can't buy a thrill, part 3: sand

Continued from my non-dates part 2: flute. This one's ever-so-slightly tmi.

...

"You came back."

Clouds gathered above the setting sun, grey and gold on the horizon. He held the flute up to his mouth; a thin melody floated over the riverside. I lay back on the warm stone beside him.

"Resting?" he asked.

"Yes." In the evening light, I couldn't tell if his face was as warm as mine.

He lay down and turned to look at me. Shadows danced in his eyes. I took his hand; held his crooked fingers, broken in several places, rough palms. He pulled me towards him. Our lips touched.

Beyond his shoulders, the river's muddy water rolled unstoppably south.

He led me to a crook between the rocks, hidden from fishermen and mah jong players; lay his jacket down on the gravel and sand. His hand gently brushed my cheek. He kissed my neck. Too young, too poor, too many things we didn't know about each other. I tried not to think.

His hair smelled like incense. His skin was dark against mine. We were new and ancient all at once.

Outside, it started to rain.

From our hiding place we could see the mountainside opposite. He pointed to three figures weaving their way through the trees; a group of women carrying bamboo baskets.

"Do you think they saw us?"

He shook his head. "We'd better get dressed."

There was sand everywhere. In our hands, in our hair, in the folds of our clothes.

my parents suck

According to a former classmate of mine, James Ketchell (or "James Ketchup" as he was known in primary school), the top five blog topics are...

1. George W. Bush.
2. "I've no inspiration" blog post.
3. Paris Hilton.
4. The Iraq War.
5. Google.

Where does he find such highbrow blogs? I reckon it's more like:

1. My parents suck.
2. I just got dumped.
3. That Britney Spears sure is crazy!
4. I can't think of a good ending for the slash fiction story I'm writing about Dr Who and Harry Potter!!
5. Paris Hilton.

Jimmy reviews shows, records and quotes Bob Dylan at He Not Busy Being Born is Busy Dying.

can't buy a thrill, part 2: flute

Part 2 in my series of non-dates around the globe.

...

He stood on a rock by the riverbank, red shirt billowing like a flag. In the glare of the late afternoon sun I could see he was playing a flute, but the crashing waters drowned out the sound.

My friends would be busy for the next half hour at least with their money game of mah jong. I decided to go listen to the music, and started making my way down through the boulders. As I watched him play, he turned around and saw me. I smiled and waved. He waved back and sat down with his legs crossed. Once more, he struck up a tune. This time I could hear it weaving in and out of the river's roar; a high melody which somehow sounded both happy and sad.

I jumped from rock to rock, shoes in hand; closer and closer. Finally I reached his place by the river. Hesitantly, I placed my foot onto the hard grey surface and sat just below him on the rock. He was lost in the music; I could almost touch him. When the melody ended, he opened his eyes.

"I saw you playing from over there but the river was too loud, so I came closer to hear. I hope you don't mind."

He rested the flute on his lap and smiled at me. "Where are you from?"

"I'm French."

"French." He paused and savored the word; rolled it over on his tongue. "Are you travelling here?"

"I'm doing research." I tried to explain anthropology in a few words. "Sorry; my Chinese isn't very good."

"That's okay." He smiled again and cocked his head to one side like a small child. "When I was back home I met a French guy who couldn't speak Chinese, and I couldn't speak English. But we made friends anyway. We had a great time."

I laughed with him. "What were you playing just now?"

He looked troubled. "It was nothing. Just something we used to play back in the village when we took the cows out to pasture."

"It was lovely."

I smiled and pointed to my black pumps. "I saw you playing and wanted to hear, but your music was so pretty I got distracted and fell into the water. See, my shoes got soaked and I had to take them off."

He touched my wet feet, gently. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's not your fault!" I laughed again. "I wasn't careful enough.

"Will you teach me how to play the flute?"

He handed it to me and arranged my hands on the stem. The knots in the bamboo felt rough under my fingers. His arm rested on my knee. We both blushed.

"Start with something simple."

I placed my lips carefully and blew. No sound.

Once more. This time a whistling squeal came out.

"Oh, how awful! Is it terrible to listen to?"

His eyes crinkled up in a friendly grin. "Don't worry. When I started I couldn't play either. It takes a while. Just keep trying."

Suddenly I heard a shout. One of my dinner companions, the secretary of a local official, stood back by the trees, crying out my Chinese name.

