The Price of Tea

Giving Thanks in China

I was doing some editing and it occurred to me that I never posted this chapter. It seemed timely since Thanksgiving is a few days away...Enjoy! Oh, per usual, it is rough, particularly the dialogue. I really like the exchange about Tibet with Driver Jerry. I also really like my memory of childhood Thanksgivings...I cheated here and plucked it from my first unpublished memoir:).

***

Giving Thanks in China

By the time Thanksgiving rolled around life was good. The neighbors had finally finished their renovation – only two half-empty cans of paint remained in a corner of the foyer. Grace was starting to recognize some sight words – we had a long, long way to go before Junie B. but we were on our way. Willy had come to terms with holding my hand when requested – it had actually become like second nature for him to grab my hand as soon as we’d leave the building. I had begun to meet a nice mix of people outside the clutches of Kristin McBride – thankfully not all expat ladies were as crazy as she was. And Rob, well, he worked his ass off all day, every day – but he loved the challenge, so it was all good.

I wanted to have a proper Thanksgiving dinner – a distinctly American feast – but how was I supposed to make that happen with an EZ bake oven and a stove with two burners?

Cater it.

After a few short moments on the internet I’d discovered a catering company and ordered a turkey with all the accoutrements right down to the pumpkin pie – for a cool $250. It was a small price to pay for a little piece of home in China.

While we waited for Rob and Driver Jerry to arrive, I stepped out onto the kitchen balcony and took in a deep breath. I was smacked in the face with a damp wind that carried a new unwanted scent – industrial waste. Summer in Shanghai smelled like sewage, but when the weather turned cooler it smelled like a cross between burning coal and burning rubber.

No matter. It was officially the holiday season. It was a time to celebrate friends and family. Though we were thousands of miles from our families, we were going to celebrate Thanksgiving with our new family: Xiao Li, Driver Chen, and Driver Jerry. They’d helped us through those rough first few weeks in China. It was time for us to show our thanks to them.

As I rested my elbows on the cool metal railing watching the cars whizz by and Chinese people go about their business, oblivious to the American holiday, I couldn’t help but think of my own childhood Thanksgivings.

Endless gray Mid-Atlantic skies, the smell of burning leaves and pumpkin pies baking, and the forceful heat coming off of the wood-burning stove.

I could almost hear my brothers and me laughing as we jumped in a fresh pile of leaves, then the inevitable argument over who would rake the next pile.  And me being the youngest- I raked a lot of leaves.

The vision that was my grandmother: hair perfectly coiffed, make-up just right, an apron to match her plaid Pendleton slacks and cashmere turtleneck sweater, as she moved with grace through the kitchen never once breaking a sweat or showing a sign that she was tiring after spending the entire day in the kitchen.

The sound of the football game blended with the gentle snores of my grandfather as he slept off yet another perfect Thanksgiving dinner with his hands folded, resting on a brass belt buckle.  

 I could see my mom and brother, Daniel, dancing the jitterbug without music playing in the kitchen, trying in vain to get me to join in on their fun. My brother, Herb, in a plaid flannel shirt and shit-kicker boots playing pool with my step-Dad who’d be sitting on a barstool resting his chin on the tip of the pool cue patiently waiting his turn.

It occurred to me that Grace and Willy would have a completely different memory of their childhood Thanksgivings.

“Hey!” I heard Robby shout from below. I peeked over the railing and waved. “Dinner ready? I’m starved.”

“Yep, just been waitin’ on you guys.”

There we were. Chen sat silent, his shoulders hunched forward as he chewed his food slowly. He sipped on some jasmine tea that I’d bought earlier in the day. Xiao Li giggled and ate a decent portion of food. She even drank a beer. They both appeared to like their first turkey.

Jerry was his usual self. Chatting non-stop and asking me and the kids questions in Mandarin.

“Jenny-fer, I think your Shanghainese is very good, but I think your Mandarin is very bad.” Though Mandarin is the official language of China, Shanghainese is a dialect spoken by the Shanghainese.

That statement would have thrown me for a loop in the first few weeks of life in China, but I’d learned enough by now to know that he meant it as a compliment. The Chinese don’t mess around with ambiguous speech like native-English speakers. They say it like it is - a trait I’d grown to appreciate.

“Oh, thanks, Jerry. Yeah, to be honest, I have no idea what language I’m speaking…I just kind of repeat what I hear when I’m out and about.”

“It makes you sound uneducated, like a shop keeper or a farmer.”

“Well, I guess that makes sense because I communicate mostly with Xiao Li, Chen and people at the markets.”

“You should find a friend on the internet that can help you learn Mandarin and you can help him learn English. This is a very pop-oo-lar way for Chinese people to learn English.”

Umm. No.

“Maybe I will,” I lied.

I was pleasantly surprised that the turkey and fixins’ were decent. It was no Mom Mom Thanksgiving, but it was probably better than what I could pull off even in a real kitchen.

Robby sulked a little. No football to watch on TV.

“Robert tells me you will go to Thailand for Christmas.”

“Yes! We are very excited.”

“Will you make any plans to travel around China?”

“Well, we’ve been to Hangzhou and Suzhou…and we’d love to go to Tibet.”

“Why are all the foreigners so fascinated with Tibet? All the foreigners want to go to Tibet. I do not understand.”

That’s a loaded question.

“Well, I imagine it is probably very beautiful.”

“Oh yes. The central government invests so much money in Tibet.”

“Really? That’s interesting. I didn’t realize that.”

“Oh yes, so much money to Tibet. I do not understand why.”

Word this carefully.

“Well, what do you think about the situation in Tibet? I mean, a lot of westerners believe Tibet should be as we say, ‘free’.”

“This is a matter of politics. It doesn’t concern the people.”

Interesting way to look at it.

“You know, Jenny-fer, before China took over Tibet the Dalai Lama and his monks kept the Han Chinese as slaves?”

“I did not know that, Jerry. Hmm. That’s interesting. It’s definitely not part of the typical Tibetan narrative.”

“Narrative? What is this word?” He took his vocabulary book and pen out of his pocket to write it down.

As I spelled the word for him I continued. “Story. Narrative just means story…that isn’t part of what we’ve heard about Tibet. We’ve just heard that Mao took over and many, many people died during the Great Leap Forward.”

“Yes, but not just Tibetans died in the Great Leap Forward…many, many Han Chinese people died…big famine.”

The conversation continued. I wanted to desperately to learn from Jerry. After all, he was Chinese. He could teach me more about his own country’s history than what I could garner from books written by westerners. But we westerners - with our arrogance - believe the Chinese people have only been brainwashed. We believe they don’t know their own history.

I tried to fall asleep that night but I couldn’t. I couldn’t help but ponder this notion of brainwashing. The reality is that we’ve all been brainwashed into believing that our way of life is somehow better than everyone else’s way. Was it responsible for me to start believing the Chinese version of the story?

Christians are People, too

This will be the final post of my China memoir on the blog. I am going to use the month of November to finish the first draft, then move on to the re-write/editing process. Joy.

***

My brother Daniel and I started skipping Sunday school when I was 10 and he was 12. Our mom would drop us off in front of the church, our older brother Herb would dutifully go to his class while Daniel and I hid under the stairwell until the coast was clear. Once the hustle and bustle in the hallways settled, we’d run down the block to the Turkey Hill (our small town’s version of 7-11) and buy candy with money we’d found under the sofa cushions (or stolen from our Mom’s wallet).

I wasn’t playing hooky because I didn’t believe in God – that came three years later when I was sitting in church on Christmas Eve and the neighborhood witch sat in the pew behind me. Her hair teased and dyed ashe-blonde, her pursed bright pink lips looked like she’d just eaten a lemon and her nose stuck straight up in the air. This woman gave a whole new meaning to looking down on people. I thought it was a cop out that people could act like assholes, but go to church on Sundays and be forgiven. 

I played hooky because I thought it was a waste of my time to sit inside on a perfectly good Sunday.

When we moved to Shanghai, there were several international schools for us to choose from. We selected the Christian-based American School. Though I don’t necessarily believe in God, and am definitely not a fan of organized religion, I do think the tenets of Christianity (and other religions) are solid rules to live by. I also think developing a healthy fear of an amorphous omnipotent power isn’t such a bad thing to help shape a child’s behavior.

