The first time Ms. Chen, a business lawyer originally from Inner Mongolia, invited me out we had a long, fun-packed day, playing badminton for a few hours with some friends of hers, eating hotpot for dinner, and finishing the evening with a viewing of an absurd and rather black Chinese comedy, 掘强萝卜 (“Tenacious Radish”). This time around it was just us two and Ms. Chen’s badminton instructor, Mr. Zhuo, and I wasn’t pleased. Instead of rallying merrily at a speed acceptable to anyone with a racquet in one hand and a cocktail in the other (which is how I believe badminton should always be played), I spent two hours standing to the side of the court practicing my stance and my serve, and destroying my once awesome backhand by learning How Things Should Be Done. I was trying to maintain the cheery, chipper countenance by which Qiao Wei, my Chinese alter ego, is known, but I’d had a bad week already and this was making me hate life even more. I wanted to punch Mr. Zhuo every time he barked “bu dui!” (wrong!) and fiddled with the position of my wrist. I thought I might start crying. What the fuck was I doing in this dingy indoor court on the Northern outskirts of the city, being berated by some asshole whose notion of pedagogy was impatient criticism and looking forward to dinner with a “friend” with whom I have little more in common than the Chinese language?
I scowled a lot but I made it through without exploding at anyone, beating the shit out of quite a few birdies along the way. After our court time was up we headed back to Ms. Chen’s car, a swanky BMW with plush sheepskin seat coverings, an I Dream Of Jeannie-worthy scent lamp, and an endless selection of emotional music from the grasslands of Inner Mongolia. Safe in the car I grew less and less interested in choking Mr. Zhuo and began talking to him of dinner. Had I eaten Zhejiang cuisine? [No] Did I like spicy food? [Yes] How was my jiuliang? (ability to drink, or "liquor amount" in direct translation). Hai keyi (it's ok), I replied. He was pleased. He may have cackled.
We picked up another Ms. Chen, a former Badminton partner, and then circled around to meet Mr. San, a friend of the coach. Settling into the front passenger seat as Mr. Zhuo, Ms. Chen the 2nd, and I all squeezed into the back, Mr. San glanced back and noticed me: you ge laowai (Oh, there’s a foreigner). Yes, it’s my dear friend Qiao Wei, said Ms. Chen the 1st.
There were further introductions all around once we were seated in one of the VIP rooms of a multi-story Sichuan restaurant whose revolving front door made the most non-committal promise of food quality I’ve ever seen:
In the restaurant, Mr. San was greeted familiarly by everyone from the doorperson to the elevator lady to the hostess, who visited our room several times and even drank a round of toasts with us. Our erstwhile host, it emerged, was an architect originally from the Northern city of Harbin. He mentioned a few shopping centers and apartment complexes he’d designed and let it drop that the cigarettes he was smoking are $150 a carton. The ladies Chen are also from the North, and so an atmosphere of hometown conviviality was established. Mr. Zhuo was acquainted with Mr. San on account of also being his badminton coach. The rather corpulent Mr. San insisted that playing Badminton was not an effective way to lose weight and Ms. Chen the 1st made the boldly rational observation that going out eating and drinking after every lesson probably didn't help.
I’ve gotten awfully sick of trying to explain my research while skirting around its politically sensitive aspects and so was glad that Mr. San didn’t seem to care. His heavy, Jaba the Hut-like eyelids only flickered with interest in my affiliation with the top university in China and my sweater. He agreed with our hostess that I appeared to be Russian, because American women weren’t as pale and beautiful as I. Patriotism did not prevent me from taking that as a compliment, though I did protest on behalf of my countrywomen.
I had been forced into taking the high-backed chair facing the door, the seat of the guest of honor, a role I’m not particularly fond of as I’m never sure what to do. On the plus side, it gave me ample opportunity to appreciate the garishly decorated VIP room, covered in so much brocade and sparkle it made the Queen Mary look plain in comparison. We had our own bathroom and attached prep kitchen, into which the food arrived by means of some kind of high-tech dumbwaiter. It was good stuff: steamed fish, spicy shrimp hot pot, some kind of tender beef, and an assortment of cold dishes. But my party seemed less interested in the food than the drink. Cold bottles of Harbin beer materialized in our kitchen and our personal waitress refilled our goblets mere moments after we set down an empty glass. The ladies Chen weren’t big drinkers, but participated in all of the countless toasts (to the coach, to the hostess, to Mr. San, to the North, even to my choice of cell phone), taking small lady-like sips and marveling at my jiuliang. It could have been a vicious cycle were we not drinking weak-ass lager: I would empty my cup, be congratulated and pronounced lihai (fierce or impressive), and be toasted again. Mr. San was delighted and Ms. Chen the 1st kept asking me in disbelief “but aren’t you yun (confused or dizzy)?” Nope. Keep ‘em coming.
