GIFTS FROM THE UNIVERSE

I do love what the universe sets out. I have to teach 18 classes on Saturday, Sunday and Monday (dear god, I wanted to die at the prospect of that) and so I was having a bad day yesterday (Friday, April 27). Cranky and bitchy, I dragged my Brazilian Angel to the gym. I had to drag her because she hasn’t really been up for the gym but she’s clearly got that extra, angsty energy you get when you haven’t been working out but normally do.

So, I dragged her to the gym, got a card for my class with my favorite Tank-built trainer and then forced her to take a card for any class (she chose Latin Dance while I chose Spinning with my short but not small Tank). For her not to give up, I had to slap a happy face on but, frankly, I didn’t want to do anything but hide in my apartment until Tuesday is here and I have a week’s vacation.

As much prodding as she needed, I was not going to take the Latin class with her as I really, really needed Tank. If the thought of a class with Tank was daunting, the thought of a class without Tank was downright insurmountable. Tank’s ability to stay happy, focused and energetic absolutely saves me. That he’s built in the stockier, tank-like way I’m accustomed to in the West, makes me a bit more comfortable being as noticeable as I am in his class. Frankly, I stick out like a sore thumb and most of the time I hate being in the class with the lithe, poetic bodies of people who work out not to feel great and kick some ass but to look slim and lithe. I just don’t relate to that mindset. There’s nothing wrong with that mindset, I just don’t relate to it. I work out for one reason and one reason alone; to feel amazing.

I love the way athletics make me feel. I love the way I feel powerful after a notably hard session. I love the way it feels to be the most powerful person in the room. I love knowing I have conquered myself. I love the way it feels to give it my all and come up against something or someone stronger than me. I love the way it feels to have control over my body and, most of all, I love the way my muscles ache as they let me know I’ve pushed them to their limit. I just feel sexy when I’m going to bed and my muscles ache and feel tight from a day’s exertion. There’s something about knowing that my acts of consent or submission must be hard earned and cannot be demanded by just anyone. It’s the same feeling I get when I conquer an intellectual issue or have a particularly articulate argument.

That it makes my waist smaller or whatever genuinely means nothing to me. I know it’s what most people focus on but it’s just not where my head is. That it makes me “pretty” or “attractive” is simply not incentive enough for me to get up and fight. I have always understood that I will never have the kind of petite body that could be called “lithe” so I never even think to join the club. I can’t have “lithe” but I can have “power.” “Lithe” just isn’t relevant to my life the way that “power” is. Consequently, most of the trainers here, with their discussion of “fat burning,” “slimming,” etc., don’t move me. I’m not captured and I certainly can’t transcend the suckitude that is runner’s wall for mere vanity because I know that there will always be someone more beautiful, more slim, more youthful, more well-dressed, more… “whatever” than me but there will never be anyone more “me” than me. So, why fight a losing battle when the consolation prize isn’t even for me but for those who choose to look at me (which I would really rather they didn’t in the first place)?

Tank, however, is all about the sheer joy of it; the ecstasy of the agony. He blares the kind of music you can’t help but move to and his cries of joy push me through the staggering heights of runner’s wall. He is the kind of athlete I relate to and I feel that kinship despite the fact that we have no common language. (It might be overly obvious to state but we bonded over our mutual love for the movie “300” [which he loaned me because he mentioned it and I got all excited] in which the Spartans kick some seriously oppressive ass.)

Consequently, everyone at the gym knows that I take one kind of class; Tank’s. I don’t even have to ask anymore for the card for his class (you must have a card to be admitted to classes); they are merely handed to me upon entry. If I don’t know he’s got a class, he finds me and lets me know that there’s an extra card that’s been saved for me. And, it’s gotten around the gym clients that Blondie’s taking Tank’s classes.

In a sea of exotic, exquisite faces, “common” becomes “uncommon.” So, Tank’s classes are now filled to capacity with a waiting list because the Westerner is there. I sit quietly in the back of the room while the rest of the group (predominantly men now) peddle on their bikes and take every opportunity to stare at me while we work out.

Which bugs the hell out of me.

There’s nothing I want less than to be stared at like some science project while I’m gasping for air, sweating profusely and grunting like a woman close to climax. I don’t want to have to think about the way I look. I’m not very good with vanity (that’s not to say I’m not vain; I just tend to freak out when it occurs to me I should be “pretty” because people are watching) and to be worried about vanity when I’m trying to focus is truly bothersome. And, if it weren’t for Tank, I’d never join another class again. But, I really, really like Tank so I’m willing to overlook the mortification factor and simply lose myself in the sheer exhaustion of it all.

Last night, it was made very clear to me just how much Tank wants me in his class, which, to be totally honest, never occurred to me. I mean, I knew his classes have become the most successful because all the men want to stare at my cleavage when I lean over but I never thought about Tank thinking about me. I really like Tank but I never really thought about the fact the he sees me more than any other client at the gym. To be honest, it should have, as I am taller than most of the men, look decidedly Western and am inordinately loud but it just never did occur to me.

Normally, I don’t understand what the instructors are saying. I just watch what they do with their bodies and follow. But last night, I suddenly did.

“Er” was hollered in Chinese and I started to translate it into English as something else came through. “Second position” was hollered over the sound system.

It took me a moment to realize I didn’t need to translate that sound and as I looked up, Tank was looking at me, smiling. I smiled back and dropped down to the second position.

Then we took a moment to recover when the second position had wiped us out.

Tank gave a long monologue about what the proper positions were, the benefits of the workout and how to most effectively use your body for the various steps of the work out.

“Okay, Christina?” filtered over the sound system.

“Okay” is “okay” in Chinese. There is nothing that sounds like “Okay” in Chinese and it means the exact same thing in Chinese as it means in English. So, when I hear “okay” my mind slides into the calm state I feel only when speaking Western languages. I simply nodded without looking up.

But then I could have sworn I heard my name, so I looked up and Tank was smiling at me again.
“Okay?” He asked again.

“Yup, that was aimed at me but how the hell does he know my name?” I wondered as I nodded my head enthusiastically. “I must have misunderstood something he said. He said something that merely sounded like my name.” My students, on many occasions have tried to explain what the sounds of my name mean in Chinese but they haven’t managed to completely convey themselves.

Our class continued on with the flat-out psychotic driving periods followed up by the recovery moments and Tank continued to say things like “Sit down,” “Okay” and then something that sounded like “Christina.”

It was a damned good class and it managed to exhaust my body as much as my mind has been exhausted by the overwhelming quantity of work I’ve had to do.

After we finished, I went to hang out and wait for my Brazilian Angel. I watched her dance class from the glass windows of the studio and I could tell that dance was exactly what she needed. Just as I am Spartan in terms of physical outlets, she’s lovely and romantically feminine, in terms of physical outlets, so I knew the dance class would be the perfect thing to pull her out of her funk. I need to be physically abused in a workout just like she needs to be physically expressive. It was wonderful to see her relaxed and focused for the first time in several days.
We slowly sauntered back to the locker room and she took her shower as I got changed (I shower at home; frankly, I can’t shower in front of a lover much less in front of a bunch of women who make no effort to hide the fact that they’re openly staring at my circus-sideshow-freak body) and waited for her. I sat there, listening to the music Tank had just played in class on my iPod; I love that he reminds me of all the great music I’ve got.

When my Brazilian Angel finished her shower and got dressed, we headed out. I was feeling intensely relaxed but certainly unnoticeable in my baggy jeans, wife beater, sports bra and no makeup when compared with the chronically stiletto-ed, fully-glittered, bejeweled, fake/pushup bra boobed, perfectly coifed and flawlessly made-up exotic beauties pouring in and out of the locker room.

“Christina!” I looked up at the sound of my name; sure I had heard it but also sure that I knew no one who would be there to call it out.

“Damn it, I need to find out what ‘Christina’ means in Chinese.” I thought.

“Christina!” Tank called out as he came running around the corner. He said something in Chinese to me that I totally did not follow.

“What did you think of the class?” My Brazilian Angel translated as I realized he was actually saying my name and not something that sounded like ‘Christina’ in Chinese.

It took me a moment to catch on, first thrown by the actual usage of my name and then as I had no idea why my opinion would matter. However, I looked at Tank and the nervous anticipation in his eyes clearly allowed one answer, “Faicheng hao” [Excellent]. Frankly, I love his classes and am willing to brave my nightmare (being the center of sexual attention in an anonymous hoard of men) to attend them.

He was really happy to hear that and then he explained that next week he’d be changing up his music and he hoped that would be okay.

“Of course, I love your music.” I explained in English as my Brazilian Angel translated into Chinese.

With that, Tank started beaming. “…love your music” he repeated to himself a couple of times to remember the words.

And then, ever so sweetly, my Tank stumbled forward after the two of us departing and said, “Bye bye” as he waved. In that moment, I realized what a lucky girl I am that, despite the (relative) suckitude of the exhaustion I’m struggling with and the unsettling position of “anonymous sexual object,” I’m the recipient of quite a lot of lovely attention from men I admire and respect. A girl really can’t complain about that, so thanks, universe.

GULLIVAR

It's a strange thing being the odd man out. I must admit.

