Cha-cha-cha
Campus is ghostland. No one is here, the buildings are locked, the restaurant shacks are boarded up. Because of this, no meal for me around here tonight, so I had to head into Zhuzhou City, aboard a kamikaze minibike taxi, to feed.
I know of two restaurants in Zhuzhou City: McDonalds and KFC. I didn't want to grub at either joint, but sort of resigned myself to it, as they're the only places I know I'll both eat for cheap and know what I'm eating.
I passed McDonalds, unable to stomach the thought of another freakin McSawdust burger, and was on my way to KFC, just down the street. A little girl, about six, filthy, wearing rags, started tugging on my sleeve, holding a cup and begging for some loot.
Prior to China, I would easily have helped her out. But, in China, giving to beggars carries almost the same dishonorable stigma as being a beggar. Once I was downtown with Charles and Turbo, two of my first-year students. I was about to hand over some loose change to a beggar when Turbo, normally painfully polite, ripped the coins out of my hands, furious.
"They are scum," he told me. "They are not poor, they put on rags to trick you into feeling sympathy. Never, ever give them money, please!"
Wow. Turbo comes from poverty. He grew up on a little farm with his parents, spent a good portion of his childhood carrying water and other farm supplies on a shoulder-pole, was a total stranger to computers until he got to university, and, obviously, has worked tirelessly for everything he has. He doesn't lack compassion; quite the opposite. It's just that he, and everyone else I've met here, thinks of the work he's done to get to where he is, and sees beggars sitting idly on the street, tugging on the arms of strangers, and views them as vultures, not victims.
Always, my students apologize endlessly when beggars approach us, embarrassed to their bones. I tell them that the streets of urban America are lined with beggars, much more than in China, and that they're as much a part of the urban landscape, everywhere, as shopping malls and skyscrapers. Out of respect for my students' requests, though, it's my policy never to hand over any loot.
The girl made a convincing case. I'd walk, she'd stand in front of me, forcing me one way or the other. This went on about four series, and then she got even more crafty: she dove down on the street in front of me and tugging at my legs, trying to trip me. I hurdled her, she got back back up and dove down in front of me again. After three hurdles, I gave up. There was a restaurant to my left, the only one between McDonalds and KFC, so I turned in there and entered.
Instantly, a young woman, wearing the usual elegant, full-length red dress worn by hostesses all over China, greeted me -- in English! -- and escorted me upstairs. I had a seat, scanned the menu and what in the bejesus: steak, pizza, pasta, chicken?! On an English menu!?
I had stumbled, quite literally, into Zhuzhou's only Western restaurant. I ordered a fruit plate, a salad plate, and pasta and chicken as my entree, thoughts of the little girl unsettling my mind. The restaurant was filling up quickly, all Chinese people except me, and people greeted me warmly as they entered. I dug into my dinner, immersed in fabulous conversation with Gabriel Garcia Marquez's autobiography. I know of no better company, and the food, amazingly, tasted delicious.
I was about done, scraping the last crumbs out of my salad bowl, when in walked my boss and his boss, my uber-boss. My boss is a man I would never intentionally pursue as a dinner companion. He's uptight, prim-and-proper, spic-and-span, and has been described by three different women friends of mine, on separate occasions, scornfully, as "such a woman."
Alas, he's a kind gent, and he was a familiar face, and it was nice to see them after we'd been away for about three weeks. We wished each other happy New Year in Chinese and talked about my family's trip to Beijing. They've both visited there and, like me, loved it.
As they were chomping down their main course, and I was sipping a beer, out of nowhere came a cry of "Day-O, Daaay-O" from the back of the room. There was a Hispanic man, dressed in a black tuxedo, making these cries. I looked up to the front of the room and there were two guitarists, dressed in chef's hats, a guy shaking moroccas, a woman playing a Spanish flute and three dancers: another mustached Latino in a black tuxedo; an older, heavy-set woman in an elegant red dress; and a radiantly gorgeous, enchanting young Latina woman, the same red dress draped over her svelte frame.
