apartment for said lessons where we’re all alone with no one to hear him scream, so be it. I’m willing to take one for the team… just so long as the team’s grapevine stays the hell away from me.

GRATITUDE

I am suddenly overcome by the sensation of intense gratitude because I am overcome by the sensation of longing but not loss. First, I am incredibly fortunate to have things to long for. I know too many people who long for nothing and it’s not good. Completion (in the conventional sense) seems to be more the death of hope than anything. I fear it more and more each day. Secondly, I know there will come a time when I long for the things I am currently taking for granted. In this meta issue that only seems to fold back into itself, I find my largest well of gratitude. In the recognition of my gratitude, I feel the need to overtly state it.

So, I want it to be known that, if you’re reading this, I’m incredibly grateful for you and you should sit down for Kurosawa’s epic "Akahige" ("Red Beard").

BITCH SLAP

The general consensus amongst teachers here is that if students are going to fight, they need to sort it out themselves. Granted, if the fight gets too physical, most teachers yell at the students as the way to stop it. Personally, I’m kind of on the fence about how to handle fights and I’m certainly in no position to take sides but I definitely don’t care to stand back and yell at my babies as they pummel each other to a pulp.

Nevertheless, in the teacher’s lunchroom, a fight broke out today (12/13). A little boy in second grade came to sit with me. I love the way the little ones are so curious about me and how, some days, that overcomes them leading them to sit down with me at lunch just to be with me. This darling beautiful little boy dropped his tray down in front of me, saddled up to the seat facing mine and started to eat in silence. A brief glance around the room would show that there were plenty of free tables all about and several of his friends already collected at one of the few taken tables. As I glanced back down at the little boy, he looked up at me and smiled a big broad smile. He wanted to be with me specifically and liked that I understood that.

Across the lunchroom, the young man with the grabby hands who formally apologized to me (and whose father is a senior teacher) was having lunch and yelling, as normal. The boy and I have made peace with each other and I now quite adore him. He’s loud, crazy, wild and difficult to control but he is so because he’s driven by something I don’t understand. Underneath the wild drive, is a very sweet, very clever, very sensitive young man who truly wants to do the right thing. In my class, when he’s truly trying, he gets very shy and soft-spoken and won’t look me in the face. In an effort to support his interest in education, I heap praise on him when he does the right thing. He’s just got an incredibly short fuse and intolerance for anything out of the ordinary. I suspect his father rules with an iron fist and the young man is having a difficult time coping with that.

At some point, my little second grader got up to go join his friends and my lunch mate sat down with me. She and I got talking about my most difficult class and my Pollyanna desire to reach them.

While we were talking, I heard the sounds of real punching. As the dull thud of the punches filtered into my brain, I thought what any filmmaker worth their weight in short ends thinks, "The folly artist definitely went for accuracy over drama on that one. Guess there were no frozen turkeys available." You see, what most Americans are accustomed to as the sound of punching (from movies) is actually a much higher, wetter, sharper sound than what punch actually sounds like. Most punch sounds are made from the folly artist (the dude/tte who makes sounds to enhance a movie) punching a formerly frozen turkey. Real punches don’t have much sound to them. It’s a more a sickeningly dull thud that, when landed near the core, resonates dully through the chest cavity.

It sinks into my brain that I’m not in an editing studio as Z, who is sitting just over my right shoulder, shouts something out. Considering the tone of his voice, I recognize immediately that something is wrong and as I look up, past Z’s back, I see the young man beating on my 2nd grade lunch partner. To my 2nd grade boy’s credit, he’s punching back but the young man is not only very large for his age and very physically fit, he’s also easily 10 years old. The 2nd grade boy is 6 or 7 and small for his age. That the boy is full-on sobbing as the punches are being thrown triggers my reflex to get up.

I flinch to get up as I know that none of the other teachers here will physically stop a physical fight, even one as clearly mismatched as this one. They will stand back and yell at the two boys until the fight stops. Normally, that method works. The 2nd grade boy can most certainly be stopped with yelling; even I’ve done it. However, the young man, once triggered will not be stopped, short of physical removal from the fight. The young man is simply wound too tightly to be verbally controlled once he’s undone. Most male teachers don’t have the young man and the female teachers don’t seem to discipline short of yelling and slapping. (To be fair, I grew up a tomboy in a very active, athletic environment with lots of brothers and full-contact sports, so I am not afraid of a few bruises, broken bones or taking the occasional hit. The women here grew up as only children with badminton as their most aggressive outlets. They are terrified of flying balls. Lord only knows about flying fists.) This situation needs a full-on physical intervention with someone who is much bigger and scarier and has no problem getting hit by the stray fist without getting enraged. The two boys need to be separated and then the situation needs to simply be dropped without long-term reprimanding or else things will be exacerbated. Frankly, men tend to be the gender that gets that physical fights between boys can just be dropped in a matter of minutes. However, women tend to be bulk of teachers. Any woman brave enough to go into that fight is going to make a federal case out of it and only make things worse. My lack of Mandarin capabilities can be blamed for why the only thing that comes out of my mouth when kids start yelling their case to me is, "STOP!" despite the fact that even if I did speak Mandarin fluently that would still be the only sentiment to come out of my mouth.