While on the busses heading to our various locations this past weekend, the women were checking my blonde hair with the intensity of Jane Goodall with her primates. I was informed that my hair is far too soft and how much harder it must be before I can be deemed "healthy." I then tried to explain that I have Northern, silken hair in a genetic adaptation to keep me healthy in the cooler climates. My scientific explanation was met with a patronizing giggle, tolerating my "excuse" for my sub par body. Then there was the standard issue "fat" discussion along with the discussion of (complete with gasping hands flown to slack-jawed mouths) at the thought that Western men might actually like my body with its wide hips, strong thighs, developed (for a white girl) ass, small (proportionally speaking) waist and large (by comparison) chest. "Curves are ugly," the women consistently said. "Why do Western men like fat women? Women should look like chopsticks." (I also noticed that no men participated in this piece of the conversation unless you consider the History Teacher's eaves dropping and his Mona Lisa, ambiguous smile a participant. I have found that men who really like sex with women, by and large, simply respond to curves, regardless of the current fashion trend or the fascist, self-inflicted demands of women.) Then there was the unabashed adoration of my eyes, which I find ironic as the blue iris with the yellow halo around my pupil (while rare) indicates the incredibly unhealthy and weak genetic material I have for eyes. Yet, somehow, my weak genetic material is my largest selling point for breeding. There was the standard issue adoration of my death-like pallor deemed so unhealthy in the West but maintained by me by simple fear of my familial history of melanoma and a general disdain for orange colored skin. Again, my genetic shortcomings are a large breeding selling point. My Chinese Angel even took to making fun of me that the night I had the migraine (and a full night of not having slept the night before), I went straight to sleep at 1am instead of not being lazy and staying up to chat with a wake-up call of 6:30 awaiting us. (Like I said, I hate sharing a room with someone who is neither lover nor family; there's always a complaint about my character not chronically being my "usual" cheerful and energetic self.)

But this is nothing new. What's becoming new is how different I am from my Brazilian Angel. We were at our gym last night. I went before her and spent an hour on the elliptical trainer working out my frustration at not having had a day of peace in a while. Hell, I'm even being given a hard time for NOT missing classes. (The students are in the midst of midterms and so when they have a midterm, we don't have class. All the students had midterms all Monday and I was told by one teacher not to come in. So I didn't because when I don't have classes, I don't need to be in the office. So the man who thinks he's in love with me kept cornering me on Tuesday to give me a hard time about the fact that I forgot there might be classes. "I knew there weren't classes. I didn't forget. I was informed." "No, I think you forgot," he kept teasing me in a reminder of the fact that he sees himself as the proper man taking care of the emotionally stunted, irresponsible child by simple virtue of the fact that I lack a socially perceived penis.)

While I was in my homicidal head space at the gym, the trainer just over five feet tall but built like a tank walked by and handed me his mp4 player. He put on an English training video for kickboxing and let me have at it on the elliptical trainer for a good hour. Frankly, being seen as a strong athlete before being seen as a Western, White girl was just what I needed right then. I was infused with such a strong sense of calm that I haven't had in a several days. It liberated me enough to verbalize my stress. I'm usually pretty good at keeping the turkeys at bay but when it's a nonstop barrage of in-your-face criticism and I don't get any time to myself, stuff starts to cease rolling off my back and I start to get mired in the shit. When I get really mired in the shit, I tend to cease vocalizing; I had ceased vocalizing on Tuesday. However, on that elliptical trainer, I started grunting and cheering along with the video. Quite literally, I rediscovered my voice.

When I finished my hour, my Brazilian Angel showed up to do a little cycling. I took the bike next to her and started to talk. I was talking to my Brazilian Angel about my recent few days and then I started kvetching about not having a boy around to flirt with. And she gave me the standard response of every woman who takes her relationship for granted; "Chris, you don't need a man to feel good about yourself. You're in a solitary period right now and you don't want a man to bother you." And, while that's true in the feminist, take-no-prisoners sense, it's untrue in the fact that I spend all day being told by 8 year olds I'm fat, all afternoon defending ALL things Western and all evening surrounded by a community that I am both of and not of. Not to mention, in the realistic feminist sense; it's not true. I'm a fully realized sexual being with needs that extend beyond a cheap fling. Pillars of virtue are nice fantasies but the reality of me is that I am a sexual creature. Granted, it's not that I need a man to define me but that I need intimate companionship that reminds me of all the beauty I have. I need someone taken with my minutia who is willing to fight and flirt with me. I need someone who's not curious about the way my people are but rather, curious about the way I am. That's not to say I need a Western boyfriend but I do need someone whose interest in ME transcends his interest in my culture.

I tried to explain to her that it's a hard thing to maintain a positive sense of one's self under the constant barrage of little attacks when I go home to nothing but me. There's no boy I can call who adores me. There's no real circle of peers for me. She has a man who adores her, needs her and cares for her. She has friends who are in similar situations. I have me and this narcissistic reflection of me on my computer; this very writing has become what allows me to maintain some sense of myself. But, writing doesn't love you back or kiss your navel and writing certainly doesn't challenge you to grow.

THE HUMAN CONDITION

One of the things I really, really like about my life is that I have seen a large swath of the ugliness, the brutality and the viciousness that mankind is capable of. I have been violated personally, politically and socially. I have had a lot of my idols torn down to reveal a substantial portion of reality. I have had all of this happen before I was 30 and I have come from a home of such loving and good intention that, despite humanity’s tendency to be, well, human I still have a glowing sense of hope about all the good we a capable of. In fact, I maintain this occasionally nauseating dirty hippie-dom to such an extent that many people confuse my hard earned cheerfulness with ignorant bliss. (Granted, I suspect if anything were to ever happen to my child, it would destroy this capacity of mine but thus far I have been fortunate enough that it has not proved to be an issue.) My joy at life is hard-won and not easily bent. Yeah, I can focus on the wrongs of this world or I can see all the beauty we manage in spite of the wrongs. My perspective, ultimately, does little more than inform my own life; I have been through the phase where I was beaten and destroyed by the ills of humanity but in the end, focusing on all the horrors did little more than feed on itself; misery begets misery and happiness begets happiness. I’m not suggesting a blissful, blind eye to horrors (one must grieve and go through the healthy processes with all loss) but I’m suggesting that what works best for me is that once mourning is over to live in a space where the awfulness can be let go of. And you don’t have to take my word on it. My attitude is nothing that Buddhism hasn’t been spouting for eons.

On Saturday morning (4/21) my fellow teachers and I all piled into a bus to head out on the annual spring outing. In the spirit of full disclosure; I was not looking forward to it. I wasn’t free the weekend before (see my Windows/Doors entry for that discussion) and I won’t be free the next weekend (I have to work 8 days straight to get 7 days off for the first of May). I’m a cranky bitch about preserving my private time (I think of it as self-care) and the prospect of getting up early on a Saturday to go share a single bedroom with someone who is neither lover nor relative while being in a position of potentially forced gaiety was not appealing. I had been hoping that as my predecessor was not invited on the last trip that I wasn’t going to be invited on this trip (there are many places in China that are popular tourist stops for the locals but due to various issues of sensitivity, foreigners are not allowed to visit). However, on Wednesday (4/18) I was asked for my passport information “for insurance reasons.” In other words, not only was I possibly going but my room was booked and the travel agency was putting the finishing touches on my itinerary.

Shit.

Despite my great hesitation at such levels of immersion, the potential free time being spent with a cranky Z and the prospect of bunking with a woman, I slapped a smile on my face and refused to resist the path others had deemed appropriate for me.

In retrospect, it is that publicly perceived malleability of my free will that has made my gender a rather complicated and murky thing here in China. I loathe the fact that my own will is not really considered because I lack a socially perceived penis. When I say, “No,” which I never do lightly as I have been taught to respect the power my opinion has over others, it is simply not enough. I must be willing to really fight for my, “No” and I am never guaranteed that my “No” will be heard. It is considered a sign of the benevolence of those in power that my “No” is heard and respected. In other words, I must appear grateful at all time for the respect women are free to demand in the West. When I say “No” I am asked why. When I explain that said request is humiliating, anxiety provoking or unsettling, I am met with the simple curt answer of, “But you’re in China and in China it’s not a problem [so do it].” My male counterparts do not have this issue. However, being seen as a partial child within the group has its benefits.

As a child, it is the responsibility of the parent to take care of me. Consequently, I am welcomed into far more things without question than my male counterparts. As a “woman adrift” in the Victorian sense of the word, my caretakers have allowed me into their homes with far fewer questions than my much more “capable” male counterparts. Hell, my caretakers aren’t sure I can handle caring for a home on my own while they don’t doubt that every man who would come through has no problem turning a house into a home. On occasion, I feel as though I am a wolf in sheep’s clothing as the kind of woman I am is nothing publicly understood or accepted.

As a child, I have become far more welcome into the “home” aspect of living in China than my male counterparts have been. I have seen a great many cultural things and been granted access to a clearer perspective simply out of reach for men by virtue of the very fact that I am viewed as an emotionally stunted adult. The women here now welcome me with open arms and the men do not hesitate to provide me help with any and all things I might ask.

So, at the ass crack of dawn, I met my fellow colleagues at school and bleary eyed, we hopped on the bus. I had briefly checked the sea of faces for Z but he was nowhere to be found and found myself relaxing completely. I sat with my Chinese Angel and all the girls piled into the coach bus seats around us as we all shared the various snacks we brought along to sustain us for the 3-hour bus ride. Firmly entrenched in the patriarchy, the sisterhood is incredibly generous. All women brought far more of their foods than they planned on eating so they could feed the other women around them. Fortunately, I have grown accustomed to this and so I brought a ton of food myself.

An hour later, the busses were turned on and we were off. We spent the first hour and a half in the Swingers mind frame of “Vegas, baby, Vegas!” We talked, shared music and videos. Then, after the rest stop, we all succumb to the lull of the bus engine and the rocking of the freeway, sent most of us to sleep.

Jolted awake by the bumpy road, most of us were finally pulled from our sleep. Opening my eyes, I saw that we were in a haze-filled, tree-free valley.

A familiar, warm, friendly voiced filtered into my brain asking something about America and dirty. I didn’t bother to look away from my window as I had the window seat and it was quite likely the question was being aimed at my Chinese Angel. Everyone aims their questions at her as they don’t trust their English to convey the sentiment to me and they don’t know what Chinese I understand.

“Hey!” My Chinese Angel said accompanied by the single finger nudge to my elbow, the she always does when someone in Chinese is, in fact, speaking directly to me.