To my surprise, I’d discovered that people actually took this whole God and religion thing seriously. I mean, I honestly thought that believing in God was something that you grew out of, likes shoes or believing in Santa Claus. But no.

There are grown people who not only believe in God, but they serve him.

This revelation scared me. It scared because I don’t. I wasn’t scared that people would try to recruit me – well, maybe a little; I was scared because I thought they’d judge me. I thought they’d label me a sinner and I’d be alienated from the community. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t want to be alienated, either. I was pretty good at alienating myself. But I like to have control of how much or how little I interact with a group. Not the other way around. 

***

In the expat community, there is a standard conversation that takes place when meeting new people. It goes something like this: Where are you from? How long have you been here? How long will you be here? I imagined conversations in prison following a similar pattern. If you’re interested enough (or they’re interested enough), you might get on to where you’ll be heading for the upcoming holiday (or where you just returned from).

One day we were at a school BBQ. The kids went to the playground with their friends and Rob and I joined in with a group of people who were discussing the pros and cons of “unlimited human capital”. This is a term that is oft discussed in American expat circles. It made me uncomfortable. I understood that China has cheap labor because of the seemingly endless supply of available workers, but that term, “unlimited human capital”, made it sound like they were discussing cattle instead of people.

This one particular group of people we’d met were all long-time expats, but relatively new to China.

After the basics were covered, the conversation just got silly.

“Have you found a good masseuse yet?” a gangly American guy with a big Adam’s apple asked Rob. Thank God he was talking to Robby. Looking at big Adam’s apples are like finger nails on a chalkboard for me.

“Oh, no. I haven’t.” And he wouldn’t. Rob never has, and never will do massages, but he kept that to himself.

“Oh, you have to. If we have to live in China, we at least have to take advantage of some of the benefits, like cheap massages, while were here.”

“Yeah, I see what you’re sayin’.” Rob lied, still trying to be polite.

The gangly guy’s wife chimed in, “Exactly…we’ve had furniture made, cashmere coats custom tailored, you name it!” She was a rotund little thing. Her long, chestnut-brown hair was pinned in a neat bun at the nape of her neck; her floor-length prairie skirt dusted the floor as she moved.

Cashmere?

Then the subject changed to something entirely different and unexpected. “Have you found a church yet?” the wife asked me.

Uh oh.

I struggled to find the right words without letting this woman know that I don’t do, and never would do church.

“Oh? No. Not yet.” I smiled, but started to blush so I looked at my shoes and cracked my knuckles. If she’d been a police detective she would have seen right through me.

Then she laughed, “Well, you only have two choices here in Pudong: the Protestant church or the Catholic church.”

“Oh. I guess we would go to the Protestant church,” I said. That part wasn’t a lie. If we were to go to church, we would go to the Protestant church because Rob was baptized Episcopalian and I, though never baptized, was raised Presbyterian.

“That’s the church we go to…” She was interrupted by Grace and Willy. They’d cut her off by asking me for money to get some cotton candy. As I dug in my wallet for money, she said, “These are your kids?”

“Oh, yeah, Grace and Willy.”

“Oh, I know them. They ride my kids’ bus. I don’t have a driver three mornings a week so I ride the bus with them.”

Where is this going?

“They are so cute. One day they were arguing about the color of the devil. Grace insisted the Devil was red, because that is how he’s depicted in books. But Willy insisted he could be any color. He argued that, like God, the Devil is everywhere and can come in any shape or size…or color.”

Where do they get this shit? Maybe this is why she thinks I’d go to church?

Fortunately, the conversation was cut short because her youngest daughter needed help on the playground. As the little girl dragged her mother away by the hand, the woman turned and said, “It was nice meeting you. I hope to see you at church tomorrow.”

“Nice to meet you, too.”

Bullet dodged.

How could I have anything in common with someone who asked about what church I go to within five minutes of meeting? I’d had friends in Denver who I’d known for five years before I knew they went to church on a regular basis. I didn’t care, either; I just didn’t want to talk about it. As the saying goes: To each her own. Worse, this lady seemed like the recruiting type. Though she and I never became friends, we developed a pleasant acquaintance from volunteering on different activity committees together…and she never tried to recruit me.

That meeting with her made me nervous to make anything more than an acquaintance at the school. I’d already entered a friendship with someone I couldn’t stand based on our differences. I didn’t want to go down that path again. It was not only exhausting, but I’d learned early on that this expat community was no different than a community in the states. It was small, and people talk.

Then I busted myself. I was so worried that they’d be judgmental of me, but I was the one who was being judgmental. I’d refused to befriend people based on a prejudice that I had of religious people. It was a prejudice that I’d carried with me from early adolescence and that had been confirmed time and again by the media. I’d assumed all Christians were hypocrites. 

Hate it when that happens.

So, I shed my fears and became friends with some real-life Christians. I don’t mean the kind of Christians who go to church on Christmas an Easter. I mean real Christians who go to church every Sunday, to bible study groups once, sometimes twice a week. I became friends with people who, instead of trying out new places for lunch every day, spent their free time rocking crying babies at orphanages.

I learned that Christians are people, too. As an added bonus, some of them drank beer and even cussed a little.

I’d learned something else, too. This whole expat experience wasn’t what I was expecting. I was expecting some miraculous sense of freedom, like I felt when I was kid. Though that didn’t come close to happening, I was learning. I was learning about people and places and customs and cultures. But I was also learning about myself. Sometimes they were tough lessons, but they were making me a better person.

Though I wasn’t free the way I thought I wanted to be, I’d found a new sense of freedom. My mind was slowly but surely letting go of old habits, old feelings of resentment, childish notions I’d been carrying around with me for 30 years. I learned more about myself in the first six months of my expat experience than I did in my entire adult life.

There was a certain sense of freedom in that discovery.

Accidental Solicitation

So, I'm back tracking quite a bit. Couldn't get the last part of the Bruce Willis story good enough to post, so this is a story about the time I accidentally hired a hooker. It may seem hard to believe, but it's true. This story will fit in right after the Benny Story.

I'm actually making quite a bit of progress toward finishing the first draft. I haven't been posting because I'm just writing to get it on paper...no editing yet.

***

I’d told Kristin McBride about the Benny incident over tapas and she was beside herself with laughter.

“Only you, Jennifer,” she said, sipping the one glass of Sangria she allowed herself at lunchtime. I was already finished with my second glass and had resorted to eating the fruit in lieu of ordering another.

Kristin did everything by the book. Everything. She followed recipes and balanced their checkbook. Her kids had all the latest and greatest toys, gadgets and clothes. They even had matching shoes for different outfits.

My poor kids had a mother who thought Lincoln Logs were cool and I loved the thought of a school uniform because it meant less extraneous crap I’d have to buy. And Crocs were the only way go. For dinner, I would add a little of this and a little of that and hold my breath, hoping for a successful meal. I’d also hold my breath with fingers crossed that the debit card wouldn’t be too low on funds to buy groceries.

Though Rob and I were a complete mismatch with the McBrides, we still continued to hang out with them. We liked John and their kids. I just wished Kristin wasn’t such a know it all pain in the ass.

One fateful night we went out with the McBrides, a couple of Rob’s colleagues who were in town from the States and Driver Jerry. Jerry had talked about taking us out on the town ever since we’d met him – including dinner, dancing and copious amounts of alcohol.

The alcohol consumption those first few months in Shanghai rivaled the first few months of my freshman year in college.

 First, we went to South Beauty in the French Concession. South Beauty is an expensive Sichuan (Szechwan) restaurant chain. It’s good food, but after a few months in China I was beginning to wonder what the point was in spending $50/person on Chinese food when you could get the same taste, maybe not as good quality, for $5/person. We dined in a private room, ate like kings and drank like Jesters. Driver Jerry took over the menu and was careful to order all the “Western” friendly dishes. No Jellyfish or stir-fried frogs for us.

After dinner Jerry took us to a typical Chinese club called CD. I’d never actually been to a club in NYC, but I’d seen movies where people waited in line outside, between those burgundy velvet ropes with their fingers crossed they can get in. Well, this was the scene at CD except there was no one waiting in line.