"TA.." ["HE/SHE…"] usually is yelled in protest.

"NO! STOP!" is all I say until the child is silent.

I then turn to the other kid to repeat my sentiment and the conversation is usually completely repeated.

So I start to get up but Z cuts me off at the pass. I had forgotten that Z has the young man for phys ed and so must be fully aware of how to stop him. In the most heartening move all week, I watched Z step between the flying fists, take a few on the hip, grab the young man by the scruff of the neck and yell at the 2nd grade boy to go back to his seat. He barked at the young man to go back to his seat and was done with it.

Not that I ever need a reason but I really wanted to hug Z right then.

Z

The thing I like most about Z is that he’s always treated me like a human being. Everyone here either feared or resented or whatever-ed me at first. Every Chinese friend who knew I was going to Central PRC warned me about the opportunists who’d "Do anything" to get on my good side and then bleed me dry. I figured out pretty quickly the people looking to bleed me and the people who were simply par for the course. Everyone came at me with such staggering baggage that it was exhausting. Granted, when you live in an incredibly homogeneous society, literally never having met a "White" woman before, and suddenly the female counterpart to my predecessor arrives, I don’t know that you can blame people for being a bit, as Eddie Izzard puts it, "spikey."

However, I’m still me and I had no personal track record so it was definitely a bit bothersome to always have prejudices, opportunism, gossip and other people’s issues lingering in the air. I hate being a figurehead, stripped of my ability to be my dorky self.

Case in point, I said "Ni hao" to everyone when I first got here. I thought I’d do my best to dispel the "Arrogant Imperialist" notion straight away. After all, I didn’t need to know Mandarin to know that there was no real source of discussion the first few weeks I was here, aside from the minutia of my every move. So, to walk into a room where everyone is clearly discussing me in great detail, be stared at like a freak show and then have my friendly "Hello" be met with stunned silence was disheartening, to say the least. The last time I had to deal with that sort of "What is the great beast going to do now that she’s entered the room" crap, a woman peripheral to some new people I’d met was elucidating precisely what a heinous bitch (she felt) I am. Consequently, every time I entered the room, no one ever said anything, clearly awaiting the giant bitch housed inside me to burst forth and consume every last one of them. Like my friends here, I eventually won over my friends back home but it blows having to combat a legacy of bullshit you didn’t make.

Z was one of very few teachers who just treated me the way I’m accustom to being treated by strangers; neutrally. He returned my "hello" and went about his business, clearly curious and formal but no more than I would have expected in America. After a while, he even started flirting with me and being super friendly (in PRC terms) before we were even formally introduced. He seems to have no problem being demonstrative about the things he wants and the way he wants to do things. He’s also been very laid back about my "foreign" nature and earnest in the most seductive of ways.

On Monday (12/11) I was fiercely reminded of this. My schedule is, as always, different than almost anyone else I work with (my sole compatriot is my lunch mate who works in both the Middle and Primary schools) so I’m never in "at the beginning of the day." Mondays are no different as it is the day to raise the flag and sing the national anthem. I have no idea when the flag raising ceremony starts and no idea if I’m invited to attend (usually, they just forget to tell me these things but sometimes I’m not invited and in lieu of putting them in the position of having to tell me "Yes" because, god forbid, they ever actually say, "I’m sorry but no" when they mean it, I just don’t broach the topic), so I arrive when I’ve been told to arrive; 8am.

I make it into the English teachers’ office and someone’s bag is on my desk. One of the things about my desk is that it’s always bare. In the one of the countless they’re-more-Confuscist-than-communist strokes, no adult invades or touches my space unless explicitly invited by me. Amongst each other, they are perfectly comfortable being utterly equal and loose about boundaries but with me, they are overly respectful of my space. So, unless the students (who are too young to be held to the adult levels of propriety) are working on something or my immediate neighbor has too many books to correct and she takes me up on my explicit offer to use my empty desk space to prevent a book avalanche, nothing is ever on my desk.

But, now there’s a computer case/briefcase lying on my desk. It’s not a student’s stuff and I know it’s not a colleague’s stuff. I’m certainly not offended or put off by it; I just notice it with surprise as it’s something out of place in the most orderly work environment I’ve ever been in. Frankly, I’m kind of glad that someone is comfortable enough with me to make themselves at home in my space.

