by Liz Tuccillo
Ruby was feeling such goodwill in the air that she felt sincerely inclined to say, “So, you haven’t given us the daily update on your wedding plans!” Alice nodded.
After walking for many hours yesterday, Alice had come to a major decision. She couldn’t ignore the fact that she was, in fact, settling. She also couldn’t ignore the fact that her wedding day would not be the happiest day of her life. She knew that she was a strong, clever, stubborn woman—and could do whatever she set her mind to do. That night she went over to Jim’s apartment. She talked it all out with him, and even though he was deeply disappointed, he knew it was what Alice wanted. And in the end, all he wanted was Alice’s happiness.
“We’ve decided to elope,” Alice said. She managed to then dodge everyone’s reactions by taking a big wedge of Danish and shoving it in her face.
Ruby and Serena did indeed react—it was the last thing they were expecting Alice to say. “It just got to be too much.” Ruby and Serena just nodded, pretending they understood what Alice meant.
“Every couple always threatens to do it. I think it’s great that you are,” Ruby contributed.
“I’m really psyched. We’re going to go to Iceland next month and get married there. Just us,” Alice said. Ruby and Serena sat there, at a slight loss for words.
Finally, Ruby just said, “Iceland?”
Alice nodded. “It’s supposed to be really gorgeous there. And with all the darkness now, I think it’s going to be really romantic.”
Alice just kept chewing and not looking them in the eyes—now it was her ass hanging out there in the wind. She changed the subject quickly and they made plans to meet up soon for lunch. Then, she was gone.
As soon as the door closed, Ruby turned to Serena. “Does she look like someone who’s madly in love and excited about getting married?”
Serena gave Ruby a look. “She’s going to Iceland so she can get married in the dark. So no, no she doesn’t.”
Ruby, who had just spent the past two weeks seething with envy over Alice and all that she had, was now worried about her. Maybe Alice didn’t have everything that Ruby wanted. But instead of that making Ruby feel good, it just made her sad. “Maybe it’s time to call Julie.”
RULE 9
Not to Put Pressure on You, But Start Thinking About the Whole Motherhood Thing
(You Really Don’t Have Forever)
The next morning, I woke up to see Thomas walking into the room. For a moment a shudder went through me—I realized exactly how much I was going to miss him. There he was: his humor, his intellect, his good nature, all in one beautiful package. It was all going to be ending soon and I would be devastated. I tried to put those thoughts quickly out of my head.
“Where have you been?” I said, sleepily.
Thomas’s blue eyes were bright with excitement. “I have been doing some investigating for you. There is a park we must go to today. It will be perfect for your research!”
After a typical Chinese breakfast consisting of a rice congee—a watery rice porridge that can have meat or fish thrown in it—we took a cab to Zhongshan Park. Thomas had practiced saying the name of the park during the entire breakfast, but in the end I had to show the cabdriver the paper that our concierge gave us, spelled out in the Mandarin characters. As I said, Mandarin isn’t something to be taken lightly.
Thomas wouldn’t tell me what this trip was all about, so my curiosity was piqued. As we got out of the cab and walked into the park, Thomas finally explained.
“I read about this online—parents come to this park to make matches for their unmarried children. Every Thursday and Saturday afternoon.”
“Really? You mean it’s sort of like horse trading but with people?”
Thomas shrugged and took my hand. “Let’s find out.”
In the park we saw a few dozen people standing around a fountain. Some were sitting silently, some were chatting. But all of them were holding a big white sign to their chests. It was all in Chinese, but Thomas’s research had paid off.
“They’re holding up facts about their son or daughter. How old, how tall, what type of education.”
These older Chinese parents meant business. Some would start talking to others, to see if there could be a match. Sometimes they would show one another photos of their children that they had been hiding from view. It seemed like a somber process, with people talking very seriously with one another, and looking at us Westerners with great suspicion. Many of the parents were just sitting there staring into space, with the photo or information of their son or daughter hanging from their necks.
I don’t think these older Chinese people would be telling me how happy they were that their sons and daughters had so many options available to them, and how delighted they were that their thirty-six-year-old daughter was still unmarried. These parents were so dismayed over their children’s love lives that they had literally taken to the streets. In a country with a notable distaste for public gatherings, these people were out there with signs on their chests, trying to get their children married off. These parents were experiencing the ramifications of their children’s independence. It was hard not to find it depressing.
I tried to look on the bright side of things.
“Maybe we should think it’s sweet. How concerned they are. And what harm does it do?”
“Or you could think of it another way,” Thomas said. “Because of the one-child rule, they only have one child to care for them as they get older. Maybe they think it’s better for their own well-being to have their children married off.”
I shook my head. “That is so dark.”
Thomas smiled and took my hand. “I know how you like the theories. I was just offering mine.”
We had decided to take a little tour of Houhai, a beautiful little neighborhood that has some of the last remaining courtyard houses, or hutongs. These little gray structures, some attached by a courtyard, all connected by little alleyways, were once the typical domicile for most of the people in Beijing, but now were being torn down to make way for high-rises. But in Houhai, the little shops and food stands in the hutongs themselves had now become a main tourist attraction. This neighborhood just might be spared in Beijing’s new development craze.