Within seconds, the band was in full rhythm, playing a seductive tempo, and the radiantly gorgeous dancer was next to me, begging me to dance, speaking flawless English.
And so there I was, tango-ing, cha-cha-chaing, twirling all over the floor with one of the most gorgeous women I have ever seen, as the chefs strummed their guitars, the flautist tooted her flute and moroccas shook. The other dancers were clapping their hands, encouraging the audience to clap along, and my Chinese bosses joined the chorus, "Day-O, Daay-O, daylight come and me want to go home."
As we cut floor furiously, and the crowd went berserk, the woman introduced herself to me as Lisa, said she's from the Phillipines, lied about what great rhythm I have and asked me how on earth I'm here. I told her I'm a teacher in China, that she is the first person I've met who can speak flawless English, and remarked on the utter absurdity of what was currently happening.
This was the second time that, out of nowhere, "culture," as I've previously understood it, erupted unexpectedly in this industrial backwater. Music is performed only at karaoke bars, only by Chinese people, singing only Chinese songs.
This time as last time, the sudden eruption of culture shot adrenaline through me as though delivered by a fire hose, and I seized the moment, sensing that it will likely be the last.
I am no maestro on the dancefloor, and I was dressed in thermal long underwear, jeans, a turteneck and my Irish sweater, but none of it mattered. Spurred on by the infectious energy and endless encouragement of Lisa, I busted a move with all the meager rhythm granted by God to a white kid from Falcon Heights, MN. It seemed the more ridiculous my movements felt, the more frenzied the crowd's response, and the faster the tempo Lisa ordered for us, as the band played on.
As we twirled and tangoed and bumped, my only thought was that, before long, Murphy's Law of dancing dictates that I'll land an elbow to Lisa's cheekbone. She was maybe 5-foot-4, and we were in such close proximity, performing such difficult stunts, that it could only end in TKO.
But there was no pulling out now, Lisa's cheekbones be damned. She ordered me around with the stern hand of an aerobics instructor, "Back, forward, cha-cha-cha, Forward, back, cha-cha-cha, now faster this time, no slacking!"
The TKO fears never materialized. The usual sweat fears, though, did. My metabolism needs no encouragement to start the sweat flying, and it had plenty: layers of winter clothes, an overheated restaurant, a workout at aerobic pace. Without question, I was burning lactic acid, and within minutes, sweat was flying from my head. I looked at Lisa and, what the bejesus: she was dripping sweat, too! Her make-up was starting to run, her eyes were starting to sting, and yet she was boogying feistily, screaming about what a great pair we are and how great it feels to sweat on the dancefloor. There is a God.
After ten minutes of "Day-O," the song finally ended, and I said a prayer of thanksgiving for that opportunity to be with Lisa. Well, the next song started, this one with an even more rapid tempo, and there Lisa stood alone. Before long, she walked back to my table. "Won't you please dance with me again?"
I flung off the Irish sweater and resumed cha-cha-chaing with Lisa, in front of the still-frenzied crowd. Now, with the uptempo rhythm, we may as well have been doing quarter-mile repeats, all-out.
Lisa was her usual charismatic self, dancing furiously, smiling seductively, barking out instructions to me, and rousing the crowd to a deeper state of euphoria. All the while, she was dripping sweat like no one I have ever seen, except for me or my brother Bob, and completely revelling in it. Still, my own sweat-drenched body was creating some serious self-consciousness.
Finally, I excused myself about 15 minutes into the endless song, and the men in tuxedos looked at me and started clapping furiously, as though my drenched shirt was somehow a mark of a real maestro. Instead, it's the mark of a Simmons, but their cheers, coupled with the crowd's hoots, plus Lisa's whistling and cries of "Bravo, Bravo!," were enough to make me feel like a maestro and, for a moment, to forget that I'm in Zhuzhou City freakin China.
After the show, Lisa gave me her email address and told me to come back next week: they're performing every night, same place, from Tuesday through Friday. Score.
I walked outside and, suddenly, I was back in China. I thought it was only fair that I give the girl some loot for having me pointed me toward Lisa, but she wasn't there anymore. God bless her anyway.
