by Jennifer Cox
The cadence of their conversation seemed to jab and twang sharply, rising and falling atonally like a Japanese lute. I’ve often noticed how the singsong sound of certain Asian accents could make a perfectly ordinary conversation sound like an argument. And as I thought this again now, there was a loud crash. To my astonishment, the old lady came careening out from behind the counter, brandishing a long stick like a samurai sword over her head. Her face brick-red with rage, bellowing and swinging wildly, she proceeded to chase her grandson around the small shop, flailing as she ran.
But she couldn’t catch him. And as grandmother and grandson ran around the shop shouting angrily, with each dodge the stick whizzed past the agile grandson and smashed instead into the racks of DVDs. They went flying off the shelves, skidding across the floor and scattering their contents under boxes and life-size cardboard cutouts of Jackie Chan. There were three Chinese men in the shop along with me, and we all stood frozen in disbelief as the scene unfolded around us. But as an airborne DVD caught one of the men painfully in the neck, we exchanged a quick look of No DVD is cheap enough to be worth this, and all made a beeline for the door and dashed out into the safety of the street. I walked briskly away without looking back, the sound of people shouting and DVD cases splintering clearly audible all the way down the street.
Happily, both my cell phone and email worked in China, so as I walked, I rang Garry and told him what had just happened.
“What’s all that noise?” Garry shouted a few seconds into the conversation.
“That’s China!” I shouted back, as all around me the sound of drilling, driving, sewing, and shouting filled the air.
We talked on the phone all the way back to the apartment, then—fearing my phone bill—spent another hour instant-messaging after that. I had so much to tell him, there was so much going on. I really wished he was here; I missed him terribly. He would have loved this.
The next morning Hector and I met early and ambled along the painted corridors and temples around the vast Kunming Lake in the grounds of the Summer Palace, before heading back to Huixin Dongjie. We were having lunch with a group of Hector’s fellow journalists at the Great Wall of China, a landmark restaurant just down the road from his flat.
The restaurant was fancy, friendly, and insanely cheap. Hector’s friends—Siobhan, Marta and Paul—were already seated when we arrived, so introductions were made as the waitress passed the menus around. These were huge: over thirty pages of dishes, each with accompanying photo and description in Chinese and English.
We randomly ordered so we could talk. All his friends loved living here, though it could clearly be quite challenging. Marta had broken her hand that morning when a bike had pedaled straight into her on the road. We talked about running to destress; Siobhan got up at 5 a.m. to run on an outdoor track. But there was no lighting; she had to shine a flashlight in front of her as she ran so she wouldn’t fall down the potholes.
Paul was an early-thirties Australian. He was tall and handsome, also quiet and a little shy. I chatted with him, asking how long he’d been here, where he’d worked before, where he’d lived in Australia…. These were actually highlights from my don’t worry it’ll all be fine warm-up date questions; and as if reading my mind, Hector leaned across the table and said: “Jen, you do know that it’s Paul you’re dating tomorrow?”
God, was it? Why hadn’t he told me sooner? I was appalled.
Okay, I’m exaggerating. I was actually very pleased: He was sweet and I already felt so comfortable and curious that I knew he’d be a good date. But I’d been asking him the date questions already. What would I talk to him about tomorrow?
“Paul, I’m really sorry,” I told him, in a tone that almost certainly sounded like a guard telling passengers they couldn’t board the train even though it was standing at the station with the doors wide open. “Do you mind if we don’t talk until tomorrow? I don’t want to peak too soon.”
Hector rolled his eyes and sighed. Paul was too much of a gentleman to show any of the misgivings he now had about dating me; he merely smiled and nodded.
As it turned out, though, everyone talked nonstop, including Paul and me. It was an entertaining and companionable meal—Chinese food is sociable and made for sharing, quite the opposite of Japanese food, which is either in meal for one bento boxes or means bending low over bowls of no eye contact ramen noodles—and the food was extraordinary. Dish after sumptuous dish arrived: salted fish in black-bean sauce; shredded potato with chili; aubergine in sour sauce. It was piquant with attention-grabbing flavors and textures. I was amazed at how much I loved it.