"I called your mobile phone several times! Dinner is ready! Come eat!"

"Sorry, I'm coming!"

I turned to the boy and took his hand. "Will you keep teaching me the flute? When will I see you again?"

He squeezed my hand. "Tomorrow, five o'clock?"

"I'll meet you here."

I stepped away from him and the river, over the rocks.

to be continued

can't buy a thrill, part 1: jazz

Bright and early tomorrow morning I'm off to explore the northern reaches of the prefecture, meaning I'm unlikely to have internet access for the next week or so. In the meantime I thought I'd keep you entertained with a few flashbacks to non-dates I've had across the planet, starting with an evening of jazz.

...

If the Snug bar were a man, it would smoke cigars and wear a handlebar moustache. It projects the manly aura of a Fidel Castro or perhaps Gina Gershon in Bound. Through the glass panes of the front door I could see Crooner's shirt and tie illuminated by yellow lamplight. He was leaning over the electric piano in deep consultation with his accompanist. As I walked in, the band struck up a classic number. Crooner launched into his Frank Sinatra Jr impression; the familiar grin and swagger made me smile.

Picard had come to pick me up at Fey's house in a car that smelled of breath mints and powerlifting sweat. Although I had spent less than 72 hours at Fey's, one night taking the bed and the other night the floor, Fey hadn't exactly been sorry to see me go. Writing a thesis struck her as it does many other grads, like a bad case of alcoholism, a compulsion that ravages personal relationships and addles the compass of "normal" life. I was relieved to be moving on to the predictable insanity of life with le menage Picard.

My rescuer and I wove our way to the bar. I glanced at Crooner swinging his hips in the narrow corner that served as makeshift stage. There must have been forty, fifty people crammed into the Snug's chocolate leather armchairs, most of them with an ear cocked to the strains of "Have You Met Miss Jones?" I'd seen Crooner rock an audience ten times the size; usually, the bigger the crowd the more he came alive, but that night he was a Cambridge star.

"He looks sexy. Doesn't he look sexy?"

Picard kept his thoughts to himself and ordered a non-alcoholic beer. I followed suit and we moved to the only available space, a small table between the ladies' and the gents', against the furthest wall.

"So what's it like being back? Any culture shock?" he asked.

"From China? Definitely. It's like stepping into the future."

Picard let out a gratifying chuckle and we launched into a discussion of technological priviledge, personal beliefs, and dating customs across the globe, with a sprinkling of gossip from the powerlifting club.

During the break I went to the front of the bar. While I made extended hellos, Crooner slipped away to collect a gin and tonic. I was a little disappointed that he hadn't stayed to talk. But Crooner and I had often disappointed each other in small ways. It all added up.

At that moment, he placed his warm hand on my back, just touching the shoulderblade. "So what are you going to sing during your guest spot?"

I smiled. Not a let-down after all. "Are you sure? That would be great!"

"Which number do you want to do?" Crooner handed me the Realbook, the hymnal of jazz musicians worldwide.

"What about Lover Man?"

"Perfect."

I've heard it said that the thrill of romance
Can be like a heavenly dream
I go to bed with a prayer
That you'll make love to me

The melody came of its own accord. Picard and Crooner sipped their drinks; eyes closed, I didn't see Crooner glance at me, and glance again.

"So, when are you two getting back together?" Cookie asked me later, when were back at the Picard household.

Picard shared a grin with his wife. "You should have seen the pair of them. They kept on looking at each other, and they said practically the same things! While she was singing he said, 'She's good. Isn't she good?'"

I groaned. "We broke up for a reason. But he did look damn hot."

if jesus were a gay bodybuilder...

...he might look a little something like this.

quote of the day: stupid

"Anything too stupid to be said is sung."

--Voltaire

you know you've been in china too long when...

Restaurant meals, cab rides and bottle water are daily necessities. Privacy is a luxury.

Not only do you have a Chinese name, you also have a nickname that starts with Ah-, Ya- or Xiao-.

You know that when Chinese acquaintances praise your putonghua, they're just giving you face. You also know that when they call you open-minded, it's not a compliment.

You have no trouble differentiating Korean exchange students from their Chinese counterparts. The baseball caps and plastic surgery are a dead giveaway.

You eat pickled cabbage with relish. (Groan...)