“Sha?” [Wha…?] I pulled myself from the strangely hypnotic view to see a familiar pair of warm, brown eyes looking at me. Standing over our seats was the beautiful History Teacher but the way he looked at me with his eyebrows raised was so Western. It slowly started to dawn on me that what unsettles me about him is how many of his mannerisms are Western. The first time I really remember him was the picture day and I remember being unsettled by how much he looked like my brother Beavis but in actuality, photographically speaking, he looks nothing like Beavis. It’s something about the way he carries himself that is distinctly casual-Western. He is decidedly Chinese but there is something about his casual nature that is decidedly Western. He has the ability to contort his face in Western ways, he understands the vocalization of Western languages better than anyone in the English department (while his grasp of English is not textbook fluent, his understanding of the spirit of English is far closer to American English than anyone else I’ve ever met) and he understands Western gesture like no Chinese person I’ve met here. And, as there is nothing more foreign than what is closest to us slightly altered, I realized my resistance to him is how close (surface-speaking) he is to me.

“Does America have dirty places like this?” The History Teacher repeated himself in Chinese. He has the ability to make his Mandarin consumable for me in a way many Chinese people do not and so my understanding of his conversation is far deeper than most. I suspect we have similar speech patterns, concepts and general headspace as my Beloved Colleague (close friends to both of us) has been trying to set us up for some time.

I paused for a moment trying to figure out if I was capable of answering him in Chinese.

“Does America have dirty places like this?” My Chinese Angel translated into English for me.

Upon hearing her speak in English, I shifted out of the hazy space between languages and tumbled back into English parameters.

“Yes. We’re just very good at keeping them out of movies so you never see them.” I answered straight to the History Teacher who then paused to watch me as the words filtered into his brain.

As he smiled discreetly at me making it clear he understood, my Chinese Angel translated into Chinese for him and he nodded politely at the redundant effort.

I found myself wishing he was sitting further up the bus near me and not in the back of the bus with my Beloved Colleague but, knowing the Chinese, seats were not about to be switched.

As we continued winding our way through the filthy valley, we were informed that it was a coal-mining town and the strip mining was obviously ravaging the land. While I was getting the lowdown on the town we passed by what, to me, was obviously a nuclear power plant with its massive, double cooling towers and dome shaped buildings. We then passed another.

“God, that’s a lot of nuclear power plants for one valley,” I commented to no one in particular.

“Not nuclear power, coal power.” My Chinese Angel clarified.

I grew up on trips from NYC to West Point. I have passed by Indian Point many, many times in my life. My uncle won a Pulitzer for his coverage of 3 Mile Island. I have intimate knowledge of the Reed College nuclear facilities. I know what a nuclear power plant looks like (though, to be fair I don’t know what a coal power plant looks like) and those towers looked awfully familiar.
“Are you sure because those really look nuclear.” I said.

“Yes. Coal plants.” My Chinese Angel laughed at my silliness and I was immediately distrustful. I don’t distrust her; I distrust her information. It’s her access to information that worries me. The lack of critical thinking I have spoken about ad nauseum tends to flare up when it comes to dissemination of information and the Chinese people simply accept, without question, the word of their government.

“Well, nothing I can do about it. I’m here and I just hope we’re not staying here.” I thought as we wound our way through the valley to the Yellow River. I did my best to block thoughts of Chernobyl and the stories of my uncle’s risk taking from my childhood and focused on the small things of the moment like the flavor of the gum I was chewing.

Our caravan of five coach busses pulled up and all of us piled out by the banks of the Yellow River. The breathtaking view and beautiful winding water helped wipe the thought of potential radiation poisoning from my mind.

As I was trying to embrace the Zen about the moment, I saw a large group of teachers from the Primary school joking about and taking photos.

And there was Z. All the beautiful teachers from the Primary School were doting him on but he was still looking miserable. As one of the women, who looks remarkably like a doll, started to dig into his bag for various things, clearly intent on flirting with him and he was clearly intent on not enjoying himself, it dawned on me that when he’s in a dark mood, there is simply no removing him from it. And, it wouldn’t be so bad if his dark moods didn’t descend so frequently. We all have moments when we’re miserable but Z just has too many moods, has been too battered by life for me. I simply am too old to believe I can rescue anyone from their misery. I am too old to rescue Heathcliff.

In that moment, I realized there was no way it could ever work between us. Granted, I also realized in that moment that his misery was caused by my physical proximity and emotional distance, so I did the best thing I could do, which was to descend to the lower level to be out of sight of him. I don’t want to torture him but there’s no way I’m going to give him a false sense of comfort simply to make my trip more comfortable. For the first time, he was miserable for a reason only I could alleviate and I really had no desire to do so. I’m not angry with him; I’m simply unavailable.

And as I descended, his group descended too. In what would become the first in a remarkable set of coincidences, Z and his friends were constantly right next to me. In a group of about 200, it became a bit obvious that they were making quite the effort to be near me without engaging me at all times.

“Great, I’m back in high school.” I thought.

However, the sorority I’m a part of in the Middle School is lovely and supportive and so they consistently made an effort to engage me and welcome me into their fold. It’s nice to be with a group of women who see you as modest, kind and a decent human being. Nevertheless, I prayed that we would finish our viewing of the river and get back on the Middle School bus where I was guaranteed not to be seeing Z and the unspoken drama.

We soon reentered the bus and I noticed that the seating arrangement had changed slightly; the history teacher was now across the aisle and up one row from me. In other words, as he turned to speak with his new seatmate, he was facing me with an unobstructed view.

However, the crankiness of having just seen that Z was here, in a bad mood and the fact that the bus seats are built for people with a much smaller body definitely erased any pleasure I would have had at seeing the steady, happy, Buddhist History Teacher.

We set back off out of the toxic valley and as we passed the “coal” power plants, I breathed a sigh of relief that we would be staying in a hotel at least 2 hours from there.

We stopped for lunch and my Middle School girlfriends all dragged me, hand-in-hand to the table they picked out for us. We put our things down and then raced to restroom.

When we got back formerly empty table next to us was filled with Z and his friends. Of course, all the beautiful girls were surrounding him, fawning over him and giggling like there was no tomorrow. Z looked miserable.

I had a brief moment where I considered relieving the tension by going over and speaking with him but then I understood that the brief moment of relief I would feel would come at the cost of a false sense of hope and I have no intention of lying to him about where my heart is. We had several chances and the bottom line is to be with him would be compromise me in ways I am not willing to be compromised. In other words, it simply cannot work between us and to make amends for the sake of a little comfort would be incredibly disingenuous of me.

So, I immersed myself in my girls and did my best to enjoy the pleasures of the moment. We sat at our table, ate, took care of each other, shared stories, took pictures and were generally silly. At times the giggling at the next table became intrusively loud but for the most part we managed to have a good time and I managed to force the drama from my mind.

As we poured out of the restaurant and headed over towards the busses, I noticed the History Teacher hanging by the side of our bus, talking to another teacher. As I was filing in to the bus, he cut in front of me and boarded first without saying anything.

“Goddamn I wish I could express myself better in Chinese. He is the man to know on this trip to historical places.” I thought.

Flopping back down in my seat, I looked up and caught the History Teacher looking at me. Remaining behind the mask, he quickly blinked away.

“If I catch him doing that again, I’m going to start flirting with him because I think he changed seats to be near me and I need something to counter this bullshit with [Z].” I thought, narcissistically.

The bus headed off towards our next destination; a Ming Dynasty town so remote that the Cultural Revolution left it untouched. It took us an hour to get there and I spoke very little as I was trying to hear what the History Teacher was saying.

I was raised on trips to historical locations with my mother the historian. There is little I love more in terms of trip taking than historical trips. That there is a trained professional with an intimate knowledge of history whose very job it is to teach people about said history is so exciting sets my geek heart all a twitter. I have never worked harder to understand Chinese than when he was speaking and I managed to get a fair amount of it.

We disembarked our busses and then hiked down to the village. My Chinese Angel, not remotely entertained by history was clearly looking for something to do as I bounced around like the world’s largest geek trying to investigate and study everything.

While I was bouncing from place to place, it became clear that I was truly an anomaly. Most of the people I work with have never met a white woman before. They have, however, seen white people in the flesh before. They have seen “my kind” walking around downtown Xi’An and fairly regularly in the media.

This town had clearly never seen a white person before. I was stared at like a trigonometry pop-quiz. The locals, so jaded in their view on tourists started flocking from their houses to investigate the white girl.

It became so insane that at one point, I simply had to take a seat and allow every stranger with a camera to sit next to me, put their arm around me and take a picture. After the fifteenth person, I simply stopped asking, “Who the hell is that?”

My Chinese Angel made fun of me, teasing me for having “so many fans.”

“You should be my agent. You should arrange and charge money for pictures with me.”

She thought that was a great idea and from then on, any time anyone asked for a picture with me, we joked about her being my agent, protecting me from the swarming paparazzi.

Once the hoopla died down, I started to notice the very tall gym teacher in from the Middle School is always taking pictures for the school.

“Hey! You always take pictures but does anyone ever take your picture?” I called out to him.

He turned around to me, confused and looked at my Chinese Angel for a translation, which she promptly provided. He shook his head shyly. I love that a man who is so strong, intimidating and masculine in the Cary Grant sort of way becomes shy around little old me.

“Gai!” [Give me!] I ordered, taking the camera from him. “Na li?” [Where?]

Hesitantly, he handed me the camera and like a little kid, he giddily skittered off to the nearest cool doorway.

I looked down at the camera and prepared to take a picture. Just as I sorted out what was what (took me about five seconds) the camera turned itself off. “Mei you dian!” [No power/Turned off] I called out.

Normally, he doesn’t come to people; people go to him. However, as I was looking at the camera for an On/Off button, he skittered over to me.

“Zher” [Here] he said as he pushed.

“Xie xie” I said very properly and I’ll be damned if he didn’t blush as he hurried back to his doorway.

