China Reflection

Recently, I have joined a weekly writer’s workshop in Beijing.  It meets on Monday evenings at 7:30 at a bookstore called “The Bookworm.”  The Bookworm is a little piece of Greenwich Village in Beijing.  It’s the kind of place where the scholarly and cerebral hipster crowd go to relax, discuss literature, read, fool around on their laptops, all while sipping their apperatifs or beers, and eating smoked salmon (a dish that I’ve also had the pleasure to enjoy on one occasion).  Each time I go there I have the distinct feeling that I am not in Beijing anymore.  I know that this shop is indeed well within the city limits, but there’s something about the atmosphere in the store that makes me feel…transported.  For one thing, most of the people in the Bookworm are not Chinese.  The Bookworm lies just outside the heart of Sanlitun^W, one of Beijing’s most thriving night scene’s and bar streets.  Most of the clientele who go to these bars are foreigners.  Perhaps before a night of drinking and destroying brain cells, people come to the Bookworm to activate their minds for a few hours.  The set up of the bookstore itself seems to imitate bookstores that I know and love in the West as well, combining the coffee shop/bookshop feel in a harmonious match.  Most of the books are in English, and the walls are covered in dusty old volumes filled with secrets and surprises for anyone who happens to be standing or sitting in one of the Bookworm’s many cosy corners.  There are many books on China on display, some of which must surely be banned.  Censors don’t seem to apply here, in this other dimension.  Every time I go to this shop, there seem to be many pockets of events happening all at the same time.  There might be a guest speaker in one room reading passages from a recently published novel.  In the room next to where the drink bar is, there is a trivia contest every Monday that starts at the same time as the writer’s workshop.  Then there are smaller groups of friends gathered together in different pockets, perhaps discussing a book that they are reading, some current event, a work project, etc.  The place is an active beehive; something is always going on.

I have been taking examples of my blogs to share with the writer’s workshop participants.  I realize that I want and need more feedback from the articles I write.  Plus, I enjoy hearing the reactions after they read my writing.  During an ideal workshop there will be 5 or 6 people who join.  Everyone will bring something they have written recently (blogs, short stories, plays, poems, memoirs, non-fiction, fiction, science fiction, fantasy, etc).  They’ll bring copies so that everyone can read a copy simultaneously.  After everyone is finished reading,  we’ll just talk about what we wrote, all the while pretending that the author is not in the room.  We can say that we hate it, we love it, etc.  It doesn’t matter.  Just by pretending that the author is not there, it frees us up to say what we want about the piece.  It’s quite liberating and useful both as a reader and a writer.

Collapsible World

On this night at the writer’s workshop the number of participants is very few, only 4.  We sit on top of the Bookworm’s terrace, outside under the night sky, bathed in the glow of a flourescent sign next door that reads, “Banana Leaf.”  Except for us, the roof is deserted.  The terrace has tables and chairs located in clusters for customers to sit on and enjoy the breeze and hum of the Bookworm’s roof generators. 

Two of the people who join the workshop I’m already familiar with.  They are both from the U.S.  One is a 26 year old guy from Washington D.C. named Robbie.  He is tall and handsome with a square jaw that reminds me of a combination between John Lithgow and basements in a 1980s movie.  He usually has a great five o’clock shadow, but on this night he’s clean-shaven.  On past evenings I’ve read a 10 minute play that he wrote, poems, a one paragraph view of an apocalyptic future, and an e-mail from his first week in China.  The other familiar guy is another American from Southern California (I think), named Ben.  He’s blonde and bookish, recently married to his wife from Tianjin^W.  He has a nice way with words and never swears.  The previous week I read a wonderful article he wrote about Beihai Park^W for an expatriate magazine published in Tianjin.  The magazine assigned him to search for “the perfect picnic spot in Beijing,” and he chose this park (a good choice).  The other member of the group tonight is a 20 something year old American from Georgia named Tara.  She has black hair, a pierced lip, a twinkle in her eye, and a mug of Carlsberg in her hand.  She is just in Beijing for the May 1st holiday, visiting from Baoding^W one of my favorite of Beijing’s neighboring cities, and the home of Andy Du.

Tonight three of the four of us bring something to read and share with the group.  Robbie brings a 20 page short story that he is hoping to get published, Ben brings a collection of poems, and I bring along the blog, “Spiral into Madness” that I posted earlier this year on this site.  We decide to start with the longest reading first, and Robbie passes out his 20 page story.  I will be the second one to share, and Ben will be the third.

