What a night
It began at 2 p.m., at McDonald's. As promised, I met a Zhuzhou City woman whom I had first met a few weeks ago. She caught my eye at the Western restaurant, where she cut floor rather soulfully with the chef-hatted Philippinos.
After her dancing display, and then mine, she and her husband invited me over to their table for dinner. They were young -- he's 27, she's 25 -- extremely well-dressed in black sweaters, mannerly and almost completely non-conversant in the English language. Through arm gestures, and over French wine which they paid for, the husband invited me to teach English to the wife, beginning when I return from America. He rubbed his right thumb against his other fingertips. "You teach, we pay," he said. Right on.
Today, at McDonald's, was our first meeting. I had prepared a lesson during the busride from the village, and was worried that the textbook I had chosen would be a bit over her head. Nonetheless, I prepared a lesson, Chapter 1 in the textbook, expecting to have to work extra hard and begin at the absolute beginning.
Well, she arrived and immediately started spouting Chinese sentences at me. I had no clue what she was saying, and said so in Chinese. She kept talking, then started writing her sentences in Chinese characters. I don't understand, I repeated.
Next, I showed her the textbook. She showed virtually no interest, continuing to blather in Chinese, I continuing to be baffled. Her cell phone would ring, she'd answer and talk for five minutes, I would sit there, fuming.
Finally, she communicated through arm gestures that we would go to her office. It was ritzy -- the eighth floor of one of the glittering new highrises that have sprouted in the past few years in Zhuzhou City.
Her female friend and her told me I was handsome, asked if I thought they were beautiful, I responded that yes, I think they're beautiful, they complimented me for "being so honest." Within minutes, the entire office -- six or seven other corporate types -- surrounded me. Word spread quickly. Over and over, I told them I'm from America, I'm a teacher, blah freakin blah blah. The woman to whom I was supposed to give a lesson fiddled with a computer. I figured, naively, that she must be loading some sort of English tutorial, and that she wanted my help with it once loaded.
Well, the women asked me if I have a girlfriend. I told them, in Chinese, that I have seven wives, one for every day of the week, and that they're all born on exactly the same day as me, and all exactly the same height as me, and all want exactly ten children, so that we might hold five-on-five family hoops fests. Just kidding, I said. No girlfriend. Excited shrieks followed, followed quickly by cell phone calls. "Tonight, we will go to dinner with beautiful girl," my student announced. "No husband, no boyfriend. Her name is CiCi." Swell.
Hours passed, with the women making desperate trips through the dictionary, trying to find just the right euphemisms to ask me personal questions: how old, ever been married, any kids, blah freakin blah blah. And no mention was made of the supposed English lesson, and the women sat idly, on the clock, not doing a thing except annoying me. What a waste of my existence.
I had another errand to run: buy a flight for this weekend's trip south, to my friends' Liz and Kevin's college. Over and over, I told them about it, and over and over they tried to call travel agents, book the flight for me, be my unwanted helpers. Finally, 4:30 came, and I said, in forceful Chinese, that I must leave, for my preferred travel agent will close soon.
We got in a cab, went to the travel agent, I conducted the entire transaction in Chinese, without a word of interference from my two unwanted, "so beautiful" Chinese friends. A round-trip flight for about 80 U.S. dollars. Score.
Next, we were at the restaurant. I've been treated to some upper-crust feasts, but no place I've been is ritzier than the place we went. At every table was a Chinese "host," a beautiful girl in a traditional gown, with a white polar-bear afghan draped over her shoulder, whose sole job it was to stand there, the entire time, and smile.
Quickly, our table of eight chairs filled up. First came the business tycoon husband of my supposed student, dressed all in black, smoking, exuding rich-guy-ness. Next came his friend, a subordinate in his real-estate company, a man of rather normal appearance. Meanwhile, CiCi, who actually was quite beautiful, sat alone, the chair next to her empty, and continually made eyes at me and asked questions of me, in Chinese. Five minutes into dinner, my so-called student asked me about my salary. Conversation stopped, all eyes settled on me. "One-hundred thousand yuan," I replied, in Chinese. "Each month."