I took the picture and he seemed quite happy with it.

We then hurried about and I maxed out on pictures. From then on, I refused to take serious pictures with my friends. I spent the rest of the afternoon taking silly pictures and generally acting like a dorky 5 year old.

We headed back to the bus, went to our hotel, had dinner, which was notable because it was the first time at a banquet where I was allowed to stay with my friends instead of being forced to entertain the head honchos. It was great. Well, my girlfriends were awesome but Z and his harem were, of course, inhabiting the table just to my back in a room full of twenty some odd full tables, so that was weird.

That night there was a big ceremony and while I took a seat in the back of the auditorium with my back-of-the-school-bus-naughty-girlfriends, Z and his entourage took the row of seats right next to us. Z then shifted his seat back from the row to single himself out as the girls continued to fawn over him.

“I don’t know what to do.” I told my Chinese Angel.

“I don’t know either. He’s everywhere you go.” She commented.

“Do I say hello? He won’t even look at me. I don’t want to date him but I don’t want him to think I hate him. I have no idea what to do.” I said.

“I have no idea what you should do.” She confessed equal confusion.

“Christina! Please come here!” Hollered the voice from the superior who thinks he’s in love with me.

“Oh no," I muttered under my breath. I looked to my Chinese Angel as we had both seen the man gesture to the seat directly behind his front row seat. She’s fully abreast of how much I loathe the special treatment. “Shit.” I fumed as my Chinese Angel laughed at me.

Quickly, the man who thinks he’s in love with me shooed away enough diligent teachers to make room for both me and then my entourage of girlfriends so I wouldn’t be alone for the meeting. In many ways, I feel like royalty. I am always welcomed in through the front door and my girlfriends who are otherwise one of the group are treated with an extra special dose of reverence. It can get to be a bit much, so when things like single rooms are offered to me to accommodate my Western sensitivity, I try to make the active effort to choose the option everyone else is forced to choose. While I understand that they will never forget that we are different, I want them to understand that I consider us equal as human beings. However, during ceremony, it is still a bit difficult to remain one of the crowd.

So my ladies in waiting and I were ushered to the front, given tea and accommodated just as the officials were while the plebes were forced to just hang out. We were then entertained for several hours. I knew at some point that the notably powerful of those of us being entertained were going to have to start entertaining the people who spent days practicing for these performances. I would be one of those notably powerful people.

However, I had a splitting migraine from the heat, the day in the sun (though I wore sunblock so no burn), the lack of water, the smoke and the general stuffiness of the room. I realized that if I didn’t get out of there quickly, I was going to throw up or pass out or both. So, as the party began to shift from formalized entertainment to less formal, soon-the-powerful-will-be-entertaining-us, I ducked out with my ladies, begging off to go to my room and sleep off my headache.

The next morning at breakfast, I was bleary but felt much better. As my ladies in waiting descended upon our table, I noticed that Z was at the table just next to us. I had to resist the urge to scream, “FUCK OFF!” because I am simply not a morning person. Frankly, don’t fuck with me if I haven’t had my caffeine; it’s not pretty.

And, the fact that breakfast is the one meal of the day that is MINE and I was forced to eat a Chinese breakfast of salty, pickled vegetables, 1,000 year old eggs and fried breads with sweet red bean paste with no coffee/caffeinated tea, fruit, yogurt or juice was setting me off on the wrong foot. I’m generally superficially agreeable and willing to bend on most things. Breakfast, however, is not one of those things. I will whine, bitch and moan the whole time. I’m breakfast-rigid. Being stalked by my ex while being expected to eat smelly, pickled brown eggs whose egg yolks -formerly yellow but now green- oozed forth from the shit colored egg white without an ounce of caffeine was not putting me in an amiable mood.

“I need to find a supermarket.” I told my Chinese Angel. “Like, soon.” I’m not demanding and I’m rarely serious. “Like, if you’re not coming, I’m going now.”

“No, I’ll go with you.” She said, clearly understanding I was having issues. “Let me just finish.”

“Okay.” I said and I settled back, trying to look at something that wasn’t my ex or the putrid egg.

Perhaps three minutes later, perhaps three decades later (depending on if you asked a clock or if you asked me) we were heading out the front door to the nearest grocery store for supplies. I was so giddy and felt so liberated getting into the grocery store, I started to sing along to the melodramatic love song playing on the sound system.

I grabbed my Chinese Angel and held her while I sang, mocking the melodrama of the song as she tried to lean over the bins to find some dried seeds. At one point we both collapsed on the floor laughing as the people running the store just stared at me. It was clear upon entering the store that I was the first Westerner they’d ever seen in the flesh and having that much attention can be liberating; they’re not going to stop staring at you so it’s not like you’re going to do anything to make them start staring at you. You’re doing the time, you might as well do the crime.

On the way back to the hotel to pile into the bus, I saw a little shiz tzu rolling about in the street and I immediately went up to it and started speaking to it. Its little tale started twitching and it just watched me as I spoke to it lovingly.

“[Chinese Angel]! It’s my dog from home! She followed me here!” I cried out excitedly.

“It does like you.” She said watching the two of us play a little. “Yes, she did come to see you. She must miss you.”

“I missed her!” I hollered as the shiz tzu and I danced around on the front lawn of the hotel together.

When I finally decided it would be prudent to actually get to the bus about ten feet away from me before it left, I stopped playing with the dog and looked up. The entire school was watching me leap around with the shiz tzu.

The men who are my bosses started to laugh and clap. My colleagues all started to high five me. They were all fully entertained by my glee at the doggy.

I simply bowed and hopped onto the bus. Normally, I’d be horrified by such a scene but it’s been made clear to me that my Chinese social circles here need to see my humanity. And, not being one to put dignity over humanity, I was glad to provide them fodder for the, “she’s a real human being” mill.

We then headed to a small village filled with Ming Dynasty art and as we bounced back and forth around the village, more jaws were dropped and more photos were taken. The older men, lead by my Beloved Colleague, all grew interested in having my company and hearing my thoughts on a variety of topics ranging from the upcoming presidential elections to what my thoughts on the noodles they were eating were. So we talked and I had a good time and we finally piled into the bus again.

As we were heading towards our next destination several hours away, the Middle School teacher came up to where my Chinese Angel and I were sitting. We discussed a myriad of things from how “normal” tattoos are and how you can tell the “hooligan” tattoos from the “normal person” tattoos to what sorts of women American men find beautiful and why the prospect of marrying a divorcee doesn’t really bother most American men.

“Why are so many people divorced in America?” She asked through my Chinese Angel as my Chinese Angel worked as interpreter for the conversation despite my ability to keep up with most of her questions.

“Well, when people marry young in America, they tend to have a hard time staying married and often men cheat. In America, it is believed that if a woman married a man for love and then he cheats on her that her heart is forever broken. If a man cheats on a woman and she’s not angry enough to leave him, people think that she didn’t really marry him for love.” I wasn’t about to get into leaving a woman for cheating on a man because, well, frankly, the men are pretty comfortable with their own sense of free will and what interests me is introducing the idea that women might have serious political power in the public sphere of the home. “People in America are waiting to get married until they are older and older now because once men are out of their twenties, they don’t cheat quite as much.”

“Why do men in America cheat?” She asked.

“It’s not ‘men in America.’ It's all men. All men in their twenties. Men in their twenties cheat. When they get older they tend to calm down a bit more.” I love men. There are few women I know who love men as much as I do but the fact of the matter is that men in their early and mid twenties are simply, hormonally driven. It takes a truly special man to be able to transcend that drive and see clearly enough through the haze of hormones to maintain monogamy. I don’t see it as a judgment call on men, I see that simply as what is.

She laughed and shook her head as the History Teacher, whose attention had been perked up and was watching me directly for some time now started to laugh too and shake his head.

“Well, maybe in America men cheat but men in China would never cheat.” She replied haughtily. In that moment, I realized that the human condition cannot exist for her men or her world falls apart. The beauty of a human being struggling to reach grace was forfeit for a world of men who could simply never make a mistake. A perfect moment is not a hard earned moment of grace but the status quo and anything short of it is disappointment.

And with that sentence, my Chinese Angel dropped out of the role of translator, full well knowing those were fighting words for me.

You can fuck with me. You can insult me to my face. You can compromise me but come anywhere near the things I love and I will take your ass down. To imply that by virtue of their status as political constituent that my male counterparts are somehow intrinsically flawed with their tolerance for humanity, their tattoos and their adoration of adult women with adult sexuality and a sexual history sets me the fuck off. Do not even get me started on the self-righteous, arrogant, “Not in Utopia” bullshit that the younger Chinese tend to pull aimed at my men. Do not fuck with my boys especially in a country where I have had to fend off the hoards of married men with a fucking shotgun.

It became clear to me that my Chinese Angel was ducking out so I switched into Chinese. When I get angry, I either get exceptionally good or exceptionally bad with language. When I’m defending a beloved, I tend to go the ‘exceptionally good’ route. “I’m not talking about ‘American men.’ I’m talking about men in their twenties. Men in their twenties cheat. American, Chinese, French, Thai, German; it doesn’t matter. I’m talking about men, not countries.” And then I switched into English as I lack the vocabulary to express what I said next. “Politics do not exempt you from the human condition.” Livid, I glanced away from the naïve music teacher (who was so offended by what I said, she got up and changed seats) to see that only one male on the bus was looking at me (the History Teacher and with notable amusement at that) while all the twenty something women were watching me slack-jawed and the older women were trying not to laugh out loud.

The History Teacher, amused and shaking his 26-year-old-head, looked me straight in the face and said the only thing that could have stopped me cold and diffuse my rage in this specific situation at someone attacking my beloveds with their self-righteous hypocrisy. “Not all men cheat” filtered across the bus from his warm, steady voice.