After Robbie passes out his 20 page story, we all gradually settle into it for the next half an hour.  Robbie pulls out a tremendously thick book and thumbs through its pages.  While we read, another couple comes up on the rooftop to enjoy the breeze, the hum of the generators, and the light of the Banana Leaf.  Before the meeting on the taxi ride over, Ben already read through page 13.  A waiter comes up to the rooftop terrace and asks if we want anything.  My pear juice is almost done, but I don’t want to pay for another.  Ben orders a shrimp stew, and Tara orders another beer, this time a Yanjing.  As we continue to read, another member of the group walks up to the rooftop and joins in late.  I can’t remember her name for the life of me.  She is a beautiful Chinese girl who almost always comes dressed in black.  Her English is wondeful with only the slightest hint of an accent.  She takes the pages that I have already read and begins reading the story.  10 minutes pass and the waiter arrives again, this time bringing Ben’s stew.  The smell draws me in and distracts me from my reading.  Ben finishes first.  He and Robbie have some smalltalk in the background.  I try to concentrate on the story.  It’s about a group of college students who meet up for one last hurrah in Amsterdam, the city of legalized sin.  Three of the four end up walking through the Red Light district, buying some hallucinogenic mushrooms, and then taking a “trip” together.  The part of the story where they take the trip is well written, sped up with intentional train of consciousness, and spelling/grammatical errors.  At the end of the story, though, I’m a little confused as to what it’s all about.  Suddenly, I hear footsteps walking up the stairs and see a familiar, plump figure of a female emerge.

“Heeeeeey guysssss!,” I do a double take and rub my eyes to make sure they are correctly seeing who is standing in front of me.  My world collapses onto itself as my eyes confirm that it is indeed Lena who stands in front of me.  Lena, one of the characters of my life that I will present to the group in the blog that I bring with me tonight, “Spiral into Madness.” 

Escape

I gawk at Lena and think to myself:  How can she be here?  My God!  Of all the people…God!  How can she be here?  How can she be here?  I glance over to the bag on my left and notice that it is open, revealing the copies of the blog, “Spiral into Madness,” that I had planned to give to the group on this night.  There’s no way I can let them read this now.

“How many times have you come here?” Lena asks as she plops herself down in a chair to my left and stares at me in astonishment.  She must be thinking, what a coincidence!  Neither of us expected to see the other here tonight.  But here we are.

“Oh, this is about my fourth time, I think?” I say as casually as I can.  My eyes dart over to the bag again.  The zipper seems to be open even wider than before.  I have a terrible image in my mind of Lena reaching into my bag and pulling out my blog, discovering that it is about her!  She talks with Ben and Tara as they discuss the mushroom trip in Robbie’s story and the Amsterdam streets that he mentions in its text.  I stretch my arms out and reach out for my bag, picking it up and putting it down on the other side of my chair, away from Lena.  I zip it up, maybe too quickly.  My actions would seem awkward and deliberate if they had been watching.  I can feel the conversation winding its way to a close, and I know it’s only a matter of time before they ask to see my writing.  Like a spirit possessed, I rise from my chair abruptly and go downstairs to the toilet. 

Rushing into the restroom, I immediately pull out my mobile phone and call the only person I can think to call:  Simon from Switzerland.  The phone rings as I pace back and forth in the empty toilet.

“Hello? Jeffrey?” Simon answers.

“Simon, you’ve gotta’ help me.  I’m at this writer’s workshop that I told you about, and I brought a blog with me for them to read.”  My voice cracks like a middle-schooler.

“Uh huh? So?” he remains calm.

“Well, the blog I wrote is about the time I entered that model contest where I had to dress up as the Joker.  Anyway, one of the people in this blog is here, tonight?  Here at the writer’s workshop?”

Simon laughs.  “What?  And they are reading it now?”

“No,” I say, rubbing my head.  “I escaped to the toilet.  They’re waiting for me up on the rooftop.”  I suddenly realize that my bag is sitting alone by itself outside, directly next to Lena.  My god.  What if they can’t think of anything to say and they reach into my bag and take out my writing?

“It can’t be that bad,” Simon says.

“Simon.  I only said three things about Lena in this blog.  Three things.  I said that she was overweight, that she looked pregnant, and that I didn’t know whether she was employed or not?  Not very complimentary.” 