About ten minutes later, another guy showed up, and sat next to CiCi. He looked quite non-threatening, wearing the standard black leather jacket, black sweater and nondescript face, with wire-rimmed glasses. "Are you their friend," I asked him, in Chinese. "No, I am CiCi's husbank," he replied, in English. So, the line about hooking me up with CiCi, and about her being single, was total fiction. Suddenly, I looked at myself, sitting in a corner, surrounded by five Chinese power-couples. Self-talk: what the f#%(//?/??/
Nonetheless, it was a feast, and it was free, and so I ate with zeal. CiCi's husband, named Ivan, asked me question after question, in quite good English. Beyond all the standard stuff -- he too asked me my salary, after I had so clearly rebuffed previous questions about it -- he told me that CiCi had told him that I am "very honest," as I had told all the women that they are very beautiful. "I look at you and you look like very honest man," he said.
Meanwhile, I'm devouring every dish on the table, wolfing down boiled carp and stir-fried pork and steamed cabbage and broiled squash, and swilling beer after beer to wash it all down. After my initial rage, I have settled down, and I'm actually sort of enjoying the company of the Zhuzhou City power-couples. Ivan makes me feel quite comfortable, conversing with me extensively and in a way that hardly seems condescending.
Still, though, my self-talk: what the f(*^%$??? I'd rather be writing, or running, or doing something other than sitting here. The lesson, which never began, was supposed to begin at 2, and end at 3, and off I'd ride, on the bus, back to the village, a hundred yuan richer. It's now past 7, no end is in sight, I haven't been handed a yuan, and I notice that the other three men are competitively swilling toxic red Chinese wine, bottle after bottle.
Sure enough, a bottle of toxic red Chinese wine landed at my place shortly thereafter. I was done eating, quite loopy from all the beer, but well in control and ready to stop eating and drinking and head home.
The other three men raised their glasses of red wine. "Gambei, Daniel, welcome to China!" I raised my glass, slammed the contents, then put the empty wine glass on the table, upside down, in the universal gesture of "no mas." Well, there at my place appeared two more bottles of red brain damage.
"Surely, you want to drink more, right Daniel?" That's Ivan. "No more," I said. "I am happy to watch you from now on."
"But, Daniel, we are your friends," he continued. "We want to welcome you to China."
"Well, Ivan," I countered, "if you are my friend, why do you want me to drink more? Do you want your friend to get sick?"
"No, Daniel, we don't want you to get sick, it is just the Chinese way to welcome."
"Ivan, in America we don't welcome our friends by pouring wine down their throat when they've already had their fill. If you are 16, maybe you will do that. If you are an adult, you have respect -- that means you take consideration for your friends' happiness -- and say, okay, no more for you. I am not your slave."
Ivan sensibly raised his teacup, I raised my teacup, we gambeied with Chinese tea, no worries.
Next, CiCi raised a glass of wine toward me. "Surely, Daniel, you can drink twice as much as me," she said. "After all, I'm a girl."
"I am less than a girl, then," I said. "I am your friend, and if you want to drink that glass of wine, I respect your decision. Of course, you are my friend, and you will respect my decision, too, right?"
"But, Daniel, I am just a girl, surely you don't want to have less wine than me?" she countered. "Raise your teacup," I said, "tea is all I'll drink." So she drank her wine, showed me her empty cup, the men laughed, and I became extra determined not to touch another sip. Everyone at the table was staring at me, I was cornered, I had no way to communicate with them. What an opportunity.
Ivan continued his line of attack: Daniel, we like you so much, we want you to feel welcome, it is the way for us to make you feel welcome. And I countered that I feel welcome when friends respect me, that I understand the Chinese custom of men drinking each other sick as a form of camaraderie, but respectfully refrain from this custom. "I am an athlete," I said, "and I will be up early tomorrow morning, paobu paobu paobu (Chinese word for running). I refuse to ruin my run by drinking myself sick. And I am not your slave."