I think of myself as being pretty open-minded, but there are two things I’ve always been sure of: I get really seasick and I hate Chinese food.
Clearly, this journey was playing havoc with my sense of self.
After lunch, Hec and I embarked on a series of crosstown buses—the subway might be fast and easy, but it was the buses that gave you a true sense of what a city was like—to go and meet Les.
It was funny: Virtually every date I’d been on, I’d dressed up and gone off on my own like the modern woman I was. But Hector seemed to be acting as an old-fashioned chaperone: arranging dates with people he knew and coming along with me for the introduction. Hector had always been considerate and courteous; I smiled to myself, wondering if in the back of his mind he was steeling himself for the day he’d meet his daughter’s beaux.
Les (Date #64) was an expat journalist who had worked in London’s journalistic hub, Fleet Street, during its notorious heyday. We met him in a tea shop in the foreign embassy district near Silk Alley (and Starbucks).
Meeting Les—although not obvious date material—was a wonderful encounter. He was a seventy-one-year-old Brit and larger-than-life character. He’d spent the last twenty-odd years stacking up adventures throughout Africa and Asia, writing for and running a variety of newspapers and magazines.
At the height of his career in Fleet Street he’d lost his leg through illness, but he refused to allow this to compromise the quality of his life. His old colleagues in London had had trouble making the same adjustment, however; so rather than accept their pity and the loss of his career, he’d moved to Asia. As he said: “In Britain people can kill you with kindness; in Asia, they may seem a harder people but at least they don’t write a man off who wants to work. They don’t look at a man with one leg and see a cripple.”
It was yet another reminder of how travel revitalizes you and allows you to, if not be reincarnated, then to focus on the parts of your life you value and don’t want to lose. It was enormously entertaining and refreshing listening to Les. And I did a lot of listening. In some respects, he actually reminded me of my maternal grandfather, who had run away to sea when he was fourteen and kept us all rapt with the stories of his adventures on the high seas.
That night, Hec went back to see Ang, and I sat at the computer trying to work out where I was going to stay in Bangkok. I was flying there the day after tomorrow and everywhere seemed to be full. I was just about to get a bit stressed about it and moaned on instant message to Garry, when he suggested:
Sounds like you’re super busy, just tell me where you want to stay and I’ll sort it out for you.
For some reason, his offer made me stop short. I’d been setting up stuff for months now and my standard operating procedure was: Leave it too late, make a fuss about it, get stressed, then—somewhere in the middle of boring everyone rigid about how demanding everything was—get over it and make the booking.
That Garry had taken my complaints seriously, to the point where he actually wanted to do something to help, was incredibly kind. But to have my boyfriend help with the logistics of dating a score of other men felt just a bit weird. Plus, I was committed to the journey, and sucking up the logistics hassles was part of that. I just had to tough it out and stop being such a baby.
Nonetheless, I was touched and IM-ed Garry back my appreciation:
Thx that’s kind of
you. I’m fine, though: I’m just being a drama queen, please ignore me.
I slept badly that night: I dreamed that Garry, Paul, one-legged Les, and I were all wandering around Bangkok trying to find somewhere to stay. Hotel after hotel turned us away; they all had rooms, but when we came to book we could never agree on the number of rooms we needed and it’d end up with us shouting at each other and the manager kicking us out into the street.
When I woke at dawn I felt rattled and bedraggled from the unsettled night. As I lay there feeling uncomfortable and out of sorts, my stomach made a strange noise, like water gurgling down a sink. I looked at it, perplexed: What was that all about? Thirty seconds later in the bathroom, as I threw up what felt like every meal I’d eaten since 1986, I realized I must have picked up a traveler’s tummy bug. Damn, on the day of my hot date with Paul, too.