That brief moment of pleasure that someone is comfortable with me lingers as I start working on reviewing the classes I’ll be teaching in my monster day of seven classes. Outside the window to the office, I hear the flag raising ceremony end and the teachers start filing back into the office.

Z comes through the door with my girls and leans over to talk to me as he takes his bag off my desk. As he pulls his bag from my desk, pulls out his phone and says "Number, disconnected," I realize he had come in before the ceremony, asked my girls where I was (probably had to explain why he was asking and ask how to say "disconnected") and left his things to see me after. He had preempted me. I had been wondering how I was going to find him to explain that the number he gave me had been disconnected. I was also wondering how I was going to explain "disconnected" but he had is sorted before I needed to wrestle with anything.

He explained that he had some problems with his phone over the weekend and (I think) we made plans to try again this Saturday. I gave him my number and he said he’d call me. He was very sweet and then my immediate neighbor poked her head in (as the sisterhood’s job is to make sure that all men are on the up and up when interacting with their friends) to get the rest of the story. Z had no problem explaining it all immediately as she watched him from behind the mask and then finally nodded approvingly.

While it was nice having a boy be so demonstrative, I suddenly discovered myself not trusting it at all. Not that I don’t trust him but that I don’t trust that he’s interested in the same thing I’m interested in. Because all New York women are a cheap knock off of Sex and the City, I found myself wondering how it was that a man who is interested in me could be so comfortable with that fact being known so publicly. Imagine a man in New York discussing with his love-interest’s girlfriends the fact that they were supposed to have a date, that it got screwed up and then asking them for advice on what he should do to fix it. That’s the foresight of gay men, not straight. Most men in New York won’t deal with a girl’s girlfriends at all, much less face the firing squad when the ball got dropped on a first date and to say NOTHING of asking for advice on how to make things better. I’ve grown so accustom to the signs of attraction being nerves, sarcasm, the occasional streak of masochism and the utmost discretion that the only logical conclusion I could come to is that he’s not, in fact, interested. No one has the balls to be that blatant.

Suddenly, I realized that I no longer trust anything romantic at face value. Naked, real attraction, real emotion with a relative stranger is not the thing of true New York "sophisticates" and so anything remotely resembling such "naked" expression must be either patronage or farce. I also realized that his demonstrative action is the very thing that has been making me think he’s not interested.

I then realized that I am, unequivocally, stupid.

As I was grappling with my realization and wondering how "location specific" my issue is, I found myself with my favorite 7th grade class. One of my favorite "naughty" students was teasing another girl by calling her ugly. Now, that bugs the hell out of me because I was the girl relentlessly teased throughout school and no one ever stood up for me. I was the girl who stood up for other girls so everyone always figured I didn’t need to be stood up for. As Ani says, "Some girl says ‘Thank you for saying all the things I never do.’ You know, the thanks I get is to take all the shit for you."

In front of the boy, I said, "He likes you" to the girl. It’s usually the fastest way to shut that sort of behavior down.

Both the boy and the girl shook their heads.

"No?" I asked.

"No, he likes someone else." The girl said, as he nodded.

"Really?" I asked, amazed at their comfort level, especially in middle school.

"Jennifer" He said, without hesitation and the girl nodded.

I looked at him, questioningly. I was amazed that he would be so bold as to simply name her.

He took my expression as confusion on her identity -despite the fact that I adore and precisely know Jennifer- and he turned around to point her out.

And I was reminded of something I once told someone about my affinity to John Mayer music. My friend was surprised to learn that I really like John Mayer’s music despite my more obvious affection for NIN and the like. I explained that his music is like a warm bath or a massage while NIN and the like is akin to a hearty kickboxing session.

"But his sentiment seems too, well, sentimental for you."

"True, I’d be freaked out if my boyfriend wrote ‘Your Body is a Wonderland’ but I like it in an anonymous song, sung by a guy I don’t know to a woman who isn’t me." How’s that for the coward’s way out?

My psychosis and jittery nerves aside, Z seems willing to try to deal with me. I’ve run rather hot and cold around him (he’s one of the few people not utterly thrown by me not smiling all the time and so I don’t think to put up a mask of any sort around him) and yet he remains demonstrative in his desire to be around me.

Like I said, I’m one lucky bastard.

TAO OF LAZY

I’m working my ass off. I’ve got 32 hours of class every week plus three of tutoring to say nothing of prep time. For those of you who’ve never taught, class time is a lot harder than it might seem. Imagine trying to keep 40 some odd children (2 year olds to 18 year olds with varying levels of the subject your teaching) who really, really don’t want to be there enraptured for 45 minutes at a stretch while imparting some knowledge. The closest job I’ve ever seen to the "class" piece of teaching is comedy improv. To be an effective language teacher, you must not only be able to break the language down to something similar to their native tongue (and comprehend when it comes back to you in said form) but understand their physical mannerisms as well so your pantomime is effective.