I visualize Lena and the four others upstairs reading the blog with her in it.  Lena reads over her name in the blog and looks down at her belly, feeling anger at me for making her lose face in front of the others.  She chooses not to say anything out loud about the article to the others, hoping that they’ll just think the name “Lena” is coincidental.  Her eyes kill me and turn me into a shriveled worm.  The group steps on my body and throws me off the roof.

Simon cuts off my nightmare.  “Just tell them that you have something to do.  Say your boss called you.  It’s ok.”  He’s laughing the whole time.  My rescuer.  My hero.

After hanging up, I rush upstairs in a huff.  They are still sitting around the table discussing something or other.  I can’t tell.  My forehead sweats the sweat of a guilty many caught with blood on his hands.  I accidently kick one of the chairs and it scrapes along the surface of the roof.  Everyone looks up at me. 

“Uh.  I can’t believe this.  My boss called me.  I’ve gotta’ go.  He needs some help in the office.  Can’t believe he called me now,” I say.  Please believe me. Please believe me.  Don’t ask any questions.

Robbie looks at me with a kind of “duh” expression on his face.  He points his finger at my bag.

“Story?  Uh. Can you leave the story?  We don’t have anything to re…”

“Next time,” I say, emphatically cutting Robbie off.  “Bye.  Sorry.”

I walk backwards a little bit and then turn around at a swift pace.  They are smirking with question marks on their faces.  Do they know?  Do they know?!

I dribble-drabble down the steps of the Bookworm and practically run towards the metro station.  What if they are looking?  I have to pretend like I’m in a rush to the office.  I know that they are not looking.  They’ve probably already started reading Ben’s poems by now.  I swipe my card in the metro station and walk down the stairs.  As I reach the platform, I can’t stop myself from laughing out loud, shaking my head.  I love my life.  I love my life, I think.  How do these things happen?   How can stories from two different segments of my life in this huge city with millions of people collapse on one another like tonight?  It’s not possible that things like this really happen.  Life is not supposed to happen like this, written like a movie.  Smiling a broad smile to myself, loving every jittery moment of the coincidences and stories that take place in my collapsible world, the metro arrives and swoops me off of my feet towards my home into my bed, letting today’s adventures have their rest until they collide with the world of tomorrow.

“Why do you want to go to Baoding?  There’s nothing to see there.”

Exactly.  That’s exactly what I want to hear.  This is the type of remark that draws me to a place when I want to travel somewhere for a day trip or a weekend and escape Beijing’s hustle and bustle.  There’s nothing there…I find this impossible to believe.  Nothing.  That would really be quite a feat in this country.  Often in China when I go to a place where, according to other Chinese, there is nothing, I find I enjoy my time as much or even more than when I go to a place with something.  I don’t need to see temples, historical sites, or places of astounding beauty in order to have a good time.  Those things help, of course, but they are often accompanied by tourist traps and overrun with people.  I just need to go to a place I have never been before so that I can explore.  I have been to many nothing places and Nowheresvilles in China, and I have fond memories of them all, along with the people I met there:

I have eaten with a school teacher who bore a striking resemblence to Elvis in a small town called Gao An.

I have traveled on a bus with a live duck in my lap going from Zhang Shu to Ji An.

I have stayed in a former student’s home in the small village of Lu Tian.  Her mother awoke in the morning to cut wood for the fire that she used to cook our breakfast.

I have visited the tree that the villagers in Bo Ai, Henan, consider to be a sort of God protector of their community.

I have tasted the freshly picked oranges and dried meat of Ganzhou while talking with a woman 100 years of age in the small hamlet of Lingtan.

I have walked the 90 odd kilometer stretch of road between Yichun and Yifeng and lived to tell the tale.

I have viewed the fossils in Changzhou’s Dinosaur Park.

All these things I have done.  None of these abovementioned places are in any guidebook, or if they are, they are probably not mentioned as places to spend one’s time.  The thing I like about places like these–the Yifengs, the Bo Ais, the Ganzhous–is the fact that they are all Pandora’s boxes.  I never know what I’m going to get.  I usually cannot find any literature or information about these places on the internet, so everything that comes to me when I visit is unexpected, and the feeling of discovery and surprise never dies.  Still, it perplexes Chinese when they hear about my travel plans to go to these small towns.  It would be like a Chinese tourist choosing to visit Wild Rose, North Dakota instead of Chicago on their visit to the U.S.