I immediately wanted to backpedal but suddenly I lacked any vocabulary at all. I hadn’t meant “all men” but in my effort to articulate it being a part of the human condition, I had used the incorrect English. That he understood my English to such exquisite detail surprised me. That he considered my debate as a legitimate discussion floored me. I took a breath and tried to vocalize but couldn’t. After a few blinks and my mouth hanging open for a few seconds, he chuckled to himself and clearly took great, overt interest in me. It was the sexiest thing anyone has done since J argued the autonomy of my desire.

When we arrived at the hot springs, we piled out of the bus and the History Teacher informed me that he was going to keep an eye out for me.

“I’m hard to miss. Just look up.” I said, and he smiled.

We passed by some swings and he asked if he could push me in the swing on the way back. I nodded and said that would be fun.

We then took a few pictures together and he took to standing very close to me.

As we piled onto the ferry, I asked to see his wooden beaded bracelet.

“Zhe shi shenme?” [What does this say?] I asked about the character that alternated with carved images of the Buddha.

“Fo” He explained.

“’Fo’ shi shenme?” [What does ‘Fo’ mean?] I asked.

“Bu hui.” [I can’t explain it to you.] He said as he shrugged.

“Hey, [Chinese Angel] what’s Fo?” I asked.

“Buddha” She called out from the other side of the little ferry we were riding on.

I gave the History Teacher a look. “Ta shi Fo.” I said pointing to the next bead with a carving of the Buddha. He had a picture of the Buddha, I wondered why the silly boy didn’t just point it out.

The History Teacher nodded, “Dui, Fo shi ta.” [Yup, that’s the Buddha.]

I resisted the urge to put the bracelet on and gave it back. We wandered about the wetlands park for a while and lots of people took lots of pictures of and with me. Again, I think I was the only Westerner to be there and so there was quite a flock of people around me at all times. Unfortunately, I lost sight of the History Teacher as I was really growing to like his company.

On the way back, there was about a half mile of a vine-covered arcade spotted with benches. At one of the benches was my favorite history teacher.

“Can I have a picture with you?” He asked in Chinese.

“What?” I asked, confused. He had not ever asked to take my picture. He and I are the two people always being photographed at the school and so when we’re together, we’re simply photographed to insane degrees. Actively seeking out a photograph from either of us just seems insanely redundant. If there is one man I am photographed with, it is far and away him.

“Sit down.” He said as he put his arm out along the back of the free side of the bench and pointed to the space inside his arm. Clearly he misunderstood my confusion with my lack of Chinese.

I’m sure you can guess that it was difficult for me to accept sitting with his arm around me. I just about hurtled myself at the bench and wriggled into his nook before he hand a chance to second guess having his arm around me.

Sitting there was lovely and it was the first picture in China I really wanted taken. As I crossed my right leg over my left in a gesture away from him as a desperate attempt to cover my all-too-eager flopping down, he crossed his right leg over his left in a gesture towards me. I don’t have to see that picture to know I look the most like me as I know me.

We then continued on and headed back to the market outside the wetlands park and I found the red bead, lotus bracelet I had seen on the way in. My girl Frenchoise back home calls me Lotus and I really wanted to get it because the moment I saw it, I thought of her. So, I got the lotus bracelet and headed back up the path with the swing.

When I got the swings with my entourage where I had been promised a push, the History Teacher was nowhere to be found.

“Where [the History Teacher]?” I asked indignantly.

“Over there” my Chinese Angel pointed him out in the distance, far ahead.

“[History Teacher]” I hollered out for him but considering that Chinese is not in the chest but the mouth, it was extremely difficult to yell over the howling wind.

My Chinese Angel took over hollering for me as her Chinese strength is clearly far superior.

He finally looked up and headed back to us.

“Ni wang wo le!” [You forgot me!] I hollered at him, teasing.

“Bu shi. Bu wang.” [No, I didn’t forget you.] He accepted the teasing good-naturedly. “Come, let’s go now.”

“Bu shi! Ni wang!” [No! You forgot!] I said, feigning insult, as we started to walk away from the swings.

Just as I was growing comfortable with flirting shamelessly, the man who thinks he’s in love with me showed up, overhearing my shameless flirtation.

“Christina, do girls in America like a boy like [the History Teacher]?” The man who thinks he’s in love with me asked.

“Yes.” I said, trying to balance the unspoken issues at hand with the budding flirtation I’ve got going on. I’ve never been so consistently cock-blocked by anyone before and I didn’t want him meddling again.

“Do you like him?” he straight out asked me.

“[Man Who Thinks He’s In Love With Me]! I thought Chinese people were subtle!” I cried indignantly. It was the only thing I could think to say without creating far more drama.

“What’s subtle?” The History Teacher asked immediately.

“Qiao miao” my Chinese Angel translated quickly.

The History Teacher laughed and said, “No. Chinese people are not subtle.”

And with that, he headed up ahead of us and into the restaurant to sit at a table far away from us.

After lunch, the History Teacher passed by on his way out.

“Lao shi,” I called to him. “Lai” [Come here]

He came over and was all smiles.

“So, if an American girl like me could like a Chinese boy like you, could a Chinese boy like you like an American girl like me?” I asked, sure he wasn’t going to be able to follow all the “likes.”

He looked at me and snorted a small, ambiguous laugh.

“Ting de do ma?” [Do you understand?] I asked.

He then said something to my Chinese Angel and she laughed. I looked at her sternly for an immediate explanation.

“He says you won’t need a match maker. You can find a boyfriend in China.”

“Mei wen tie” [No problem] he said. He then said something else to my Chinese Angel.

“What do you want in a boyfriend?” She asked.

“Two things; funny and smart.” I answered looking straight at him. He nodded and headed out.

We finished lunch and headed out to where the busses were parked.

From behind a massive stone tablet, I could see one of the trees shaking as someone snapped off some of the blossoms. The History Teacher emerged from behind the tablet with a handful of tree blossoms.

He handed them to me. For the second time that day I was speechless. A boy just picked me wild blossoms. I’m a sucker for that kind of romance.

“Smell” he said and I complied. They smelled heavenly. “Eat”

And I laughed as everyone looked at me like a lunatic. “Really?” I asked timidly, realizing he was serious. I never really think of eating flowers as most of the flowers I find beautiful and fragrant aren’t so hot for the digestive track.

He nodded.

“You first,” I pushed the flowers towards the History Teacher as he snapped off a few blossoms and started to eat.

Uncertain, I took a few blossoms and ate them. They tasted, well, like flowers. It was cool.

We then piled onto the busses and headed home, sleeping most of the way. When we weren’t sleeping I was told about two lesbian teachers who are in love but fighting and how strange it is that women would be gay. It’s expected that men will sleep together but lesbianism in China is as taboo as gay men in the US. I found it an interesting turnabout.

I was also asked by my Chinese Angel, as everyone else slept, if I was interested in the History Teacher.

“Yeah, I think so. He seems really nice.” I said.

“But you didn’t like him [romantically] before.” She said.

“People change their minds all the time. I like him now.” I explained and she nodded.

“I think the language will be a problem.” She said seriously and I laughed.

“Of course. Besides, men tend to be really bad with languages. I know I’ll have to be the one to bridge that gap but that’s okay. I want to learn Chinese anyway.”

And, as none of us are exempt from the flaws of human condition, I vocalized my lust for yet one more man.

CLOSING DOORS AND OPENING WINDOWS

Sometimes I think the greatest challenge in my life is my own complacency. I like staying in my routine but even more, I like not having to get out of bed. Frankly, I’m just a lazy motherfucker married to a curmudgeon trapped in a twenty-something body. I drag my heels, whine, bitch and moan inside my own head (and if you’re a good friend of mine, you might just be fortunate enough to have me do so out loud) at the proposition of anything new. However, as I’m fully aware of my sloth-like nature, I do my best to over compensate for said sloth-like behavior. This leads to the occasional over-booking of my time and I did just that this past weekend.

On Friday, (4/13) there was a West Egg party at the Shangri-la hotel and, of course, I was dragging my heels about going. I was unable to find an outfit I was happy with and debated calling my Brazilian Angel to tell her I wouldn’t be going.

“She’s fabulous and Brazilian and has no trouble socializing, so she won’t need me, right?” As the question bubbled up into my consciousness, I knew I was about to have another one of my infamous “I DON’T WANT TO GO” freak-outs. While I’m not prone to panic attacks, I am incredibly prone to these anti-social freak-outs and so I treat them much the same as you should a panic attack; I leveled out my breathing and mentally convinced myself that we were only trying on outfits to feel better, not that we’re getting dressed for a night out. I finished putting together a half-decent outfit and then did my makeup with more attention than needed, as the manual labor helped my brain turn off.

Perhaps I should explain what has set off my version of panic attacks; Z has ditched me. Again. During work on Friday, for whatever reason, Z has once again revealed that his intense work schedule is merely a cover for his utter rejection of me. Yet again, I am utterly confused but unlike before, I am confident in the idea that I did the best I could do and he can go to hell.

While we were in the lunch room, he got visibly pissed that he friends chose the table next to mine and that there weren’t any seats left so he might have to sit at my table. Instantly turned off by his antics, I slid over to the far seat and continued my talk with Yente. When he returned the table to see I had slid over, he let out a truly frustrated grunt and found a seat alone far away. Frankly, I refuse to date a man prettier or crazier than me. I am the girl. I am the one who should be pretty and I am the one who should be crazy. Z is officially crazier than I am and I am officially out of patience for said drama.

Nevertheless, such a blow to my judgment left me shaky in the world of confidence and attractiveness (ie. in my self-worth as a human being). Consequently, the prospect of having to get gussied up to face a room full of Westerners who are all married to chat about their very on-paper-adult lives while my life is very not-adult-on-paper was a bit overwhelming. It is times like that when the idea of living a life that seems comfortable to me and my attitude of, “to hell with the status quo” suddenly takes on the air of “foolish, lost, loser.” When people I adore clearly and totally reject me for reasons I don’t understand, I start to question everything. When I start to question my own worth, the prospect of entering a room filled with women dripping in diamonds and pearls while being entertained by their corporate husbands becomes a dangerous thing. If all goes well (ie. we get on and they treat me as a human being) I come out the other side with the courage to face more things. If all goes poorly (ie. they treat me like a freak) I don’t leave my apartment for the rest of the weekend and stop speaking outside of classes for days on end.