We walked straight in to a pitch black room that was periodically lit by strobe lights. Jerry barked something at the doormen and we were immediately escorted into a roped off private area with crushed velvet sofas and fluffy pillows. There was a fruit and cheese platter waiting for us along with two bottles of chilled Veuve Clicqot.

Score!

It was still early in the night. Some seats at the bar were taken, but the dance floor was empty. Aside from the strobe lights, the only other lighting in this club emitted from people’s mobile phones. Every single person (aside from our group) had their phone out, face in it with fingers frantically punching keys. Ghoulish faces glowed blue from the light cast from their phones.

Are they “talking” to each other?

We chilled on our couches, sipped champagne and watched a steady stream of twenty something kids stroll into the club – everyone had their noses in their phones.

Kristin leaned in and shouted in my ear. “We’re the only Western people in this place.” The smell of her perfume was stronger than the blanket of cigarette smoke that hovered above us.

“What did you expect? Jerry said he was going to take us out to a typical Chinese club.”

“I don’t know, but I didn’t expect to be the only white people.”

“Now you know what it feels like to be a minority,” I said, smiling.

“I don’t think I like it.”

“Yeah, well, neither do minorities…try to think of it like it’s an adventure.”

She took a sip of her champagne, nodded, gave me a meek smile and continued to scan the scene.

I’d known since the minute I’d met Kristin that we were different. She was this confident woman who took control of every situation – whether you wanted her to or not. But now, she was out of her element. She acted like an insecure child getting dropped off at the first day of kindergarten - unsure of herself, shy, embarrassed. She almost looked scared.

And me? I’m her polar opposite. I’m borderline anti-social, I hide from meeting new people, I’m anxious in social settings with people like Kristin milling around. But here, I felt free. Free from the societal pressures of being what I’m supposed to be. Whatever that is?  I was more comfortable here - where I didn’t belong - than where I’m supposed to belong.

I was anonymous and I liked it.

By 11 the club was full, the dance floor was jumpin’. Though the lights made me feel like I was going to have a seizure, I was definitely having a good time people watching. I’d noticed that both guys and girls didn’t appear to be dressed any differently than if they were going to work. There was no “day time” look vs. “night time” look. It was just their style. The girls outfits consisted of tight jeans or tight micro-mini skirts and some kind of frilly, sheer, lacey, top. The guys consisted of tight jeans and either short sleeved or long sleeved shirt with some random Chinglish saying like, “Have a Coke and Smile Big”.

 I leaned in to Robby, he popped a strawberry in my mouth, and I said, “Hey, let’s go dance. Everybody looks bored.”

“Sounds good.” Robby stood up, grabbed me by the hands and pulled me out of my seat when about twenty girls marched up to our roped off private party. Jerry greeted them at the entrance and looked at Rob. “Hey Rob, you want?”

“Nah, that’s ok.”

“What? Why not? Come on, it’ll be fun to party with some local girls, right?”

“Alright,” Rob said, looking at me a little funny. “Bring ‘em on.”

“Which one?” Jerry asked.

Why only one?

 Jerry looked the girls over, grabbed one by the hand and escorted her to me. I took my seat and motioned for her to sit down. She followed my lead and sat down on her hands. I poured her a glass of champagne, she blinked a thank you at me and I popped a grape in my mouth.

She was a waif of a girl. Maybe 5 feet tall (plus or minus an inch) and 80 lbs soaking wet. Her legs were no thicker than my arms, and barely longer. She was cute, but nothing out of the ordinary. Her hair was cut in a chin length bob and her angled bangs swept right across her slightly bushy eyebrows. She was wearing an amped up-typical Chinese girl uniform: super short, hip bone-tight black skirt, black tights, a sleeveless sheer black lace top, and sky high platform stilettos. Her skin was a flawless ivory and her full lips were painted red.

I tried my best to strike up a conversation with her in English. “Do you speak English?” Without looking at me she said, “No.” Next I tried my best Mandarin. “What’s your name?” Without looking at me she said, “Ping.” “How old are you?” “Twenty.”

So much for making friends…that’s the extent of my Chinese.

“Robby, Honey, you still wanna dance?”

“Sure.”

“Anybody else?” I took a survey of our group. “No thanks,” Kristin said, speaking for the group. “I think we’re a little out of our league here.”

One thing I could count on from Kristin is that she knew her limitations. She was out of her league.

I grabbed Ping by the hand and guided her to the dance floor. She shuffled behind me like her feet were bound, her expression was staid.

I imagine it’s hard to walk in shoes like that.

The dance floor was packed. Sweat was flying. Bodies thumped to the bass and an occasional drunk person would fall to the floor. No different than any other club I’d ever been to. I’m not exactly known for my dancing skills, but this girl couldn’t dance – at all. She had the rhythm of marionette and that same blank expression on her face was just killing me. I couldn’t figure out why the hell she came to play with us in the first place. She didn’t look like she was having any fun at all, and it was starting to ruin my fun.

So much for mingling with the locals.

I started to ignore her and just soaked in my surroundings. My mind went wild trying to absorb everything. The lights, the music, the people. What do these kids do? Are they students? Are they rich are they poor? Are they from Shanghai? Do they have siblings? Is there rum in that Coke? Do they ever put their phones down? Is that a real phone or is it from the fake market? If it’s fake do they know? Do they care?

At one point I turned around and noticed a couple of cylindrical raised platforms. I elbowed Rob and shouted in his ear, “Hey, why don’t you two hop up there and dance?”

“Uh, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because this girl can’t dance.”

“So show her how.”

“You’re fuckin’ nuts!”

“I know.”

Up they went. The crowd went ape shit. People whooped and hollered, clapped and whistled. Even in the spotlight of 200 people this girl still looked like a prisoner of war: only stating her name, rank and social security number.

The instant Robby and Ping left my side, two young guys swooped in and took their place. Sandwiched between them, I went with it and tried my best to keep up with them. Within a few more seconds Robby was scowling at me, so I slunk down and scooted out from between them and grabbed him by the hand. He jumped down from the platform, grabbed Ping by the waist and pulled her down to the floor. Her expression never changed. Then he grabbed me by the hand and pulled me back to our private area. Ping took her seat, on her hands, I grabbed my glass of champagne and Robby shouted in my ear.

“What the fuck was that?”

“What?”

“Those two dudes you were dirty dancing with.”

I laughed a little and said, “Umm, you were dirty dancing with this girl on a raised platform. What’s the difference?”

“You’re the one who hired her?”

“What are you talking about?” I don’t know what was more dizzying: the lights, the champagne or the confusion.

“Umm, this girl…she’s a hooker.” He was pointing at her like she was a mannequin - void of expression and unable to hear.

“A WHAT?” I shot him a dagger look.

“A hooker…she cost me 300 kuai.”

“Really?”

“What did you think? She just wanted to come and hang out with a bunch of white people?”

“Well, I don’t know what I thought. A group of girls just came up to us in the only private area in the club. Yeah, I thought they just wanted to hang out with us. This is foreign to me; I‘m not used to hoards of hookers approaching me in a bar. ”

“This is China, Jennifer, not the zoo.”

I sat in stewing in silence, sipping my champagne. Ping sat there with that dumb expression on her face. Robby was deep in conversation with Driver Jerry and John. I’m sure they were making fun of me for being so utterly, painfully naïve. Kristin and the rest of the group just looked bored.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I said to Kristin. I was disgusted. Not just with my naïveté, but with the whole situation. A hooker. I loathe prostitution. Rob knows this. How could he let me hire a hooker? How could I possibly be so stupid? No wonder she looked like a prisoner of war. She probably is…the class war that silently lurks in this rapidly growing, fucked up city we live in.

“No argument from me.”

That’s a first.

***

The following morning was rough. “Honey?” I said, rolling closer to Rob.

“Don’t talk so loud,” he said, shooing me away without opening his eyes.

“You too?” I rolled away from him and buried my head in my pillow.

“What?”

“Feel like you have an axe in your head?”

“Yes. The size of Excalibur…it’s the fake booze,” Robby said.

I lifted my head from my pillow, opened my eyes wide and said, “What do you mean? Fake booze.”