Has Been

I have to say that I cheated a little bit before visiting Baoding.  In my spare time before the trip, I asked friends and strangers about the city.  What is there to see there?  What can I do?  Are there any specialties there?  Additionally, I looked up some information on Baoding in my spare time to see if I could find anything.  Despite my Chinese friends saying  there was nothing to see there, I actually found quite a bit of information.   I basically learned that Baoding’s glory days are in the past, mostly back in the Ming and Qing Dynasties^W.  It was ravaged by the Mongols in the 13th century and occupied by invading Japanese forces during WWII.  As for its specialties, I was told repeatedly that the Baoding “donkey buscuits” were the best.  As far as historical sites went, the only one that really interested me was the Lotus Garden and Academy, suggested by my friend Lao Zhang.  Without much else to go on, I prepared to set out on my Baoding adventure with my good friend and fellow explorer from Switzerland, Simon (now a reoccuring character on our youtube channel).  This was going to be a wonderful trip.  I knew it was going to be a wonderful trip because the expectations were so low.  Baoding couldn’t be as bad as all of my Chinese friends had said it would be, could it?  Regardless of the warnings from my friends (even some who were from Baoding told me to “be careful” of thieves) Simon and I would take the plunge into the abyss together.  As the two of us left for the city of days gone by, my sixth sense told me that not something, but someone, would be waiting for us at the heart of Baoding.  Sure enough, someone was waiting for us.  But who….?

Bank Robber

We arrive in Baoding a bit later than originally planned.  This is due to the fact that the bus we board from Beijing only takes us around the periphery of the city, and not actually through the city itself.  I should mention that our tickets clearly read, “Baoding,” so the bus should stop in Baoding, but this isn’t the case.  Apparently, the bus station that we leave from in Beijing still sells the tickets to Baoding even if none of the buses actually go to Baoding City.  The young man (whom I will call “Bank Robber” because of the way he intimidates those passengers who for some reason at first refuse to pay the fare) tells us that he will “arrange something” for us after we pass the city so that we can get a bus going the opposite direction back into the city.  I’m not sure what he will arrange, but apparently the ride that should only take a little over an hour ends up taking more than two hours.  Bank Robber chews his gum, speaks politely and quickly to us, and then yells at the other passengers who try to get out of purchasing a ticket.  He takes his job seriously and is all business.  I have no gripe with Bank Robber, and I never will.  After about half an hour of passing Baoding’s city limits, he tells us to prepare our bags so that we can get off the bus.  There is no station in site.  We’re on some country road surrounded by flat fields full of potatoes.  From time to time we pass people selling a kind of buscuit snack made in portable chimneys that I have never seen before.  As we exit the bus, we give Bank Robber another 5RMB for the next bus we will take–the bus that is speeding along in the other direction on the same road.  I have had to use the restroom for the past 40 minutes, but it’s apparent that there will be no time for me to relieve myself during the time it takes to switch buses.  Bank Robber says something to the 2nd bus driver who stares at me with a queer expression on his face.  The switch happens so quickly.  The pressure builds between my legs.  No relief is in sight.  I have no time to thank Bank Robber.  We’ll probably never meet again.   He is not the one.  But who….?

Chucky

After reaching Baoding’s city center, it’s apparent that we are a world away from Beijing.  I can feel the stares from locals as they turn their heads to see the two foreigners walking the backstreets of their city.  As it nears lunchtime, we decide to try the famous Baoding donkey buscuits from a local street vendor.  She chops up the meat for us and places it inside the buns.  The meat itself seems to be combined with a sort of gellatinous fat that adds to the texture and taste.  I bite into my buscuite, and a little squirt of grease dribbles out onto the ground, barely missing my only pair of pants that I brought along for the journey.  Not bad at all. Besides the increased stares and “hellos,” we notice there are a remarkable number of street vendors and places to buy snack food in random locations.  In Beijing there are also street vendors, but Baoding has a noticeably higher concentration of vendors in a smaller area, making me think that this aspect of intangible culture is slowly disappearing in the country’s capital, while it still thrives in cities like Baoding.  Simon and I decide to try as much of the new street food as possible.  After walking past Baoding’s major Buddhist temple we turn left on one of the city’s main streets.  This area seems to be the center of the city.  There is the temple, a small drum tower, the Lotus Garden, the former seat of government for Zhili^W (now Hebei Province), and the Catholic Church.  Simon and I decide to first ignore these sites and walk down another little street filled with snack foods.  On the way, we pass two Chinese selling a kind of sweet cake typical of Southern China.  Since we’ve never tried before, we decide to give it a shot.  As it turns out, these two Chinese are deaf and dumb, so we have to communicate through writing.  As we write our messages back and forth, a crowd gathers to see watch the spectacle.  Both of the street vendors are extrmely polite and very patient, ignoring the gathering crowd, paying full attention to Simon and myself.  It’s as if we’re in a silent collage amidst of a whirlwind of of chaos.  No one in the crowd speaks; everyone watches as Simon writes his next word on a scrap piece of paper.