I finished my makeup and decided I looked passable. I then was overwhelmed by the weight of exhaustion from a week of hard work. I decided to be mellow in the chair in my living room that just happens to be right next to my landline.

“I’m not going. I’m not going to call [my Brazilian Angel]. I’m just going to hang out here and if she calls then I’ll answer as it’s the only respectable thing to do.” I convinced myself.

Of course, my Brazilian Angel called and she, being my Brazilian Angel, didn’t double check to see if I was still up for it (as I knew she wouldn’t) and she simply said, “Darling, I’m running a little late. I know we said 6:30 but can we say 6:40 instead?”

I, never being one to want to rock the boat with my anti-social bullshit, simply said, “Sure.” Then I told myself, “I’m just going to go downstairs at 6:40 to tell her I’m not going because if I tell her now, she won’t go and if she doesn’t go she’ll be upset she didn’t have any fun.”

Of course, we met downstairs and I convinced myself to walk her to the cab and then I argued with myself about the fact that if I didn’t get in the cab, she’d think I was being super weird, so I should just get in the cab and go to the party for one drink. Frankly, it’s the small increments that make things manageable when I’m losing my mind.

We made it to the Shangri-la and as we were escorted to ascension in the elevator by a female Chinese employee whose English was spectacular, I felt the anti-social panic attack rising again. There was something about the effort she must have extended to get her level of language to such a place of comfort for a native English speaker and the depressing fact that she will live and die a hostess for generations of West Eggers who come to Xi’An despite her otherworldly drive to learn a language so complicated that just freaked me out. As the doors opened and the heat from the crowd of friends hit me, I just about passed out from the anxiety.

Passing into the bar, one of the first couples I met up with was my interest with the water and the paper roses and his wife. Of course, all our mutual friends had to give his wife the play-by-play version of her husband’s lack of concentration, his “fondling” of my thigh and his great affection for me. I resisted every fiber of my being and stayed put to joke about the event as his wife did her best to remain blasé and he did his best to keep up with the jokes that only seemed to be digging deeper. I recognized that this public airing of the nerve touched by the anxiety of potential infidelity needed to happen for things to move on but dear god, it couldn’t have happened on a worse evening.

We all took a seat and his wife took the seat in his lap, in an incredibly uncomfortable gesture of “We’re in love like we’re teenagers.” Of course, she then started to mark her territory.

“Every one always tells me they could never be married to him because he flirts too much but it’s been 35 years of marriage. He always comes home.”

“Yeah, if it works for you then who cares what other people think?”

“Yeah.”

“It sounds like you give him a lot of rope and you tie good knots.”

“Yeah, he may go off sometimes but he always comes home. 35 years and he’s always come home.”

“I get it lady; you don’t want your husband flirting with me. Maybe you should take that up with him and back the fuck off. I’ve had a really bad day.” Okay, so I didn’t say the last bit, but it certainly took some restraint not to.

She then started going into all the things she’s put up with over the years and the sacrifices she’s made to help create his career. She laid out the glamorous lifestyle she’s led and the true sacrifice she’s made to host those “real ‘Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous’ stuff” (to use her reference) types of parties. She explained how much she loathed having to socialize with all the fake people and how none of them ever thought she’d be able to hold on to her husband. While I wasn’t quite sure where the metaphor for me came in, I was pretty clear there was some coded message I was supposed to be picking up on. Unfortunately, her lecturing on the insignificance of me only made me want to hit on her husband, this time out of spite.
While she was laying out her critical role in his life and I was wrestling with the idiotic high school headspace I found myself beginning to inhabit, my cell phone started to ring and it gave me the excuse to break away from the corporate wife version of territorial markings.

“Chris,” the soprano staccato voice of my coworker who is too pretty for her own good blared through my cell. “What are you doing?”

“I’m at a party. What are you doing?” And more importantly, why are you calling me? Please don’t need anything because I can’t say ‘No’ but I really don’t like you.

“What are you doing Saturday?”

Thank god, I’m going on a hike. “I’m going on a hike.”

“I don’t understand.”

I always forget that most Chinese people don’t know the world ‘hike.’ “I’m going for a walk in the mountains. I’m leaving at 8.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Will you be back by 10?” She meant 10 am as pm usually comes in army time here.

“No, it takes an hour to get to the mountain.”

“But, it’s Sunday and you should come to a dumpling party.”

“Oh, Sunday? I’m hiking Saturday.”

“Yes, Sunday. I said Sunday. Why did you think Saturday?” She then laughed at my poor English. Never let it be said she doesn’t get on my every last nerve. “Chris, you are so funny!”

It took every last fiber of my being to resist asking why she is terminally fake.
“Sunday, are you free?” Her voice shifted to sing-song-y, feminine-gun-to-your-head providing you the answer with the question crap that has always bothered me about really pretty, very spoiled women.

“I have Chinese class from 9 to 10 but I’m free after ten.” I said, as I realized this was precisely the reason she had spent the last week or so trying to be a friend close enough to be touchy-feely; I was being buttered up and it was clear that I couldn’t say no without serious drama.

“Good. We will pick you up for the dumpling party at 9.”

“But I have Chinese class at 9.” I protested slowly and clearly.

“Be sure to get up early and not to sleep late. I will be at your house at 9.”

“But I have Chinese class at 9.” I repeated.

“Okay, see you then! It will be fun. Are you happy?” She repeated her sing-song-y tone.

“I have class.”

“Bye!”

I was promptly hung up on and I decided then and there that I needed to leave this party.

“I’ve been reading your book.” A deep, velvety voice broke through the haze of the party din, heat and body humidity. A warm strong hand landed on my shoulder and I turned to look at my fellow New Yorker, the one married to the woman I fell madly in love with. With a beer in one hand and my shoulder in the other, the look on his face reflected the broken spirit I was trying to avoid.

Seeing a further-down-the-path version of myself, I was instantly lifted from my really bad mood.

“Your book is really intense. Have you read it?”

“My book?” I was unclear which book he was referring to.

We then discussed an unauthorized biography recently released in paperback in the US that I had brought in for various members of the West Egg community. As many of them are rather isolated from the intellectual side of the US, it was news to them and my boy, being an intellectual was immediately interested. However, as leaders bent on revolution tend to be incredibly complex and dark people, it’s not what you can call a light read.

“It’s really intense. It makes a lot of sense now, when I interview applicants and I see their attitude and their rigidity, I feel like I’m starting to get it but it’s intense. You know, when I first go here, they told me, ‘You’re on a 90 day cycle. Every 90 days, you need to take a vacation. You need to get out.’ I didn’t get it then but I’m coming up on my 90 days and I’m ready.” And I watched my friend as the depths of the difficulty seemed to consuming him and I realized that I don’t have it so bad. I’m not really an outsider here. Things suck at the moment but I’m a part of things here. I’m on the inside, which comes with its own baggage, but I’m not the head of a well-established home life with kids and a family that I’m raising back home to miss.

We then sat down at the bar and started to chat some more.

“I’ve been in China for a year and I can’t speak a word of Chinese.” He bemoaned. “You’ve been here for 8 months and you speak so much more than me.” I wasn’t quite sure where he got that I can speak Chinese but nonetheless it’s probably true that I can speak more than he can.

“Well, you’re in a position where you don’t need Chinese. I teach in a Chinese school with Chinese children. I take the bus or cabs everywhere I go and I have to fend for myself. I need to speak Chinese.”

“I know I live a privileged lifestyle but…” He started to explain his lifestyle to me and I realized what I was trying to say came across wrong.

“No, what I mean is our lifestyles are different. I have to speak Chinese and I take classes. And just because you’re fiscally comfortable doesn’t mean you’re emotionally satisfied.” I tried to explain. The last thing I want is him thinking I judge him for his lifestyle. He’s in a bubble and for someone as curious as he is, that’s got to be hard sometimes.

“Yeah.” He nodded in agreement and took another sip of his beer.

We talked a bit more and then we split up to talk with other people.

I made friends with a Taiwanese/Japanese couple.

“Ni shou zhong wei?” [Do you speak the Chinese language?] Another woman asked the Japanese husband.

“I’m not Chinese. I don’t even speak Chinese.” He explained in English to the woman who just stopped by. He then turned to me, after we had spent a good hour talking about the Yankees (my team) and the Red Sox (his team). “I’m not Chinese,” he reiterated. It seemed very important to him that I know he was not Chinese. As he had earlier explained that he went to school in Connecticut and spoke English with no accent, I had just presumed he was an Asian American. “I’m Japanese.”

An awkward silence seemed to fall over the group as his steely determination seemed to flare up.

I shrugged and replied honestly, “I thought you were from Connecticut.”

Everyone laughed at that because being stupid does have its perks. “No, no,” he clarified good-naturedly, “I went to private school in Connecticut. I’m Japanese. My parents sent me to school in the US when I was young.”

I shrugged again, “Shows you what I know.”

We talked some more about baseball and then they decided to call it a night.

Once they left, I looked for the Grande Dame (married to the Bloke). I love the Grande Dame for a great many reasons, not the least of which is that while she is from Taiwan, her attitude and speech pattern tends to mimic that of my Puerto Rican girlfriends. She’s saucy and fabulous, bold and daring. I adore her and she always scolds me for not loving the more fabulous sides of myself.

“Girl, what you doin’ here with us married girls when you should be out finding your self a man?”

“Honey, there are no single men here. I’m not wasting my time.”

“Girl, you crazy!” She hollered and high-fived me.