“The Veuve…it was fake.”

“How do you know this?” I tried to sit up, but the pain was too much to bear. I lay back down and buried my head again.

Better.

Rob remained still with his eyes closed. “I just know it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the hookers and the industrial waste disguised as Veuve Clicqot?”

“I thought thatcha knew.”

“Thought wrong.”

The bags are fake. The clothes are fake. The marble is fake. The wood floors are fake. The smiles are fake. Even the booze is fake. Is anything actually real in China?

My Life With Bruce Willis - Part 2

This is just a short one...linking Part 1 to part 3. Hoping to get part 3 posted tomorrow.

***

A few weeks after our return from Phuket we were off again for the Chinese New Year holiday. Next up on our tour around Southeast Asia was Cebu Island, The Philippines. As an added bonus, we still had our tan lines from Thailand.

We scrambled around the apartment trying to get out the door for the airport when a random wave of nausea hit me. Rob and the kids were already in the elevator when I disappeared into the bathroom and threw up.

Weird.

“Jennifer, where’d you go…we’re gonna miss our flight!” I heard Rob shout from the foyer.

I reappeared, wiping my mouth with some toilet paper, but before I could say anything, I turned around and ran back to the bathroom. Rob appeared in the doorway and said, “What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?”

“I don’t know. One minute I was fine and the next I was buckled over the toilet dry heaving…like…” I stopped myself from even saying my thoughts aloud.

“Like what?”

“Like that hollow, hungry feeling of morning sickness.”

“Really?” Rob perked up. “It is possible, you know.”

“No. One time. One fallopian tube. Two kids already.”

“We one-timed Grace and Willy with one fallopian tube.” He beamed like he was some kind of sperm super-hero.

“Bite your tongue,” I said. I gave him the finger with one hand while he grabbed the other and hoisted me up.

“Come on, Honey…you’re the one who…”

“Bite your tongue,” I snapped this time. The joke was over. I did not want to be pregnant. I did not want a third child.

“Seriously, it was your idea.”

“I was drunk…we were all high on Thailand. Now I’m sober and I changed my mind.” I rinsed my mouth out with some water. “Jesus…I hate this feeling…”

“Yeah but…we’re going to be high on the Philippines in a few short hours.”

“Not if you don’t shut up…We’re going to miss our flight.”

***

Spoiler: I am going to omit the next part of the story for now...I have a miscarriage on the way to the Philippines and I'm not quite sure how to handle the writing of it. So...I'm skipping it for now and will just get back to the silliness of Rob (a.k.a. Bruce Willis) being stalked around the resort.

My Life With Bruce Willis - Part 1

Well, the stomach flu hit my three girls the other day, so I only had time to finish the first part of the Bruce Willis story. I'll work on part 2 next week and get it posted asap. As always...this is rough.

***

The only person I’ve ever been mistaken for was Anthony Michael Hall’s character in the movie Sixteen Candles. You know? “Farmer Ted”.  I was 11. A few years later, after I’d “blossomed” (well, I at least started looking like a girl), a good friend of the family told me that I was the homeliest 11 year old she’d ever seen. Some friend, huh? In bad lighting and with minimal sleep I could also be confused with the character Malachai from the movie Children of the Corn: flaming red hair, which was actually styled in a mullet ca. 1988, teeth as big as a horse and the same charming personality.

I’m not so sure which one’s worse.

My handsome husband, however, gets mistaken for all kinds of different people. From a guy like Daughtry who is 10 + years his junior to Ed Harris who is 20+ years his senior.

The day we took Grace home from the hospital we overheard a little boy ask his Mom, “Is that Dr. Greene?”

Bruce Willis tops the list. And truthfully, aside from Daughtry, he probably most closely resembles Bruce Willis than any of the others. On the not so flattering end would be Scott Hamilton (which makes me chuckle every time) to the most flattering would be Brad Pitt ca. Oceans 11.

Trust me, Honey, I think you’re the “Sexiest Man Alive”, but...

Kidding aside, all of this silliness makes Rob think he has movie star good looks. I just think it’s the old stereotype: bald people (like Asians) all look alike. After being married to a bald guy and living in Asia, I personally move to dispel this stereotype from the lexicon.

***

I squatted down with a box of generic children’s acetaminophen and Children’s Tylenol in each hand trying in vain to figure out what the difference was between the two, aside from two dollars in price. Without looking up I’d asked, “Whaddyou think, Hon, should we try the generic?”

We were “on a budget”. I’d quit my job the summer before because we were “moving to China”. Unfortunately, we were still in Colorado, and by Christmas we were going broke.

To clarify, we were going broke, but not because we couldn’t afford to live on one salary. We were going broke because, as Rob said (more than once) “because I wouldn’t stop spending money.” My response to his continued harping: “Being a housewife is boring. Going to Target is fun. I can’t help myself.”

He didn’t reply so I asked again, this time looking in the direction where I thought he was standing.

Where’d he go?

Grace, who was five at the time, was crammed in the shopping cart getting smooshed by last minute supplies for our holiday trek to Key West. Willy, who was four at the time, was sitting in the cart’s seat swinging his legs and singing along with the “Little Drummer Boy”.

“Hey Kids, where’d Daddy go?” I asked.

“I think he went that way,” Grace said, pointing toward the front door. “No, I fink he went dat way,” Willy said, pointing to the pharmacy.

Oh-kay.

I threw the generic Tylenol in the cart, split the difference, and headed to the magazine section.

I took a shortcut through the baby aisle and found Rob reading diaper labels.

“Ummm. Dear, we’ve been done with diapers for two years. What are you doing? We’ve gotta get going,” I said, looking at the time on my mobile phone. “It’s already past nine. We’ve got an early flight tomorrow.”

We walked toward the cashier together. Rob kept looking all around like he didn’t want to be seen. “I know. I was just hiding from this group of kids who keep following me around. It’s really weird,” he said.  “Shit, here they come.” I looked back and saw a group of three giggling teenage girls. When I turned back around, Rob had already disappeared down another aisle.

Weird.

I pushed my cart to the check out collecting last minute this and thats along the way.

I unloaded the cart and once she was uncovered, I pulled Grace out of the cart and asked her to go look for her Dad.

“OK, Mommy.”

Grace scampered off in search of Rob and I finished unloading the shopping cart. I put the last of our goods on the conveyor and noticed the check out girl was giving me a weird dirty look. Her oversized, pouty lips stuck out and her eyes were squinted at me like I’d done something wrong or like she was suspicious of me.

Rob and Grace turned the corner from the women’s cosmetic section and the three giggling teenage girls followed closely behind. Rob peeked over his shoulder at them every few steps as Grace pulled him by his arm.

What the hell is going on?

“Dat bald guy yer man?” the cashier asked.

“Uh, yeah, he’s my man alright,” I said. I turned toward Rob and said, “Hey, Dear, can you pay? I don’t have any money.”

Rob approached the cashier, gave me a weird look and I whispered, “Why are you acting so weird?”

While Rob fiddled with his wallet, I stopped Willy from destroying a sponge bob Pez dispenser that he’d pinched off the shelf. The cashier nodded her head in the direction of the three girls whispered, “Dem kids think you’s Bruce Willis. You Bruce Willis?”

He put his finger to his lips and gave her a silent shush. Then he said in a lowered voice, “Uh, Yeah. My girlfriend, the kids and I are just picking up a few last minute things. We’re headed to Aspen for the holiday.”

She looked him up and down and nodded. Rob, like most men, always looks good. He’s bald, so he never has to worry about the hair issue. His casual demeanor matches his laid back attire no matter where he is. Jeans and a t-shirt and could mean he’s lounging around the house or dressed for dinner. But when he smiles and those dimples appear, people feel at ease within moments of meeting him for the first time…like they’re long lost best friends…or lovers.

Then she turned to me and frowned: frizzy red hair knotted on the top of my head, my frown line was full-on forming a perfect reservoir that connects my forehead to my nose, no makeup, raggedy old yoga pants, flip flops (even though it was about 27 degrees out and sleeting) and an old hooded sweatshirt.

 She pushed her lips out even further, squinted and shook her head as if she was thinking you ain’t no Duh-mee.