The party was growing livelier, the health and spirit of the Northern Chinese (excepting native Beijingers, who were widely disparaged) spoken of ever more gloriously, and soon it became inevitable that the evening must continue. I didn’t have any other plans for the evening, did I? I did not. Mr. San’s personal driver met us at the entrance of the restaurant and we rode in a van out to Haidian. I was a prisoner of the tunnel of fun and was starting to feel just a little yun and wonder vaguely what I was getting myself into.
Entering the highway, the van was pulled over and a random breathalyzer was administered to the driver, who passed with flying colors. We hurtled out to the NW corner of the city, finally pulling into a parking lot not far from the west gate of my university and stopping at a brightly lit compound with neon letters on the eaves spelling out “Western Drink Town”. The name of the place was SCALA, a modest choice to be sure.
Mr. San was greeted familiarly once again at the door and at the table and I was appraised by his acquaintances as an agreeable addition to the party. I seemed to be the only round-eyes in the establishment, supposedly the biggest bar in Beijing. The place probably seated 2 or 3 hundred and had rustic, old-West style tables and chairs (and the odd wagon wheel) facing a large golden stage with the word SCALA and the characters 东方斯卡拉 (Si-ka-la of the East) as backdrop. Mr. San ordered a round of English beer and some snacks, and I overheard the bill: just under $100 US.
More toasts and nibbling commenced. The 1st Ms. Chen speared wedges of watermelon from our elaborate fruit plate and handed one to everyone in our party. I was uncomfortable with the seeming obsequiousness but assumed it expressed the proper deference to our generous host. When I was given a second wedge I joked with Ms. Chen that she was 给我面子 (literally, "giving me face”). She thought this was utterly hilarious and repeated it for the benefit of the table. I should really start renting myself out for such events.
I have forgotten to mention the light sticks: a terrible oversight. Mr. San was offered a selection when he ordered our drinks and chose three, all in different colors, for us ladies. I struggled to translate Star Wars in order that we might have mini light saber battles before the show began and was finally successful.
Delighted with my blue light stick I wondered briefly how long it had been since I’d had one, then recalled finding one in my freezer last spring and having a vague memory of wearing it home from the Vid.
The show began and I waved my light stick enthusiastically and beat it on the table rapturously. I don’t remember my introductory sociology textbook ever explaining that mob mentality could be such F-U-N. The acts were numerous and spectacular (emphasis on the “spectacle”). I marveled, applauded, and tried to surreptitiously take notes on my phone. A sampling:
- è 6 gorgeous women in beaded, flesh-colored panties and brassieres and Vegas showgirl headdresses and feathers strutted across the stage and danced with men wearing hot pink matador suits.
- èA man wearing a tight rhinestone encrusted Ed Hardy shirt (who later visited our table and greeted Mr. San) belted out Chinese pop songs, pounding beers in between.
- è A Michael Jackson impersonator. But you knew that already.
- è A group of acrobats performed a variety of impressive balancing tricks involving a bicycle, a ladder, headstands, flips, and lots of stacked bodies. For the finale, the smallest member, who looked to be about 12, was used as a jump rope.
- è The ladies returned wearing cheetah bodysuits (I’ll let you guess where the beast’s head was positioned) with hot pink feathered tails. A woman dressed like Cruella Deville and bearing a whip arrived to “tame” the kitties and, then, bafflingly, morphed into Madonna.
It was late when we exited and I tried to convince Mr. San to allow me to take a cab home since I live in the center of the city and it would be out of the way. He refused and directed his driver to deliver me to my door. I acquiesced, enjoying the nighttime sights of the city and the roads nearly empty of traffic. I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow, waking a few hours later to smile at the strange blue glow of the light stick next to me and roll over. Kind of like having a one-night stand with Tron I imagine.
2 comments:
Amazing. You will be in every issue.
I too had a late night encounter with glow sticks recently. And Trons... But this beats them all!
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