Very quickly, I spilled the story about Z and getting ditched again and unlike my Brazilian Angel’s response of, “Well, do you get dressed up, wear heels and heavy makeup [because any one of those three is appropriate for teaching little kids] when you see him? What did you expect?”, the Grande Dame’s response was, “Girl, you too smart. That’s your problem. Men like stupid, plain girls. See, like me! You too smart. That’s why I’m married and you single.”

I laughed, “Honey, you’re not plain and while you’re certainly not stupid, you’re definitely crazy!”

She laughed and high-fived me again.

We talked some more and then my Brazilian Angel came over, exhausted and we decided to go.

In the cab ride home, the too-pretty colleague called me again.

“Chris? Invite your foreign friends to the dumpling party.”

“My foreign friends are all married with children and they won’t be free on a Sunday morning.”

“Call them now and then call me back.”

I checked my watch that read 11:30 and tried not to laugh out loud. “Okay.”

I hung up and waited for ten minutes before calling her back.

“None of my friends are free,” I explained.

“You have no foreign friends?” She asked.

“No, none of them are available. None of them are free.”

“You have no foreign friends? That is very strange. I will see you Sunday morning.”

And as she hung up with me, I was left to wonder just how little effort I was going to have to put into our interactions as she seems to have decided the complete course of things long before I’m ever involved.

The next morning, I awoke at the ass crack of dawn in an attempt to be awake for a little while before having to meet another American.

The young college student I’ve befriended called me recently to tell me another one of his English teachers is from New York. I told him to pass on my phone number as I will always have great love for New Yorkers.

The New Yorker then called me and we made arrangement to go hiking in the Qin Ling mountain range on Saturday. Apparently, a Chinese teacher was leading some of his students on a trip to hike in the mountains and the Chinese teacher has a great passion for cultural mixing. It sounded interesting and I’m a sucker for mountains, so I agreed immediately.

However, I started having buyer’s remorse. I love hiking but I loathe how early you’ve got to get up to do it. And, especially after Z’s bailing and the mixed bag of the party the night before, I wasn’t sure I wanted to deal with a whole new social situation. Being so raw is often a recipe for first-time-disaster. However, I managed myself the same way I had the night before; with small increments and a fair amount of lying to myself.

I returned to the Shangri-la hotel as the American and I had agreed to meet there. I debated getting a cup of coffee while I waited but the idea of being hyper on top of my raw state seemed like a bad idea, so I settled into my sleepy stupor and watched some tv on my iPod.

The American (J) then showed up and we were off. That J was just as sleepy as I was was quite a relief. My nightmare was that I’d be spending the day with a morning-type/hippie-Pollyanna and while he didn’t seem like that over the phone, I’m not in a phase where I trust my judgment.

We puttered about the area around the Shangri-la for a few minutes and then got on the jam-packed bus. There’s something about leaving the “airs” of the Shangri-la (a place where my presence is never questioned; it is simply understood that I belong) and heading straight into the most common, ordinary Chinese lifestyle activities. I really like being able to function in both worlds. It’s something most people don’t ever get to know and I relish the opportunity I have been afforded.

On the bus, it was made clear that I was really going to get on well with J. We joked about the crowded nature of the bus and our headlong crash and burns into the world of inter-cultural dating.

I found myself plotting how to organize our seating, which indicated the fact that J’s empirically cool. If, in my sleepy stupor, I liked this guy enough to spend energy sorting out how to get us both seated, I was definitely up for the day. So, I sorted that, considering how many men were sitting, the next seat to be given up should be J’s. Once J was sitting, it wouldn’t be long before the men, in their acts of chivalry, would be trying to arrange for the blonde to sit next to the man she was with.

A seat cleared up pretty quickly and then, fortunately, the seat next to it cleared up too. So, within a matter of minutes we were both sitting.

While I was trying to sort out exactly how I planned on getting up a mountain with a head cold and very little sleep, J and I discussed various topics including his music. He explained he was very into indigenous/folk music and I thought that was pretty cool. I was immediately interested in hearing some music but I resisted the urge to ask him to play inside the crowded bus.

It took us about an hour to get to the mountain and some folks from the bus helped us find our way from the stop to the right road towards the building where we were going to meet up with the Chinese teacher and his students.

Along the way, it was made clear that J at least was willing to humor my dark sense of humor and within his company, I found my defensive filter completely evaporated. At no point did I find myself filtering out anything for propriety’s sake; I was just unedited me. In his mellow way, J has a disarming charm and he’s just one of those people you feel you’ve known for ages and can just talk to. And, he managed the unmanageable in China; respecting the gender divide without making me feel objectified. To me, the clearest example of this forte of his came with his usage of the word “desire.”

Our group met up at a base camp/restaurant of sorts and we introduced ourselves. Immediately, the most outgoing boy in the bunch sat down with me and started to use his English. Though I am always pushed by Chinese teachers to help women with their English, it is invariably the young men who take advantage of my presence. He translated many things and explained who everyone was while explaining who he was and asking me various questions about myself.

As the outgoing boy was speaking to me, I noticed all the women shift from their usual boisterous nature to the more quiet, shy façade put on when strangers are around. That their gaze stopped at my feet (they sat to my right and J sat to my left) illuminated the fact that it was J who in fact was making them shy. As I watched the girls watch my toes from the shadow of the gazebo they were sitting in, I laughed a little to myself. “It’s true. He’s cute but hiding from him isn’t going to get his attention” I thought.

I’ve learned very quickly in China that the man who comes and speaks to me first has been assigned (either by himself or quite literally by a higher up) to welcome the foreign female and I wondered when the boy speaking with me would tire of his job talking to me. I also wondered when the boys who actually wanted to speak with me would finally work up the nerve to do so.

It didn’t take very long for a gangly young man, a few inches taller than me to work his way out of the crowd. Once we were signed into the mountain (they keep records of who comes in and goes out for obvious, safety reasons), I began to notice the tall boy in perfect shape hanging back to chat with me.

He began, as all the boys who really want to talk do, with an earnest apology about his poor English skills. And, I countered, as I always do, with an earnest explanation that if we had to have this conversation in Chinese, it wouldn’t happen.
Huffing and puffing and trying to maintain a conversation with this boy, we made our way up the notably steep path. The view was breathtaking. I haven’t been in a mountain since the last time I was in New York and being out of the city with the sprawling landscape behind us, I felt the calm settle into me. The only thing that sucked about the hike was knowing that when I came back down the mountain, my dog and my mom wouldn’t be anywhere near the home that awaited me.

While I was chatting with the lovely Chinese student, I was kvetching with J. While we were kvetching and chatting, we started to see women descending the mountain in heels.

Heels.

There are no words. I can’t imagine needing to be that pretty on a mountain hike. There I was, sweating, huffing and puffing and dusty in my sneakers, jeans and wife beater and here were these beautiful women bounding up and down in heels on the same trail I was afraid my ass was going to fall off of. Ginger Rogers would be proud.

J, being fabulous, joined in my joking about their heels and our banter kept me giggling the whole way up the mountain. I must admit, I’ve been up many a mountain before but this was the first time I laughed the whole way up.

Along the way were countless small Buddhist shrines that survived the Cultural Revolution and to see them was just as breathtaking at the views of the valley floor.
The only time I stopped laughing going up the mountain was when we met an old man carrying a load of bricks. Long after what should have been his retirement, he was still carrying a pack full of bricks up the mountainside from 2 Yuan (approximately a quarter) a trip. It is literally backbreaking work for him to carry the bricks to help build more Buddhist shrines and it was heartbreaking to see him, back twisted and gnarled like a tree trunk from years of loads of bricks.

My tall friend helped translate some of our questions for the old man and explained the answers.

Once we were headed off again, my tall friend started asking me questions about my life and if I have religion and a large variety of surface questions to sort of flesh out this alien. Not long after that, J and I returned to cracking jokes.

As we reached the summit, we looked out over all we had hiked and I thought, “Holy crap. That’s pretty far!”

To continue on our hike, we needed to pass through a small shrine and we hit a small expanse of rock where we had lunch.

While I was eating my pear, J pulled out one of his wind instruments, the name of which he told me and I promptly forgot like the dork I am, and began to play. It is an oval shaped piece of onyx colored pottery that emits a melancholy sound and it just soothes me. My Chinese Angel explained that many Chinese people don’t like the sound because the songs make people sad but that is the very reason I like it. There is something intensely satisfying about the weight of melancholia.

So, I ate and listened to J as the young man assigned to chat with me switched off a few times with the young man who really wanted to talk with me. The clarity of the breeze that blew through our space was so refreshing and coupling that with the weight of the music J was playing made that moment incredibly real. I will never forget the flavor of that pear commingling with the murmur of boys’ curiosity in my right ear while the waves of J’s music moved the air. It’s been a while since I’ve been in a singular space I haven’t wanted to leave.

But, all good things come to an end and our group got up to take pictures. I was reminded how much I can’t stand having my picture taken but it’s a small price to pay for the access I get.

We then headed up another small hill in front of us and as we came down the other side, I noticed a series of inverted Swastikas painted on the side of one of the shrines. The inverted Swastika is an ancient symbol of power used by countless indigenous cultures and I immediately recognized it as such.

“Look” I said to J, “inverted Swastikas.”

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” J asked in a tone of voice that indicated Nazi activity was alive and well somewhere near where we were standing. I instantly flashed on walking into a store with Le Francais and Bill and seeing a wall full of real SS “souvenirs.” Nazis and profiting from their artifacts aren’t exactly taboo, much less verboten in China. I was ready to hear what J had to say. “Yeah, there’s a sect of Nazi Buddhists who live up here.”

“Nazi Buddhists?” I asked, as I tried to sort out the rationale that killing is so forbidden they sweep the floor in front of them so as not to crush a bug but killing Jews might be okay. There always seems to be some sort of exception for Jews and the value of their lives but this seemed more than a little extreme.