I snatched the Sponge Bob candy dispenser from Willy, returned it to its home on the shelf and thought to myself, Whatever Girlfriend, you ain’t no Duh-mee neither.

Rob collected his change, shared a big smile with his fans that were gathered around us, grabbed me with one arm around the waist and planted a big kiss square on my lips. Then we herded the kids to the exit and left the drug store trying our best not to burst out in laughter before we were out of sight.

Shanghai Surprise

On a roll here...

***

Shanghai Surprise

I don’t think it’s a secret, but I never really thought I’d ever get married, let alone have kids. I somehow ended up with a husband, whom I adore, and two fabulous kids. Let’s call it one of life’s little surprises.

After Grace and Willy were born one year and four days apart, I figured we did our duty for humankind: I replaced myself, Rob replaced himself – with a namesake, no less – and that was that. And, I’d been pregnant and/or breastfeeding for two years straight. I’d had enough.  

Besides, not to brag or anything, but Grace and Willy were seriously like the best babies ever. I thought for sure I was screwed after Grace turned out to be so easy, but Willy was easier than her. No way could I ever have another kid…my luck surely would have run out on the gentle natured-ness of children - especially considering the gene pool.

Rob straggled into the house after a long flight and dumped his suitcases on the floor. The kids accosted him and said, in unison, “What did you bring me?” Benny peed on the floor, barely missing Rob’s foot. Xiao Li scurried off to get the mop.

I ransacked his suitcase for the pee tests I’d asked him to bring me, while the kids got reacquainted with their dad. After Rob mentioned he thought I could be pregnant, I’d made daily trips to the drug store on the hunt for a pee test. I got the same irritating response each day. “Jin tian, mei you. Ming tian you.” (Today no have. Tomorrow have). Except tomorrow never had.

I uncovered a year’s supply of Children’s Tylenol and Gummy Vites before I found 3 Sam’s Club packs of E.P.T. tests.

“One probably would’ve been enough,” I laughed.

“Well, ya never know.”

I suppose.

Rob doled out the trinkets he’d brought the kids and I ran to the toilet. I’d already drunk my weight in water in anticipation of Robby’s return, so I was more than ready to open the floodgates.

The following is NOT an exaggeration. If you’ve ever taken a pee test, you may think I’m exaggerating. I assure you, if there is one part of the book that is based on 100% straight up fact and zero hyperbole, this is it.

Within fifteen seconds, not kidding, fifteen seconds that all-telling hot pink stripe was staring me in the face. I practically burned a hole in the thing like I was peeing laser beams.

No. No. No. No. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO! NO!

“Honey?” I whimpered.

There was no answer.

“Honey?” I said, but my voice was still weak.

There was still no answer. He probably couldn’t hear me over the kids’ excitement to have their Daddy home after three long weeks with a very crabby Mommy.

“HONEY!?” Just as I screamed for him, he poked his head into the bathroom. Unable to speak, I handed him the stick.

“Well, what does it mean?”

“Take a guess.”

“Positive?”

“I guess some people would consider it ‘positive’.”

This could explain a few things…

***

Dr. Wang was a miniature woman. She looked like one of those tiny old women I’d seen on the street who still wore the tattered Mao grays leftover from the Cultural Revolution, except she studied and practiced Gynecology and Obstetrics in the US for twenty five years. I learned that she had recently moved back to China to retire. Easing her way into retirement, she worked a few shifts a week at the International Hospital in Xin Tian Di helping nervous expat ladies deliver babies in China.

She looked at my chart. “It says here you’re pregnant.”

“Uh, yeah…I had a positive pee test...yesterday.”

We discussed my gynecological history. I explained to her that I’d had an ectopic pregnancy and lost my left fallopian tube, but had two successful pregnancies after that.

“Wow, you’re fertile.”

“Apparently.”

“Well, we need to do an ultrasound right away since you have an ectopic pregnancy in your history. We have to make sure this baby is in the right spot.” She patted herself on the belly. “Follow me and we’ll get it done today.” She stood up, smoothed her lab coat and marched out the door.

I shuffled behind her, my head hung low. I ignored my surroundings, eyes fixed on the industrial tiled floor.

I followed her through two sets of double doors and into a darkened ultrasound room. A cheerful technician swiveled around in her chair as we entered the room. She apparently didn’t speak any English, aside from “Hello,” because the next five minutes of conversation was conducted in Chinese.

I stripped down and took my spot on the bed while they talked…and talked in a language I couldn’t understand.

The conversation ceased and they went to work on my ultrasound. The tech squeezed some goo on my belly and Dr. Wang said, “This will feel a little cold.”

I know the drill.

The tech did her thing and I simply stared at the industrial tiled ceiling.

After a few minutes, the tech erupted in conversation. Dr. Wang hustled around the bed and took the ultrasound wand from the tech. She moved it around and pointed at the screen.  Both women smiled gleefully and chattered in high pitched squeals.

What’s the fuss ladies?

I looked away from the ceiling and caught eye contact with Dr. Wang. She pointed at the screen and said, “There’s two babies in here…see?”

For a moment my mind was blank.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Both ladies looked at me funny, like no woman had ever dropped the ‘F’ bomb after hearing she was going to have twins.

You're Just the Wife - Part 2

This is a continuation from yesterday's post. One of the hard parts about writing memoir is that you have to lay it all out there...even if it makes you look like a fool. Or a rabid dog.  Either way, the following is part of the story, so, here it is.

***

Defeated, I climbed into the back of my Toyota Corolla, rested my head against the window and said, “Hui Jia.”

You’re just the wife. The truth hurts.

Those four words cut me to my core. Those four words were exactly what my life had been reduced to. Why did it take a clerk in a bank to make me realize what was wrong with me?

Before this big Chinese adventure of ours Robby and I were a brilliant team. True partners. We worked for the same company. Though I was in marketing and he was in manufacturing, we still stole moments to be with each other every day. If he’d had a bad day, it went without saying that I took over the household chores and vice versa. And, if we both had fine days, we cooked dinner together, played with the kids together, did the dishes together, watched TV together and went to bed together. We were always together.

Now, we weren’t. Now he went to work, the kids went to school and I was just the wife. This probably explained why a few short months before - out of the blue - I asked him if he wanted to have a baby. I never wanted to have a baby. I wanted to feel needed.  Could I have been any more of a cliché? There’s bound to have been a made-for-TV movie about having kids for all the wrong reasons.

***

“Mommy?”

I opened my heavy eyelids. Grace and Willy were hovering over me. My room was dark.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“I don’t know. We just got home from school. We were worried. You didn’t come down to pick us up,” Grace said.

“Shit. Oh, I’m so sorry, Guys. I’m just so tired. Let’s get you a snack.” I climbed out of bed and every inch of my body burned from exhaustion. As I prepared their snacks a wave of nausea sent me running for the trashcan. I dry heaved into the trashcan, but when I finished the nausea was gone and I felt slightly better.

What the hell was that?

I sat down at the table with the kids. It occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten anything all day, which was weird because I wasn’t hungry – at all.

Maybe I have the stomach flu?

Then the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” the person at the other end of the phone said. Then she struggled to say the English words, “Your neighbor is complain about the children’s toys in the common area.”

“What?”

She struggled to repeat herself. “The neighbor is complain…”

I cut her off. “I heard you, I just don’t understand….you know what, forget it.” I hung up the phone and sat quietly breathing yoga-style - in through my nose and out from my mouth – to try and quell the rage I could feel building inside of me.

Tired of tripping over bikes and scooters, we’d put them out in the common foyer area once our neighbor’s four month renovation was finally completed. I’d done a recon throughout the building to make sure it wouldn’t break any rules. Nearly every floor, out of 30, had bikes, baby strollers, etc. in the common area, so, out they went.

I sat there silently steaming, trying my best to remain calm. I tried calling Robby, but he didn’t answer. It was only 3 AM Colorado time.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?” asked Grace.

“Nothing,” I snapped. “Just eat your snack and do your homework.”

“OK,” she said, her eyes drooped in sadness for getting yelled at for no reason.