You know the man on the subway carrying that pink rhinestone-studded handbag with the Mirky Mouth [sic] design didn't graduate from the Eddie Izzard school of fashion, he's just a slave to his 70-lb spike-heeled girlfriend. You also know he doesn't have a choice: there are only 100 females for every 120 males in China. When she says "jump", he says "duo gao?"

Red is for weddings, white is for funerals and black is the colour of the pubic hair you found in your rice noodles.

You don't know what you just ate, you just know it was a body part you'd rather not think about from an animal you didn't even know existed. This applies doubly to vegetarians.

You have purchased Chinese condoms either out of necessity, or just to see if what they say is true.*

If you are a hetero white girl, you despair of your dating chances. Western men are all infatuated with their giggling, miniskirted language tutors; African men offer to impregnate you and introduce you to their five sisters, but can't even remember your name; and Chinese men are either too frightened to speak to you, or else, having seen the TV soap Foreign Babes in Beijing, assume it is your heartfelt desire to fornicate in the shade of the nearest lamppost. Korean men don't even deign to look at your fake Vuitton.

But if you're an ethnically Chinese male, it's even worse. Western women think you're a geek, Chinese girls don't throw themselves at you to "practise their English" the way they do with the tall foreign guys, and you know your mother would never approve of an African daughter-in-law unless she could trace her Fujienese descent to the sixth generation. As for a Japanese girl, your parents would prefer it if you were gay.

If you are homosexual of any description, you got sick of Destination six months ago and your entertainment now consists exclusively of internet hook-up sites and guessing which of the Supergirls prefer Maggie Cheung to Andy Lau. However, you are enjoying the whole Asian-hairless thing.

And finally...

Return ticket to Beijing: 7500 RMB.
Twenty hours of private Mandarin tutoring: 400 RMB.
That superior feeling you get knowing folks back home will never comprehend the China experience: priceless.


*It is.

quote of the day: nothing

"For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, after a second or so, nothing continued to happen."

-- Douglas Adams, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, chapter 33

rikki don't lose that number... from oxford to china in less than six handshakes

Me, my guitar and sixty pounds of luggage made the trip to Lightning Peak with minimal bumps and bruises. So what were some of the things in those sixty pounds of luggage?

- iPod + solar charger
- cocoa butter moisturizer
- bug bite lotion
- two packs of Yunnan coffee
- lifetime coffee filter made with gold (yes really. If I run out of cash I can always trade it for a donkey ride back to Kunming)
- five bars of premium Swiss chocolate
- one pair charcoal suede Birkenstocks
- porn (again... donkey ride)
- acoustic guitar
- Beatles Complete Songbook arranged for guitar

Now bear with me for a less-than-six-handshakes around-the-world trip from the Cotswolds to Lightning Peak. A few years ago, back in Oxford, I took a course on Victorian literature taught by Drs Nicholas Shrimpton and Rikki Rooksby. Dr Shrimpton went to University College with bigtime cannabis dealer Howard Marks, who used to run a luxury clothing shop as a business front and money-laundering operation (the shop's still there somewhere between the creperie and the playhouse). Dr Shrimpton once said to Marks, "The shop must be doing awfully well for you to have bought that beautiful Jaguar!" Hmm.

Having made a smooth climb up the ivory tower, Dr Shrimpton went on to co-author a book with his afore-mentioned colleague Dr Rooksby about omnisexual Victorian poet Algernon Charles Swinburne. Being a good little brown-nose I visited amazon.co.uk with a thought to purchasing said book and quoting it in my tutorial essay for the good professors. Instead the mighty amazon vomited forth another volume by Rooksby, R: Killer Metal Lead Licks ("teaches you many essential riffs used in heavy metal and hard rock!"). "How many Rikki Rooksbys can there be?" I thought to myself. Turns out they are one and the same: English professor by day, author of old skool rock guitar manuals by night (or late afternoon -- the college cafeteria only serves hot toast until 9:15). And he doesn't even need to change in a phone booth.

It is Rikki Rooksby's Beatles Complete Songbook that accompanies me now to a Chinese mountain village along with my chocolate, Birkenstocks and porn. By day, I am a church-going, non-smoking, non-drinking anthropologist studying ethnic minority culture; but the nights are my own (or late afternoons -- the rice doesn't cook itself in the morning). I like to think Rikki would be proud.