Sometime later, crawling from the toilet to the sink, I ran the cold tap and splashed freezing water onto my burning face. Steadying myself against the edge, I slowly pulled myself upright. Catching sight of my reflection in the mirror, I let out a long groan. My hair was lank and stringy, like a dog left out in the rain. And under my right eye was a mosquito bite the size of a pebble big enough to skim clear across the English Channel.
My stomach heaved. It was officially a disaster.
I crawled back to bed and fell into a deep sleep, getting up just once more to be violently sick. But by the time I finally woke at 11 a.m. and was well enough to sit at the kitchen table gingerly sipping bottled water, my temperature was back to normal and whatever had made me so ill seemed to be out of my system (in every sense).
As I stared dully out of the window, I was jerked out of my numbness by the shrill ringing of my cell phone. I fumbled for it in my bag.
“Hello?” I answered scratchily.
“Jennifer, hi,” a man’s voice replied. “You sound terrible, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, thanks, just a little groggy. Who is this?” I didn’t mean to be rude, but there was nothing like a tummy bug to dull your social skills.
He laughed. “Sorry, it’s Will….”
Will…? Will who? I wondered silently.
“…your date,” he added, picking up on my hesitation.
My date. My date? I’d dated sixty-four people, and more than one of them had been called Will.
“…from Tokyo, four days ago,” Will finished, his voice trailing off, clearly hurt.
Oh, that Will.
“Will, hi, I’m sorry,” I apologized quickly. “I just had a bit of a bad night and I’m not quite awake yet. How are you? How’s Tokyo?”
“Well, that’s why I’m ringing,” he replied, sounding more cheerful. “I’m over in Beijing covering the economic conference and I wondered if you’d like to meet up. I don’t know anyone here and I thought we could go exploring together.”
He knew I was in Beijing staying with friends near China Daily’s building, but it was still a surprise to hear from him. I tried not to show it—I’d been rude enough already. And besides, he was a nice guy. If there had been time, I probably would have met up with him again. “Will, that’s really sweet of you and I really hate to say this, but I don’t think I’m going to have time. I’m out tonight and I’m flying to Bangkok tomorrow.”
I heard nothing but silence from his end of the phone. I waited; still no response. I thought maybe the connection had been lost (he was, after all, ringing on a British cell phone in China to another British cell in China). “Hello, Will, are you there?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I am.”
My instincts were immediately primed and on full alert. Why was he being so intense? He answered that question in his next sentence. “Jennifer, when we had our date in Tokyo, I was worried that I possibly didn’t make a good impression.”
“Oh, Will,” I replied without hesitation. “You were lovely; it was really good to meet you. Why would you think that?”
He was silent for a moment, then said dejectedly: “Oh, you know, I just really enjoyed meeting you. It was so good to meet someone I could really talk to.”
“And I enjoyed talking to you too, Will,” I replied, trying to reassure him, but at the same time thinking how unexpected it was to be having this conversation. I knew he liked me when we met, and we had got on well, but I hadn’t picked up any indication he was really keen on me.
“Well, that’s how I felt,” Will said firmly. “And I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, but I just thought if we could have another date…I’d be more prepared and we’d really hit it off this time.”
Another date?
“Will,” I said, trying to sound reasonable rather than panicky. “I promise, you made a really good impression. I really enjoyed our afternoon together. Honestly, you don’t have to worry about going to all that trouble. And anyway…” I said kindly but firmly, “…I hate to say this, but I’m going to be flat-out right up to the time I fly.”
“I’ve just been in at China Daily. I’m in the café across the road,” Will blurted out. “You could come and have a coffee with me. It wouldn’t take long.”
I shut my eyes and opened my mouth to let out a long, silent shriek.
Living overseas can be an intensely lonely experience, so I didn’t take what Will was saying as a sign he was necessarily a scary stalker. But the fact was I looked and felt like crap, I still had a lot to do, and I really wasn’t in the mood for a Date Addendum.
Will must have sensed my reluctance to meet. “Please, Jennifer,” he asked sadly. “Let me have another date. I just want the chance to prove to you that I can be fun.”