Once the kids were settled in with their homework, I got up from the table, calmly opened the front door and approached my neighbor’s apartment. I stood on a little black floor mat that said, “Welcome” in English. A delicate red and gold ornament hung on their door. I knocked. There was no answer. I knocked again. Still no answer. I crouched down on the ground and looked under the door. There was someone standing right by the door. I stood up and knocked again, but there was still no answer.

“I know you’re in there. I can see your feet.”

After a moment, the door cracked open and an Asian face appeared in the partial opening.

“Did you call the management office about my kids’ bicycles?” I asked, pointed at the material in question.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Mmm-Kay…you are aware that the first 4 months we lived here this common area was like a war zone?”

She opened the door and stepped out. She was an attractive woman in her mid-40s; she was tiny and very slight, almost fragile.

“Yes…I-I am so sorry about the mess. I know the workers…”

“I don’t wanna talk about the workers…I wanna talk about the fact that there were days that our door was barricaded shut, the fire extinguisher couldn’t be reached, the emergency exit was inaccessible because of the SHIT you had in this common area…and now….now you’re calling and tattle-taling on us because of a couple kids’ bikes…When every other common area in this building has bicycles in it!”

“Yes, well, my husband…he sometimes has very important clients and it looks unprofessional…”

“Unprofessional?”

“Well, you see, we spent $800,000 US dollars on this renovation and my husband… he wants it to be nice. This is our home. You know. We are not just living here. This is our home.”

“Yeah, well, you made it impossible for us to ever feel like we’re at home.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Go fuck yourself!” I said, then I turned and put a bike on each arm and a scooter in each hand, stormed into my apartment and slammed the door in her face.

What the hell is wrong with me?

***

After I’d tucked the kids in that night, Robby called at his regularly scheduled time to tuck the kids in from afar. After their chat, I said good night one last time and told Rob about the events of the day.

“How was the rest of your day?” he asked.

“Awful. It was the worst day in China yet.”

“Really? Why?”

“I don’t know, Dude, but there is something wrong with me. I am seriously losing my shit.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I finally got some money at the bank because this western lady told me not to take no for an answer…she told me I had to kick and scream until they gave me my money.”

“So what’d you do?”

“I kicked and screamed…and ended up taking out a cash advance on the credit card.”

“Oh-kay, good. So you have enough cash…I’ll be home in five days.”

“Yeah, I should be all set…but that’s not all?”

“What?”

“I think I fucked up…with the neighbors…I snapped…worse, I came unhinged.”

“Whaddya mean?”

I re-told the story.

“Jesus, Jennifer…”

“I’m sorry, I really don’t know what is wrong with me. I feel like my blood is boiling all the time, like my head is going to explode. And I’m sick. I’ve been puking…dry heaving really because I haven’t eaten anything.

“Extreme exhaustion, irrational emotions, puking…sounds to me like you’re pregnant.”

“Bite your tongue.”

“Seriously…that’s what it sounds like.”

“That would be impos…well, almost impossible.”

You're Just the Wife

OK. I'm skipping ahead a little because there are 3 chapters I can't get quite right. The first is Thanksgiving, the second is one more encounter we had in Thailand, and the third is the time leading up to/our Chinese New Year trip to the Philippines.

The following bit has been repurposed from an original blog post I'd done back in the spring of 2008.

***

You’re Just the Wife

A few weeks after our return from the Philippines Rob had to go home to Colorado for a three week business trip. I was hopelessly jealous. Though I thought I was doing all the right things: working out, writing, meeting new people, I was still tired all the time. No matter what I did I couldn’t shake the depression that nagged at me like an old spouse.

One morning, I’d returned to the apartment from sending the kids off to school when the phone rang. It was Robby calling at our scheduled time – my morning and his night time.

“Hey, Honey, what’re you doing?” he asked.

“I’m getting’ ready to hop in the shower…gotta go to the bank today.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know…me too…at least I get to go to the City Shop. They usually have sweet and salty Chex Mix…for some reason I’m craving it like mad!” The City Shop was the closest thing we had to a Western grocery store. They carried all imported goods mostly from the states and Europe, but also places like Japan, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Vietnam.

“Go easy at the City Shop. It’s really expensive….and, as you know, we’re going broke.” We were going broke. We’d cashed in our life savings to take the holidays in Thailand and the Philippines. But we were happy to do so. If we only had two years in China, we were going to travel every chance we got. Beyond that though, everyday life in Shanghai was at least 30% more expensive than life in Denver and really, we couldn’t afford it.

“I know, Dear, but I’m tired of talking about how broke we are…so, make me jealous, what are you doing right now?”

“Well, I don’t mean to rub it in, but I’m sitting in Hooters with a huge pile of wings, a Guinness draft in my hand and three big screen TVs staring me in the face: One is playing basketball, one is playing hockey and the other is showing the opening pitch of spring training.”

“You suck.”

“I know, sorry. Summer’s just around the corner…how’re you feeling, any better?”

“No. Not really. I’m still really tired. If I didn’t need to pay Xiao Li and Chen I’d just go back to bed.”

“Weird. Maybe you should go back to the Dr.”

“Nah…I’ll be fine. I’m sure it’s just my hormones readjusting themselves from the miscarriage.”

“Oh-kay. Well, take a nap today when you get home from the bank.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.”

***

On my way downtown, I sat in the back seat of our Toyota Corolla and remembered the day Rob and I opened our China bank account. We’d been instructed by one of Rob’s colleagues to open two accounts: one at an international bank, like HSBC and another at a local Chinese bank. It sounded simple at the time, but we found out - time and again - that sometimes the simplest of tasks had proven to be the most challenging in China.

We’d arrived in Shanghai a few days before, so jetlag was in full swing. Luckily, Xiao Li watched after the children while we ran errands. It was such a liberating feeling to be able to run errands without having to take the kids. We were happy and they were happy. What kid wouldn’t rather stay at home watching movies than go to the bank with their parents?

When we arrived at the HSBC by the Ritz Portman we expected to walk in, open an account and go home. This was an international bank, they would speak perfect English and voila, we’d be all set. How hard could it be? We needed exactly two things from our international bank account: 1. The ability to transfer money to our landlord. 2. The ability to withdraw money with an ATM card.

After two painstaking hours of navigating the language barrier and matching up our two needs with what they offered, we both signed on the dotted line for what we thought was a joint savings account.

The only problem, aside from the time-sink and mind-bending frustration, was that we couldn’t afford to open an account that came with an ATM card. In order to get an ATM card we had to open the account that required a minimum balance of $10,000 at all times.

Even if we had a spare 10 grand at any given time, which we don’t, but if we did, it wouldn’t sit idly in a bank so I could spend it.

That should be the account that doesn’t come with an ATM card.

When we’d finally finished with HSBC, we stepped outside into the heat of mid-day. I wanted to go home. “Hey, Hon, check it out…there’s a Bank of China right across the street,” Robby said.

“Alright, we might as well get it over with...maybe we’ll qualify for an ATM card?”

“Manage those expectations,” Robby said with a smile, as he grabbed my hand and guided me across the street.

The bank looked like a small, but crowded bus terminal. There were digital signs flashing red Mandarin characters mixed with numbers above us, a person shouting numbers over a loudspeaker, rows of linked chairs with black pleather seats and silver arm rests filled with a variety of people waiting patiently to make their deposits or withdraws.

As was often the case in those early days of life in Shanghai, there were always more people in a given space than I was prepared for. We squeezed our way into the bank and walked between hordes of sweaty people who seemed to be in a rush. Not sure where to begin, we stood there looking around for a few minutes trying to figure out where to go. After a few minutes of getting jostled around, we figured out that we had to take a number and wait our turn.  

“Eighty-two,” Robby said. He looked up at the flashing digital number sign that was mounted on the wall by the tellers. “Forty-six.” He frowned. Still hand-in-hand, we inched our way to an open spot by the front door and stood our ground in silence.

There was an older couple standing next to us that appeared to be arguing. As time passed, their voices progressively got louder and their arms started to flail. Everyone else in the place ignored them, but Robby and I just stared. After a few more minutes they were shouting, and finally, they broke out into a full-blown cat fight. No fists were thrown, but there was definite pushing and hair-pulling.

I looked at Rob and he looked at me, we both saw they were only serving number 50. Without a word we left the bank – never to return.