This isn’t the hardest job I’ve ever had, by a LONG shot, but it is definitely time consuming and tiring. The fact that there is no such thing as a "Sick Day" or "Personal Day" or "Single Day Holiday" between the first week of October and the end of February does nothing to help the "tiring" piece.

Last night (12/8) I had dinner with a fellow teacher. She teaches physics. We were both complaining how tired we are but she insisted she had it worse than me. She declared she has seven, SEVEN, hours of classes and how students constantly whine, "Ting bu dong" (Roughly: "The words coming out of your mouth are a foreign language I do not understand" not, "I don’t understand the concept"). Her argument was that I knew nothing of her suffering because English is just a language and students are good at that.

I explained that seven, SEVEN, hours was, to me, "Monday." Considering how limited her English is, I didn’t even bother making the argument that not only do I not have a common language with the students, the very common ground I work to carve out with them is the very thing they whine, "Ting bu dong" about. To say nothing of the fact that she has a curriculum. I not only have to come up with my lessons, I have to generate my curriculum, find all my source material, teach the vocabulary of all subjects and do it all with no real support system at home (she’s married to a physics teacher and has the darling, bright teenage son who wishes I had a younger sister) while I’m the town’s sideshow freak.

After that discussion, I have vowed never to tell another person their job isn’t nearly as hard as mine is. You just never know, right? But, at least I know I’m earning my keep in my lavish apartment and exorbitant salary.

Nonetheless, I went home last night to my one steady support system (the internet) and had a nice back and forth with an old friend from Reed College. It’s always such a relief to hear from people back home. I’m slowly gaining real friendships here but I miss friends who wouldn’t question the idea of staying in my home when they were in a town I lived in. I miss the reality of their lives. I miss the good and the bad. Here, for so long, potential friends keep up the faÁade of gaiety for the benefit of society. Talking with people back home taps me into the full spectrum of life as I recognize it. Talking with my friend last night was great because it reminded me that our dynamic is still alive, despite the occasional beating and drifting.

After chatting with him briefly, I hopped in the shower and tucked myself into bed. From bed this morning, I watch the sky explode into color as the sun rose through the window seat by my bed. As the color faded and the light grew steady, I slipped back into a nap. I got up, ready to do my Saturday morning chores of (hand washing all my) laundry, hanging it to dry, finishing any dirty dishes I’ve been to lazy to clean, thoroughly soaping down the apartment and cleaning every nook and cranny. I stumbled sleepily into the bathroom off my bedroom and turned on the light.

But the light did not illuminate anything. "Shit, I hope the bulb isn’t blown. I don’t know where to get another bulb… to say nothing of the fact that I can’t reach the light and don’t have a step stool or a screwdriver to undo the fixture. God, I really am a helpless girl sometimes."
I went back out to the bedroom to test the light, praying that it didn’t light either. It didn’t.
"Okay, so the power’s out." I thought and returned to my (very) dark inner bathroom. I turned on the water to splash some water on my face and the faucet yelled at me once it burped up the last of the water in the pipes.

I walked to the other bathroom and tried the tap. Nothing.

"Okay, so no water."

I went to my office to check my email briefly as the internet works even if the power doesn’t.
But not today.

Consequently, I made myself a little breakfast of grapefruit, bread, lukewarm hot coco (with the power out, the water heater isn’t heating) and tepid water and flopped back down in bed. I had planned on being industrious to forget the date I have this afternoon with Z but my apartment is hell bent on making me lazy.

So, I spent the morning in my bed (that feels more and more luxurious with each passing day) listening to my iPod and the children below my window play in their little playground. There’s something distinctly pleasurable about knowing that you’ve done all you can do to get done what you need to do and then just having the morning to indulge in nothing at all. The last time I felt like this, I was on a train heading home after college. Having survived another semester of masochism, I shipped myself out of California’s Bay area to the bright lights of NYC. I loved taking the train because, for the better part of a week, there is literally nothing to do but "be" on the train. If you have a sleeper car, your meals and bed are taken care of for you. You are left to your own devices and with no phone, internet or sights-to-see, you must simply be. It feels distinctly earned.

And this morning felt distinctly earned. I can’t run about and do errands because I have a date this afternoon and won’t be back in time for it if I go out. I can’t get my housework done because the city has turned off our area’s power and water until midnight tonight. So I can be lazy. I must be lazy.

God, I love it.

****

So, no date. He gave me the wrong mobile number and he wasn’t where we had planned to meet. So no date. Crap.

Well, at least I get to tease him on Monday. While I would have preferred the date, the bonus of being able to silly-play at being offended, act all coquettish and then let him earn his way back into my good graces is almost as appealing. I don’t come from Vaudeville stock for nothing.