We cross the road and head towards a smaller side street where steam rises from the pots and pans filled with Baoding delights.  As we walk towards the end of the street, we notice a strange site…there is a middle-aged Westerner getting up from his chair walking towards his bicycle.  With thinning hair that probably used to be blonde, he comes over to greet us with a firm handshake.  I can’t remember his name for the life of me, but I’ll just call him, “Chucky,” because it seems to fit him.  He tells us about Baoding, noting that, “it has its merits.”  He prefers Baoding to the hectic pace of life that comes with living in a place like Beijing.  He tells us about Baoding’s “merits” :  the Church, the park, the old seat of government, the donkey meat.  Afterwards he mentions a good hotel that’s not too expensive and recommends it as a place to stay.  Chucky is from Tennessee and has been in Baoding for the past couple of years teaching in a local college.  He gives me the feeling that he’s comfortable in his role here.  Chucky knows these streets, this is his town, he walks the Earth with the confidence that a guy might have on a lazy Sunday morning heading to his favorite coffee shop on the corner.  He looks at his watch.  There are things to do and appointments to keep.  Chucky is a friendly enough guy.  As he meanders off in down the street on his bicycle, I know that he is not the one.  But who…?

Andy Du

After our encounter with Chucky, Simon and I decide to take a look at the Catholic church in the city’s center.  It’s a small grey structure with an English sign in front of it that is falling apart.  Surrounded by commerce, street vendors, shoe stores, and passersby, it’s hard to imagine that this church gets much of a congregation.  We enter the gates and notice a statue of Petrus.  As we read the introduction and stand outside the doorway to the church, I can feel a pair of eyes observing me. A smiling young man on my left observes us with anticipation.  Hardly able to contain himself with joy at the sight of two foreigners coming to visit his beloved Baoding, the young man introduces himself to us only as “Andy Du.”  He bursts forth a kind of radiance and innocence;  everything that comes our way from Andy Du is a ray of sunshine.  Giggling with delight as a child would upon opening up a much anticipated Christmas gift, I know that Andy Du is the one.  We follow him inside the church.  He is beside himself with joy.  As we walk to the front of the Church and observe the catholic symbolism one can find in any catholic church in the world, Andy Du asks us to take a couple of photos with him and his wife, Nana, at the front of the church.  Andy Du and his wife both volunteer at the Catholic church in their spare time.  His main business is as a wedding coordinator and planner in Baoding City.  He organizes the events and activities that take place before and after the weddings.  In order to show us a sample of his work, he pulls out his camera and shows us some photos of the day before’s wedding events.  There are many pictures of a Chinese man dressed as Charlie Chaplin, performing physical comedy in front of a wedding party.  Every time Andy Du sees a picture of Charlie, he cannot contain himself.  Giggles of delight bubble up from within, and he points with one finger at the camera’s screen and says, “Charlie,” repeatedly.  Each time he sees Charlie on his camera screen, it’s as if he is seeing the performance again for the first time.

After some minutes, Andy Du offers to introduce us to the head priest at the church.  He runs to the church’s offices to search for the priest.  After a couple of minutes, he returns, giggling like a victorious schoolboy once more.  Accompanying him is the head priest, smiling the gentle smile that all priests should.  I ask him about the church’s congregation, and if there is a large audience when he preaches.  He says that the number of the congregation has been steadily increasing.  He attributes this increase to the current state of society. 

“People have nothing to turn to.  They have a whole in their soul.  They are lonely and they need something to give them strength.”  Andy Du listens intently, nodding his head.  Charlie Chaplin has left the room.

After the priest leaves, Andy Du has the brilliant idea to let us stay in his home for the evening.  Simon and I exchange glances.  We are not sure what we’re getting into.  If I had come to Baoding alone, I would immediately agree; however, I have to keep Simon in mind.  I don’t know if he would like a homestay or not.  Andy Du is insistent.