Since cash was king, but we didn’t have an ATM card, once a month Rob went on a pilgrimage to the HSBC. First he’d transfer rent to our landlord then he’d pull out the cash he thought we’d need for spending money. It worked, most of the time.

***

I arrived at the bank at lunchtime so there was only one teller working.

Third in line…this shouldn’t take too long.

The first customer was in and out in a flash. The second customer approached the teller and dumped an enormous Carrefour bag filled with what seemed like thousands of pre-wrapped 10,000 RMB bundles on the counter.

Un-phased by the heaping pile of money, the teller grabbed individual stacks of 10,000 RMB, removed the rubber band and placed them in the money counter like a robot. One after the other. The pile of money totaled 500,000 RMB – about $71,500.

Wow. That’s a lot of money.

And then she counted it again.

As I stood there, counting and counting, a bizarre rage started to well inside of me. I crossed my arms, sucked in a deep breath and fumed.

After another twenty minutes it was my turn. As Willy would say, I had only 1 patient left.

Finally.

I forced a smile and silently presented the cashier with my account number card, my passport and withdraw slip.

“OK. No problem.”

As she looked up my account I could feel my heart pounding in my throat. I was sweating, and felt like I was going to pass out. My knees started to buckle, so I leaned against the counter for extra support.

What is wrong with me?

After a moment or two the teller looked up from her computer. She was confused. "I am sorry, Ma'am, I am not hearing your signature in our system."

"You're not hearing it, or you're not seeing it?" I asked.

Such a shame sarcasm is completely lost in this country.

"I am not hearing it. Is this your husband's account?"

Does it talk?

"Well, it is our account. We opened it together last August."

"Ah, I see, but it is your husband's account."

"Well, can you see my name on the computer?" I took a deep breath in, clenched my teeth and tried to hide my frustration by forcing another smile. I popped up on my tippy-toes and tried to sneak a peek at her computer screen, but she busted me and turned it out of my view.

"Yes, your name is here, but I cannot hear your signature in my system. Wait a moment."

About 10 moments passed and my last patient was officially gone. While I waited I called Rob.

“Hey…” he answered.

“Hey…I’m at the bank and they won’t let me take any money out of the account.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Yeah. I know. I am seriously about to lose it.”

“Calm down, Honey.”

“Calm down, Honey? I’ve gotta pay Chen, Xiao Li and swimming lessons…I can’t do that without any money.”

“Listen…let me talk to them.”

“She’s gone off somewhere.”

“Well, call me when she gets back and I’ll give a verbal.”

“Yeah, right. Like that’s gonna help.”

“Just do it, Jennifer.”

“Fine.” I hung up.

The teller resurfaced and said, "I am sorry, Ma'am, but I cannot allow you to withdraw any money because your husband has not authorized you to withdraw money."

"Well, we actually just got off the phone and he authorized for me to withdraw some money." Again…sarcasm…lost.

"No ma'am you do not understand. You're husband did not authorize you in the system to withdraw any money."

"I see. So, my name is on the account but I am not authorized to withdraw any money. This is insane. I really need money…today."

"Yes ma'am, you are just the wife."

Eyes wide, face red, and blood boiling I waved her off and turned to storm out.

Just the wife!

As I turned the corner to leave, someone grabbed me by the arm. It was the woman who’d been waiting in line after me. She was western looking, but I couldn’t determine the accent. “I heard the whole conversation…this exact thing has happened to me several times before…even after my husband authorized me to withdraw money…let me give you some friendly advice.”

“OK,” I said.

“You’re going to have to kick and scream if you’re gonna get any money…that’s the only way you get your way here…now, go back up there and kick and scream,” she said. She released the grip she’d had on my arm and nudged me back toward the teller.

“Thanks,” I said. A weak smile crossed my face; I straightened my posture and marched back to the teller.

Kicking and screaming is typically frowned upon in China. Though I’d witnessed one fist fight and one cat fight in the eight months that I’d been in country, showing anger in public is a big no-no. It’s not good for maintaining a harmonious society they’ve worked so hard to create.

That could be why it’s such an effective tool.

“Hello,” I said with a smile. “I’d like to talk to your manager.” After a few moments, another woman arrived.

“How can I help you, Ma’am?”

First I explained the situation to her. Then I asked, “Would it be possible if my husband could call in or fax an authorization?”

“No.”

Of course not.

The kicking and screaming commenced.

I ranted In a slightly raised voice, “It really shouldn’t be this difficult to withdraw money from an account that has my name on it…I don’t understand why I can’t get an ATM card, it makes no sense…not having access to any cash makes life nearly impossible because almost no place in China accepts my credit card…”

The manager interrupted me. “Excuse me, you have a credit card?”

Exasperated, I replied, "Of course I have a credit card."

"Oh. You can do a cash advance on your credit card. But I have to warn you, it is quite expensive. We have to charge you 3% for the cash advance."

Now you tell me.

Within five minutes I had a stack of cash.

I was exhausted, but I was certain a quick pop in at the City Shop will lift my spirits. I hummed along with Karen Carpenter and filled my cart with all kinds of yummy imported packaged goods from home, including the Sweet and Salty Chex Mix I’d been craving so badly, real Cheetos for the kids, and peanut butter Cap’n Crunch for Robby. While I unloaded my cart on the checkout counter I debated with myself:

Do pay with my hard-earned cash or do I use my credit card?

This is the one place that has never rejected my credit card.

That settles it. I’ll use the credit card.

I handed the cashier my credit card and waited in silence.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. Your card has been declined,” the cashier said, pointing to some Chinese writing on the credit card machine.

“Fuck it,” I said under my breath. I snatched my card back from the cashier, abandoned my cart and calmly left the store.

Mike, The Ugly American

Continuing on in Thailand with something that seems a little more light-hearted, but is actually pretty disturbing.

***

On New Year’s Day, 2008, we hired a hotel-appointed babysitter so Robby and I could get a taste of the much ballyhooed Phuket nightlife. Back home I don’t think we’d ever leave our kids at a hotel with a perfect stranger, but Thailand had cast a spell on us. We’d fallen in love with the Thai people.  Their warm smiles, genuine hospitality and gentle nature encouraged us to relinquish my fears and trust that nothing bad would happen to our children.

First we grabbed a quick bite to eat at a boutique restaurant next to our hotel. After dinner, we stepped out into a teeming sea of people. Though we walked hand-in-hand, we had to do so single file. With no agenda, we followed the herd and shouted over the noise.

As we snaked our way through the crowd, I heard a distinct American accent say, "Well that’s a sound you don't hear too often." Suddenly, I was elbow to elbow with a man, and I immediately put the face to the voice. He was handsome, but short. His blondish gray hair glistened next to his tanned skin, sea-blue eyes and sparkling veneered Hollywood smile. He looked to be about 45 and had a California casual air about him. He kept his hands deep within his pockets and dragged his heels as he walked in leather thong sandals.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The American accent. It isn’t something I hear very often.”

“Oh, yeah, I know. I think you’re the first American we’ve seen since we got here 2 weeks ago,” I said. I tugged on Robby’s hand and turned down a less crowded street.

We made the proper introductions.  His name was Mike. He was originally from southern California, but now he split his time between Hawaii and Thailand. I learned he was a commercial real estate broker in Hawaii and a residential real estate developer in Thailand. As we walked, he pointed out a few high rise apartment buildings that were his projects.

We sauntered down the dark street and continued the “get to know you” chit chat. Every other storefront was a massage parlor. Girls sat on the stoops while they waited for customers to arrive. Some were gossiping, some were sending text messages and others tried to lure us into their lairs tempting me with a five dollar pedicure and the men with five dollar massages. We politely declined their offers and they replied, “Maybe tomorrow?”

It was such a welcome departure from the aggressive vendors in Shanghai.

As we walked away from the chaos, other tourists were walking toward the crowd with eager smiles. Some were groups of young guys who looked like they’d just rolled out of bed. Others were groups of young girls dressed to kill. I looked down at my simple sun dress and said, “Wow, I’m feeling a little under-dressed.”

“Not at all,” Mike said. “These girls are kidding themselves…all dressed up for nothing.”