I wanted to shout: “It’s not fun I flipping need; it’s more sleep and some quality time with www.hotels.com.” But I didn’t. I felt sorry for him. And the fact was, he’d gone out of his way to meet me when I needed to see him, it was only fair I did the same now he needed some company.
So I went across the road and had a Coke (my stomach rebelled at the thought of anything else) with Will (Date #65).
And he was exactly the same as he was before: chatty boy-next-door, full of talk of London and the life he’d be having over there if he wasn’t over here. After an hour talking about politics and our favorite bars, I looked at my watch. “I am so sorry, Will,” I told him gently. “I really have to go.”
He smiled happily. “Please don’t apologize, Jennifer,” he told me cheerfully, clearly restored by having a chat. “I really appreciate you coming to meet me. It was good being able to talk like this.”
As I nodded amiably, my heart went out to him. He hadn’t wanted the chance to prove he was The One, he’d just wanted to talk to someone from home. And because we had a lot in common and could talk easily, I helped him believe he wasn’t sad and anxious but happy, with friends, opinions, and good times ahead. Will was clearly desperately homesick and struggling with the sense of isolation he felt over here. But he was right: I was glad I’d met him; no one deserved to be lonely and on their own in a foreign country.
Hector was back at the flat, getting it ready for Ang and Grace’s arrival tomorrow. He smiled as I walked in the door. “Hello, Dater Girl, how’s your day going? Or, more to the point, how’re your Dates going? Got them under control?” I rolled my eyes and told him it was most assuredly they who had me under control. But I didn’t want to think about it, so instead I helped him carry furniture into the spare bedroom.
Paul had said he’d ring before he picked me up for our date, so relying on having a good half hour to get ready (twenty-nine minutes of which would be spent putting concealer on the bite under my eye), I lost track of time helping Hector get the flat straight. I also (finally) feinted left and dodged right around the obstacle of my indecision and booked a hotel in Bangkok.
But Paul lived in the compound, too. I’d forgotten how living somewhere akin to a student hall of residence can blur the social boundaries and create a sense of informality between residents.
So, instead of calling, Paul jus
t turned up. He knocked on the door and let himself in, looking far more dressed up—black trousers and shirt, with nicely gelled hair—than he had yesterday at lunch.
I was unprepared for his arrival in every sense, no makeup and wearing an old pair of jeans. As I scurried around the flat frantically getting changed, Hector teased Paul about wearing after-shave. The two of them sat down at the kitchen table and chatted over a beer while I got ready.
Hector’s flat was small, and although I could disappear into the bedroom to change, I also needed to go to the bathroom. Only a glass door separated the small kitchen from the small bathroom, and the kitchen table was about two feet away from it.
I hate it when people can hear me pee. Even more so when I’m about to go on a date with one of them. But I had to go, so, avoiding eye contact as I passed in front of the table, I went into the bathroom and pulled the glass door shut behind me.
From my vantage point on the toilet, I could see Hector’s and Paul’s outlines through the frosted glass and I could clearly hear every single word of their conversation about soccer.
I couldn’t go.
Five minutes passed. I could make out the sleeve being pulled back on a shadowy arm, as Paul checked his watch to see what the time was. We were obviously running late. I still couldn’t go.
In the end I did what I am certain all women do in these situations: I dropped some paper down the toilet and peed really slowly and very quietly. It took forever and was excruciatingly painful, like an instant case of cystitis.
I’m sorry if that seems like too much information, but you don’t get a second chance to make a first impression: I didn’t want Paul to spend our entire date thinking about…
Okay, I’ll move on.
Paul (Date #66) and I finally left the flat and caught a taxi to a Chinese foot-massage place five minutes away. I was absolutely delighted: I really love having reflexology (based on the belief that each part of your foot is linked to a part of your body, so massaging your feet can relieve anything from an upset tummy to tension in your shoulders). Paul had chosen a perfect date (and there wasn’t a boat or raw fish in sight).
