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.