We stopped to have some lunch at one of the little “restaurants” in the middle of the hutong. It was a dirty, tiny place that basically served only dumplings and noodles. The jars of chili pepper paste that were on the table looked as if they hadn’t been wiped down in years, and flies were buzzing all around. The two people working there spoke absolutely no English. In a world where it’s getting harder and harder to find anyone who can’t speak English or doesn’t know where the nearest Starbucks is, this was a comfort. We were in the middle of something authentic, even if the only reason it was kept authentic was for the tourists. Something about it all made me get emotional. We sat there sharing a plate of noodles with vegetables, and a plate of boiled dumplings. After a few moments in silence, I spoke.
“I want you to know that this was good for me,” I said, trying to sound philosophical, yet casual.
Thomas looked at me, not saying a word.
“It gives me hope, that there’s love out there, there’s possibility. You shouldn’t feel badly about any of it. I understood your situation.”
Thomas put down his chopsticks.
“My dear Julie, I don’t feel sorry for you. I know you will be fine. This is what is so difficult for me.”
He smiled and took my hand. I didn’t want to cry in front of him, since I knew my French counterpart would have much more pride. I asked the woman who served us our dumplings where the bathroom was.
“WC?”
She pointed to outside on the street.
I was confused. I said it again. “WC?” She nodded and spoke to me in Chinese and again pointed outside. I stood up and looked out the door. A few yards away some women were walking out a doorway.
“Wish me luck,” I said to Thomas and walked out the do
or.
In Beijing, as I soon found out, they enjoy “squatter” toilets. Even in some of the upscale establishments, they had not yet found the need for a good old Western toilet. This was something I was prepared for, having been to Rome and not being all that squeamish about these things. But walking into this public “WC” I actually experienced a bathroom situation that I not only had never encountered, but had never even heard existed.
First of all, as I walked toward this public facility, the stench was incredible. I had to stop breathing through my nose while I was still on the street outside. I considered just turning back, but I really did have to pee. I walked into the entryway and took a few steps in. I looked around. I was in one large room, no doors, no walls; just about eight squatting toilets altogether with Chinese women squatting on them. The only thing that separated each squatter was a little metal partition, only about two feet high, in between each one. So it sort of gave the feel of being in a squatting pen.
I walked in and saw this and I was actually shocked. This, for a New Yorker, is not an easy thing to be. I was shocked by simply seeing four or five Chinese women squatting and peeing together, and then I was shocked with the quick realization that I was expected to do the same.
A few of the women looked up at me and I had a strange moment of some new kind of pride. I didn’t want to be a wimp about things right now. This is my life, I am in the hutongs, and this is how they pee.
I walked to one of the squatters, unbuttoned my pants, and squatted. I looked up and found I was face-to-face with an old Chinese woman who was in the squatter right across from me, only about a foot away. If we spoke the same language we could have had a nice little chat. Instead, she farted, and I looked down and finished peeing.
So I had gone from a kiss at the Colosseum to falling in love in Bali to a squatters’ pen in Beijing. It was all quite clear to me. My grand affair was indeed coming to an end. There was nothing I was going to be able to do about it except get through it as quickly and with as much dignity as possible. I took out a crumpled tissue I had brought with me and dried myself off.
When we got back to our hotel, there was a message on our phone from our new best friend, Wei, inviting us to a party at this restaurant and bar called Lan.
“It’s going to be so much fun! So exciting!” And then she let out her long, loud laugh.
Thomas and I got dressed up and walked to the bar, which happened to be across the street from our hotel. When the elevator opened up, we were immediately ushered into one of the more impressive spaces I had ever seen. We had to pass through the massive nightclub-restaurant to get to where our party was. The whole place was done up in melodramatic elegance, as if it were a king’s palace, with velvet drapes and huge chandeliers in what seemed to be thousands of square feet. There were different restaurant spaces, bar areas, and lounges, all designed to create a different opulent mood.
We walked to the end of the restaurant where the party was taking place. We could hear the din of people talking and laughing. As we got closer, we saw that it was another beautiful crowd of Chinese hipsters, everyone fabulously attired and drinking. The minute we walked in we saw Wei.
“Oh my God, it’s so good to see you, my friends!” She ran over to us in a tiny white and black sequined minidress and gave us a big kiss on our cheeks. She pushed us over to the bar and then ran off to say hello to someone else. As Thomas ordered us wine, I turned to see Tammy, the woman we had met on the airplane, standing with a martini in her hand. We looked at each other, surprised—trying to remember how we knew each other.
“Oh! Hi, I met you on the plane,” I said.
“Yes, that’s right. Hello.”
“Hi.”
Thomas came over to me with our glasses of wine.
“So tell me, how do you like Beijing? Are you learning a lot about single women here?” Tammy asked, pleasantly.