He continued to push, I continued to push back. All side conversations had ended long ago. All eyes, at the table and in the restaurant, focused on Ivan and me. He was obliterated, clearly. His face, common among Asian people, was blood red. His eyes were bloodshot through his glasses. And his speech slurred. Freakin lovely.
"At banquet after banquet," I told him, "it's the same thing -- you tell me how happy you are to meet me, you invite me to your home, you promise me money, and then you force wine down my throat. But I am different -- you can try whatever methods you want. I promise you, as your friend, I will not touch another drop of wine. You can put whatever pressure you want. Bring it on."
Within seconds, a fancily attired man appeared next to me, standing. "This is the owner of this restaurant," Ivan said. "He wants to gambei with you, as friends."
I pointed at the guy and raised my teacup. "I am your friend, you are my friend, I will drink tea, and you will be happy." The guy pointed at my wine glass, unable to issue spoken orders, as he doesn't know English. "Do you want it?" I asked, in Chinese. "I am not your slave." (By this point, I had consulted my dictionary and learned how to say "I am not your slave" in Chinese). And he downed his glass of wine, and I downed my glass of tea, and the table erupted in laughter as he held his empty wine glass, a symbol of victory.
Immediately, I told Ivan, "see this, men in your culture define happiness by drinking more than other men. I can drink less than men, less than women, and still be happy. I do not need to prove myself by how much I drink."
"Let me teach you a lesson about America," I continued, getting damn preachy. "In America, we have the freedom to act independently. If everyone else does something, I am an individual, and I can say, 'no, not for me.' And almost every time, others will look at me and respect me, and leave me alone. I am independent, and strong, and I won't touch another sip."
Ivan said something to the rest of the table, and the others laughed and made comments, in Chinese. "See, Ivan, this is what I mean," I told him. "You are many, I am one, you know a language I don't know, you profess to be my friends, and yet you do your best to put pressure on me to do something I don't want to do. The more pressure, the better. I am strong."
Ivan repeated this to the others, and the business tycoon extended his hand to me, as if to arm wrestle. The others laughed. Ivan said, "he thinks he is more strong than you, and so he wants to have a contest with you."
"I don't doubt that he is more strong than me," I said. "And I don't doubt that I can run longer and beat him in basketball. But I do not need to prove myself. I do not need to compete to prove to myself and others that I am better or worse. Life should not be a constant competition."
"But," countered Ivan, "this is not a competition. He just wants to have a friendly game with you. No contests."
"You're lying," I said. "If I arm-wrestle him, you and you and you and you and you and you [I pointed at each person at the table] will cheer him on, hoping he will beat the foreigner. Every time I am at an event, people try to play games with the foreigner -- let's make him drink more, let's have a contest against him where we know we will win. You keep trying to pressure me. Pressure, pressure, pressure. Bring it on. I am strong, and I don't need to arm-wrestle to show it."
And Ivan retreated, raising his teacup toward me, and CiCi said she respected me, and the business tycoon raised his glass of red wine toward me. I raised an empty beer glass, gambeied with him, swilled air and smiled. We all got up to leave, and Ivan gave me his business card, wrote his personal cell phone number, said he wants to invite me to play basketball with him after my weekend trip.
"You are strong man," he said as I got into a cab at 9 p.m., seven hours after arriving at McDonald's for the lesson that never began. For once, I felt pretty damn proud of myself, and abundantly thankful for the opportunity. The words that came out of me tonight have been sequestered inside my noggin for months, and so it felt brilliant to give them their release, on a night when I had no friends I cared about losing and nothing to gain by being the sacrificial foreigner. My honesty haunts me, though, as now everyone at the table, people I'd rather not see again, gathered my cell phone number, eager to get together again next week, for round two. Fun fun fun.