“Whaddya mean?” I asked.

“You’ll see,” he said. Mike turned into a convenience store and asked if we wanted a beer.

“Sure,” Rob said. “…but let me get that for you.” Robby reached into his pockets and pulled out some Thai Baht.

“Nah, I’ll get the first round…it’s less than a buck for three Singhas.” Singha is the Thai beer.

“It’s amazing how cheap it is once you get here,” Robby said.

“Totally…isn’t it awesome?”

“Yeah, we’ve fallen in love with Thailand….I’m trying to figure out a way to move here,” Rob joked.

Mike went into the store and returned with three chilled beers. We did a U-turn and headed back toward the crowds.

“So, we’ve heard some crazy stories about the Tsunami a few years ago…we you here then?” Robby asked.

“Yes I was. I’d spent the night at my then girlfriend’s  apartment. Technically we were safe because we were on the 2^nd floor, but we still had to go out the window and climb up a couple of balconies to get to the roof.”

“So crazy, man. We’ve heard the most unbelievable stories of survival.”

“Oh yeah, our story was tame compared to most. Like I said, we weren’t really in any danger at all, but my girlfriend…she never really recovered. She was so freaked out about it that she moved home to her village shortly after.”

“Oh…she was Thai?” Rob asked.

“Of course,” Mike smiled. “I don’t know how to say this without offending you, Jennifer…” he looked at me and flashed me his big, fake smile.

“Go for it,” Robby said. “She’s pretty hard to offend.” I nodded in agreement, took a big swig of my beer and flashed him a big smile.

This oughta be rich.

We continued down the road and he continued with his story. "I realize, now that I am 44 that I worked my way through the years when I was supposed to meet someone, settle down, and have a family… realistically, if I was to date or marry an American woman of an appropriate age..."

"And what age would you consider appropriate?" I asked trying to hide the fact that his story had just begun and I was, indeed, already offended.

"Well, I can't date a 22 year old - I wouldn't be able to relate to her on any level..."

"Except one," Robby said with a grin. I elbowed him in secret while Mike continued his story.

"Okay, my point is that all the girls between the ages of 35 and 45 are either married, or have more baggage than I am willing to put up with. Like kids, ex-husbands, you know. Or, finding a single 35-45 year-old and actually going out on a date with her is more like going to a job interview. What do you do, what kind of car do you drive? Why haven't you ever been married? And I’m like, hey, why haven't you ever been married, honey?!?"

By this point, I was seething. Did it ever occur to him that a single girl at 35 or 45 was doing the exact same thing he’d been doing for the last 20 years? Establishing careers, making money, living their dream? Maybe if he hadn’t been so far up his own ass he might’ve realized that he could actually relate to one of those girls on more that one very important level.

We got to the crossroads where our sleepy street turned into chaos. We stopped and huddled together before we took the plunge so he could finish his story.

"It is just easier for me to have a girl, and to know - point blank - that she wants me first, because I am white. And second, because I am rich. No bullshit and no false pretense of love."

Wow.

Mike led the way down the busy street but after one block we took a right turn onto an even busier street.

He held up his hands and said, “Now this, my American friends, is Bangla Road…shall we?” He strolled ahead of us which gave us a quick moment to converse.

Robby looked at me and smiled. I looked at him and frowned. “Come on, Honey, it’ll be fun. This guy knows the ropes.”

“Yeah, but he’s a total jackass.”

“So what? It’ll be an adventure.”

“I’m sure it will be,” I said under my breath. He squeezed my hand, kissed my forehead and we ran to catch up with Mike, the Ugly American, our unlikely host for the evening.

I popped into another convenience store, and bought three more beers. As I distributed them, Mike continued with a story he’d been telling Rob. “So I keep my current girlfriend in my apartment, and it’s a win-win, ya know? When I’m at home in Hawaii, or traveling, I have someone to look after it. She gets a free place to stay…plus a sense of security…even if it is a false sense of security.”

I chugged some beer down and tried my best not to choke on it.

“Whaddya mean, false sense of security?” Rob asked.

“Well, again, Jennifer, I don’t want to offend, but my current girlfriend is kind of old.”

“How old could she be? 30?” I asked.

“Not quite. She’s 27, but that’s old for a Thai girl.”

“Old? How do you figure?”

“Well, she was a bar girl from the time she was 16 until she was 25…and it’s a fast life.”

As I tried to translate what he was trying to tell me in terms I could understand, Robby repeated his question, “What did you mean when you said, ‘false sense of security?’”

“What I meant was I’m never going to marry this girl. I just…I’ve been traveling so much recently; the current situation is working for now.”

"Here, I'll show you." He pointed into what looked like a food court with his empty hand and took a quick sip of beer. “Each one of these storefronts actually has 10 or so bars within them…see look.”

We looked into one of the alcoves. It was still early so most activity was happening in the street, as opposed to the bars. There appeared to be about 10 stalls each with a different sign and gimmick. Some had stripper poles going down the middle of the bar, some had girls dressed in lingerie while another had girls seductively hula hooping while blowing bubbles with their chewing gum.

“Basically what happens is… you sit down and a bar girl will join you. You buy her a drink for each drink that you have…usually they drink shots of this god awful blue liqueur. Your drink will run about $2.50, but hers will run about $5.00. She gets half the price of her drink…so, the more she drinks, the more money she makes.” He turned and looked at me then added, “Now do you understand why these girls are old at 27…lots of hard drinking six nights a week…You up for it?”

“Sure,” Rob said. We walked in and the girls went to work, each one trying to coax us into their mini world with drink specials.

“How do we choose?” Rob asked.

“I don’t know….what’s your fancy?” Mike said.

Robby looked at me and smiled. “Whaddya think, Honey?”

“Personally, I don’t think it really matters, so let’s just take a seat. I’m feeling a little exposed.” I looked around and noticed every eye lined in glitter was staring at us with big Bambi eyes. I sat down on the closest bar stool I could find and the men followed my lead.

The bar I had inadvertently chosen was called The Black Orchid and the girls were dressed in red plaid skirts with pressed white shirts unbuttoned to varying degrees.

Ah, the creepy school-girl fantasy knows no boundary.

There were a couple of stripper poles with girls upside down and twisted around them. Within seconds of sitting down a beautiful, young girl with flawless mocha-colored skin and long black hair hopped off of her pole and greeted us with a shy smile.

I took the lead and ordered the first round of drinks. Three Singhas and one mystery shot for our hostess.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Now we play games,” Mike replied. He had a quick chat with our girl and while we chatted, she set up a game of Jenga. He explained to us that Jenga was the only chance we had of winning. The girls were way too good at Connect Four.

“Now, like I said, the girl gets half of what her drink costs, but the real coup for her is to go home with as many guys as she can in a night.”

“You mean these girls are prostitutes?” My voice raised an octave.

“Well, yeah…if you want to put a label on it…each time she goes home with a guy she gets about $5. Jen, this is why all those girls are dressed up for nothing. They’re not as good looking and they cost a lot more.”

“Well…what do you mean as many guys as she can?” Rob asked.

“I mean, she’ll leave for an hour, come back and start all over again with someone else,” Mike said.

“Oh, so if you’re gonna get busy with a bar girl it’s best to do it early in the night,” Robby said.

“That’s disgusting!” I said.

“But true,” Mike laughed.

“Shit!” Robby said. He’d knocked over the tower of wooden blocks.

So this is Phuket? Drinking beer and playing Jenga with hookers?

Robby pouted, “This sucks. If we're gonna stay here, we’ve gotta make this a little more interesting.”

“What, like a bet?” I asked.

“Exactly,” Robby said.

“I’m all for making things more interesting…what’s the bet?” Mike asked.

“Loser has to…” Robby looked around; one of the girls- who was hanging upside down - waved at him. “The loser has to do a pole dance.”

“Fine,” I said. I knew Robby thought it would be me on that pole, but there was no way in hell I was gonna lose.

“Awesome…I’m in,” Mike said. He smiled and ordered our girl to bring another round of drinks.

Upon her return, we put our game faces on and as luck would have it, Robby went down in flames again. The highlight of our big night on the town was my husband doing a pole dance with several drunken hookers by his side.

Dodged that bullet.