“I am, actually. Thank you. It’s a very exciting time to be here.”
“Yes, it is,” Tammy said. “There have been so many changes, so fast—it’s been very interesting to see it all.”
“Really? What kind of changes?” I asked, curious.
“Well, it’s only been in the past ten years that we had supermarkets. Before that, I wasn’t able to touch my groceries.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Thomas asked.
“It wasn’t until only a few years ago that we had grocery stores where we could actually take our groceries off a shelf and look at them before we bought them. Before that they were all behind the counter.”
For some reason the idea of not being able to touch your groceries was fascinating to me.
“So now you’re free to be single, to get divorced, to touch groceries—everything’s different.”
“Yes, we have so much freedom now. Not like our mothers did.”
“So tell me—do women here ever think about becoming single mothers? Is that something that’s done?” I asked casually.
Tammy took a bite of a spring roll and said quite matter-of-factly, “No.”
Thomas and I looked at each other. It was such a definite answer. So black-and-white.
“Really? Never?”
“No. Never. It’s not possible.”
“But what do you mean?”
“It’s not possible.”
I took a pause, not wanting to push. And then I just repeated, “But what do you mean?”
“Each child is registered at birth. With this registration, they are given access to health care and other services. A child born out of wedlock is not given a registration. It’s not recognized by the government. It does not exist.”
Thomas and I stared at her for a moment.
“So, tell me, Tammy, what does a single Chinese woman do if she gets pregnant?” Thomas asked.
“She has an abortion,” Tammy said, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.
“What about adoption? Can’t a single woman adopt one of these Chinese babies in the orphanages?” I was shocked by this new piece of information.
“No. It’s not possible,” Tammy said again, with complete seriousness.
“But why not? There’s so many of them.”
Tammy just shrugged. “Don’t you see? If you let a single Chinese woman adopt, you would be allowing them to be single mothers. It would be almost the same as letting them have their own children. This will never happen. Or maybe it will happen, but not for many years.”
It then began to dawn on me that all these women that were out and about in Beijing enjoying their freedom, refusing to settle, working hard on their careers, had one very big difference to us Western women. They didn’t get to have a Plan B. We get to date the wrong men and have our little affairs and in the end, we still know that our motherhood isn’t ultimately at stake. Many of us don’t want to be single mothers, many of us will not choose it even if it’s our only option, but it’s still an option.
These ladies, who now get to choose from three different kinds of shampoos, don’t have the option to be a mother even if they haven’t found the right man. Their singleness came at a price much higher than I realized.
“So, if you’re thirty-seven or thirty-eight and you want to be a mother, what do you do?” I asked.
Tammy shrugged again. “You marry the next man you meet.”
She must have detected the sad look on my face. “It happens all the time.”
Suddenly those parents in the park didn’t seem so crazy to me.
The two gentlemen we met the night before at Suzie Wong’s came in, Jin and Dong. I introduced them to Tammy. Even though Tammy made it clear that she didn’t enjoy Chinese men, for a moment I had hoped that she and Jin would hit it off. They talked for a while, as Thomas and I made conversation with Dong. Eventually, Dong and Jin went to the bar to get some drinks. I decided to play matchmaker.
“I know you don’t like Chinese men, but Jin seemed nice, no? I thought you two might hit it off.”
Tammy loo
ked over at Jin, who was the Chinese equivalent of the nice stable guy in the States who sells insurance or becomes a dentist, except a little more handsome and able to speak more languages.
“Please,” she said, rolling her eyes. “If I wanted to marry that guy, I could have been married a long time ago.”
I went to the bar and got myself another drink.
The next day, our last together, we decided to walk from our hotel to the Forbidden City, the main tourist destination of Beijing. Thomas took my hand as we walked down the street. It was rush hour, with cars whizzing by, and crowds of cyclists going to work. Many of the cyclists were wearing masks over their faces, to protect them from the intense pollution there—another result of Beijing’s growing economy. Thomas stopped me and gave me a long kiss. It felt sad, like the beginning of good-bye.
At first glance, the Forbidden City isn’t all that impressive. All you see from the outside is a long red wall with a picture of Mao Tse-tung that hangs over it all. It looks a little drab, I’m not going to lie. But once you get inside, it all changes. You are in the largest palace still standing in the entire world. What seems like miles and miles of walkways lead to the various temples and halls that all the great emperors used from the Ming dynasty on. The halls all have grand and majestic names that I couldn’t help but find amusing: the Gate of Heavenly Purity, the Palace of Supreme Harmony, the Hall of Mental Cultivation, the Hall of Lasting Brightness. Even the modern antilittering signs to the tourists were filled with melodrama: “A Single Act of Carelessness Leads to the Eternal Loss of Beauty.”
Thomas and I chose to do the audio tour, which was quite stressful at first. Both of us were wearing headphones and carrying around a little GPS device and trying to understand where we were supposed to look and what we were actually looking at, based on what the guide in our ears was saying.
“Is yours on yet?” I asked Thomas.