I turned back to see J just about falling over with laughter.

“Oh!” I said, ego bruised, “Nazi Buddh… You bastard!” I raised my water bottle to hit him and he started laughing really hard. I was laughing too but I still swung to hit him. I love that someone is willing to tease me but I’m not about to let them get off without a little indignation.

We then began the long slide down the far side of the mountain. The tall boy interested in talking with me took to making sure I didn’t slide of the remarkably narrow and steep trail.

As J had introduced the idea of spontaneous photography, everyone in the group with a camera was taking the descent as an opportunity to explore the world to spontaneity. What had begun as a cool idea soon spiraled into the regrettable (for me) act of snapping a ton of pictures while you’re struggling with not breaking your ass. More than once I looked up to see that one of the boys in front of me had flipped his camera around to shoot photos of me over his shoulder while my tall friend was doing his best not to let me tumble off into a ravine.

We made it down to a small farm about 2/3s of the way down the mountain to stop again and rest. While we were stopped to rest, it was requested that J and I join in an impromptu talent show. Frankly, I hate performing. I hate photos. I hate people watching me. I hate being heard or looked at. I hate having to think about how other people see me because the way I see myself isn’t kind, to say the least. Consequently, as it was strongly suggested that I perform, I found myself stuck in the same situation I often find myself in; that of being a Western woman subjected to being interpreted as a blonde, blue eyed Chinese woman with a Western accent. The idea that a woman doesn’t want to perform or be looked at is a foreign notion to most Chinese men. It’s one of those things that’s not cute and so it can’t possibly exist. The idea of a woman as a singular, willful entity in public doesn’t really exist and so the idea of a woman contradicting what society prescribes is simply unmanageable. And, as a woman, I can’t really explain why and where it all comes from because of the Catch 22 argument to be made about the public nullification of feminine will against the patriarchy.

“But I don’t sing. I don’t know how. I don’t dance. I don’t perform. It’s not what I do.” I explained in vain for the millionth time and for the millionth time, a blank pair of masculine eyes blinked back at me. I cannot express how much I truly loathe performing and I was utterly willing to immolate our newfound friendships to avoid it.

“You haven’t asked her if she wants to. Maybe she doesn’t want to. It’s a thing called ‘desire’.” J explained. For the first time ever, someone got it and I actually had a male (and therefore valid) voice sticking up for me. I could have kissed him.

And with that, for the first time ever, I was left alone. Granted, the students came back a little later to further insist but by that time I had sorted that I would read two passages from Thoreau’s Walden.

I read the first passage from Walden about loneliness and then J played on one of his flutes a beautiful piece about loneliness. There is something so appealing about a man who can simply pull music from the ether. It makes me feel all snuggly.

As his piece ended, I decided to compliment the “lonely” passage with a passage about finding company in the strangest of places and how when we’ve found solitude, we’re never truly alone. He then followed my reading with a more joyful tune and the moment of tranquility sank into me. I hadn’t intended my readings to be a confession, at least I hadn’t intended it consciously but once the music was done playing it dawned on me that Freud would have been proud. There we were, these two aliens in land quite far from home where the minutia of the rules is completely altered and somehow it just clicked. In moments like that, I see how rare, fleeting and transient my time here is. However, unlike the rest of the moments like that, I had a friend to share it with. It’s like the universe materialized this fully-formed, lovely man just for that moment.

After our performance, our joking became rather vulgar and were it not for the colloquial slang of most obscenity, we would have probably been deported. I cannot begin to express what a relief it was to be vulgar and bawdy again. I’m surrounded by sweet innocence or nothing at all here and to have a guy friend with whom I could just let it all hang out was incredibly sexy. It felt amazing to flirt again in all the ways with which I’m familiar and have it be reciprocated.

Alas, J started asking me lots of questions about myself and, as it was growing late in the day and he inspires no filter of any kind, I just started running off at the mouth. There was so much I wanted to know about him but his ability to question me caught me off guard as everyone in China either lacks the ability or the interest to go in depth about anything in my life.

Once we called it a day, J and I piled into a bus and found seats together pretty quickly. It was an active effort not to put my head on his shoulder, curl my arms around his arm, cross my right leg over my left and then his right leg, turn into him and go straight to sleep. Just because he felt like home in that moment in my head doesn’t mean that outside of my head they make any sense. I’m a freak enough, I don’t need to alienate the people willing to tolerate me.

So, we talked about music some more, I introduced him to Ani Difranco and then, at one point some dude pushed himself up against J, forcing J into my space. As the busses tend to get quite crowded here in Xi’An, I knew it was only a matter of time before we had a load of people falling into every free millimeter of space in our area. Sure enough, a moment later, a woman in white jeans had essentially taken a position of spread eagle over J. I had to look away in order to not launch into seizures of laughter.

J said something about the dude shoving himself against J harder and harder.

I said something about the dude merely trying to dry hump J.

He said something about the idea that he could be gay but he just likes curves too much.

I said there were plenty of Chinese dudes with curves. Hell, there are plenty of Chinese dudes with boobs bigger than mine. I then pointed out the white jeans straddling him, desperate to keep a straight face.

He then said something about liking my curves the best at the moment.

I then had to look away not to kiss him. Had I not been put through the ringer so recently, I might have just trusted my gut but I decided to leave the thoughts of asking to see his place for another time.

After an hour, we made it back to his stop and grabbed me a cab. I’ve never been so reluctant to call it a night here but it was for the best that we did.
The next morning, I got up and got ready for the dumpling thing. As I was invited by the too-pretty teacher, I decided it would be prudent to dress up a bit and put on some makeup.

She started calling at 8 am to make sure I would be ready. That she called me every ten minutes made it incredibly difficult to actually get ready but by the time she showed up, she was so gleeful, she felt it prudent to hold my hand.

“Why is it that all the people I don’t want touching me are perfectly comfortable doing so and vice versa?” I thought as she literally took my hand and started skipping in our heels from my building to the waiting van.

Let me repeat that: Holding. Hands. Skipping. Yeah, I’m from New York. I have never wished so much that I had some LSD.

Unfortunately, I not only didn’t have any LSD, I also had paparazzi. The moment I entered the restaurant for the dumpling contest, I saw the photographers and reporters and I knew what was up. To recap a bit: I’ve held hands with this girl/woman, we’ve skipped together, I’ve (singularly) skipped my coffee because I couldn’t make it between her 10 minute intervals and get ready, I’m the only blonde in a sea of Asians, there’s approximately thirty reporters and it’s not even 9:30 on a Sunday morning. I simultaneously wanted to cry in a corner and kill something.
I don’t learn well under micromanaging. I simply don’t. I get pissed off, flustered and enraged. I had thirty cameras in my face, paparazzo yelling, “Hello! Ni hao! Hello!,” a dumpling chef yelling criticism in Mandarin with a ton of words I don’t understand and the girl/woman practically dry humping me to get in the pictures as she yelled words of criticism like the ever helpful, “Do it better,” “Don’t make it like that, use your hands” and my personal favorite, “Are you happy? Be happy!”
That all my students saw the footage of me that frazzled brought me little comfort come Monday.

At last the agony of being the center of the storm lifted and I was allowed to sit down and be mellow for a moment. And, it occurred to me the girl/woman too pretty for her own good really didn’t need to be pushing me as hard as she did. It was hard to stand up with her face pressed against mine like that. I was confused why she was jamming her microphone into my breast and practically cutting off circulation to my arm as I made dumplings simply to scream into my ear.

And then it dawned on me, she wanted her picture in the paper; the absurdity of it. Frankly, she is far more beautiful, lithe and well-put together than I am. It is merely a sign of her own racism that she feels dependent on me. She wins; she’s physically flawless but she’s so starved for fame that she’s even willing to tolerate my company to get one more ounce of it. My presence was merely about the color of my hair, eyes and skin. Fucking hell.

“You dragged me out of bed on a Sunday for your own fame? You’ve got the beauty, the perfect body, the fantastic wardrobe, the loving husband, the comfort, the safety. You win. You were the reason I rationalized away asking J to take me home? Are you fucking kidding? And what the fuck is wrong with me for saying yes?” As I worked my head into a good lather, my cell phone beeped with a message.

Knowing the morning was not over yet and therefore there would be lots more photographs to come, I knew checking my message was paramount to getting my head out of the very rapid downward spiral.

“Come for tea” the message lured me to spend the afternoon with the professor I had met the day before. In what I took to be a sign that I absolutely had to say yes, I was invited to come at 2, “but before is good too” and the dumpling nightmare was to finish at 2.

I quickly replied yes and started counting the seconds until 2.

Not surprisingly, I came in rather high in the dumpling contest (2nd) while the other Asian contestants who made far better dumplings than me didn’t rank at all. At that point, I was so very much beyond over the dumpling irritation. So, I posed like a good little monkey for all the pictures, ate at the banquet and then I hightailed it out of there.

I finally made it to the professor’s house and was given a tour of his home. It was beautiful and everything one could ever hope for in a home; spacious, light, airy, tranquil and centrally located. Feeling welcome in such a space really made me enjoy Xi’An again. It gave a human face to one of the larger tourist areas and I really adored being in this loving home with this bright man surrounded by history. I wanted to stay in his home forever.

We then headed down to the basement where he has a teashop set up and I was made Tie Guan Yin [Iron Goddess] tea. It instantly became my favorite tea. The flavor is simply delicious and while with most teas, I am aware I’ll only have one cup or two, it quickly became clear I could live off this for the rest of my life.

We talked about lots of things; politics to tattoos to art. We hit it off well. We watched slideshows of his trips around the world and our trip up the mountain the day before. As we talked and people streamed in an out to say hello and have a cup of tea, I felt the frustration of the morning utterly evaporate.

Four hours later, I decided to call it a night and headed home, utterly satiated and quite content that I may have staved off my “lazy motherfucker” nature for one more day.