“You must stay in my home.  It is my duty.  There’s no question about it.”

After having a wordless conversation of eye contact with Simon, we agree to stay with Andy Du, the savior of Baoding.  We tell Andy Du that we’ll return to the church in the evening after seeing some of the other nearby sites, most notably the Lotus Garden.  We shake hands and leave our catholic sanctuary.  Andy Du is again giggling, channeling the spirit of Charlie Chaplin once more.  

The Last Supper

After Simon and I do our siteseeing, we return to the catholic church to meet with Andy Du.  He is behind the church in the parking lot, playing basketball with about 6 to 7 youngsters, possibly slowly steering them towards the path of the Lord?  He invites Simon and myself to jump in for a pick-up game.  Simon and I are on opposite teams so as to even out the average height.  As with most basketball matches that I have participated in during my time in China, this basketball match doesn’t seem to have any rules.  Traveling and double dribbling do not apply, there is no “make it, take it,” and one does not have to dribble out behind the 3 point line if the other team’s ball hits the rim.  Still, it’s fun, and we manage to work up an appetite, sweating with Andy Du and the choirboys.    We work up an appetite.

Originally, Andy Du planned to cook dinner with Nana and have us eat traditional Baoding specialities in his home.  However, a teacher at the Catholic church had to cancel his spirituality class for the evening, and Andy Du will fill in as a substitute.  Because of this fact, we Andy Du tells us that we will not be staying at his house for the evening; instead, he books us a room in the Catholic church’s dormitories.  To Simon and myself, staying in a Catholic church for the evening is just as much an adventure as it is to stay in someone’s house.  Andy Du looks at his watch and tells us that we need to get going to the restaurant. 

According to Andy Du, we will be eating in Baoding’s “oldest” and most traditional restaurant.  There to greet us at the door are three young girls with Pippy Longstocking hairstyles, wearing wallflower costumes.  Andy Du introduces us to the restaurant’s owner who is wearing an earpiece and microphone.  He shakes our hands with a gigantic smile, puts one arm around my shoulder, and leads us to a row of small boats that are resting in a shallow moat towards the back wall.  We board one of the boats.  This is where we will dine for the evening.  The owner is a busy man, and he wishes us a pleasant meal.  Andy Du proceeds to order Baoding beer, a kind of berry juice, tea, and 7 dishes for the three of us to split:   fish cupcakes (local specialty), jellied donkey meat, pork in a spicy broth, a salad, an egglplant dish, carmelized taro, and another dish of donkey meat along with small buscuits.  He orders by far too much food for us to share.  Simon excuses himself to go to the restroom and discreetly pays the bill; however, Andy Du has already made an agreement with the owner of the restaurant not to accept our money.  All of our attempts to pay for the bill prove futile.  His overwhelming  hospitablity suffocates any attempts we make.

After dinner, Simon and I go on a walk while Andy Du heads to his spirituality class that he must substitute for in the evening.  The two of us join the tail end of the class, hoping that we can sneak in without being noticed.  However, in the Catholic church in Baoding, it’s impossibly to be anonymous; we are greeted by a standing ovation.  I’m suprised to see a roomful of about 15 to 20 people of all ages gathered together listening to this youthful 25 year old giving advice about how to find “peace, calm, and tranquility” in this day and age.

“We all must face hardships and pain.  Sometimes it seems impossible to find light.  My hope is that we can all search for some type of happiness in this lifetime; search for it and find it.  Each one of us needs it, and each one of us can support one another.”

Earlier in the evening at dinnertime, Andy Du told both Simon and myself about his own soul searching.  According to his own self description, he was a “bad egg,” someone who would get into fights with anyone, turning to violence for no reason–a kind of modern day rebel without a cause.  He rolled up his sleeve and showed us multiple cigarette burns that he had given to himself when he was seventeen.  Slowly, he through the guidance of the then residing head priest (who currently lives in Germany), he found his path and calling, completely changing his lifestyle to become the exuberant young man Simon and I were lucky enough to bump into.

The roomful of followers and lost souls bow their heads together in unison as Andy Du says his prayer with his eyes shut.  It’s easy to see from the look of concentration on his face that he means every word that he says.  It seems to me that the words he speaks come from a place deep inside, a place that he has cultured with time, grace, and patience.  I glance at my surroundings.  There is the sign of the cross at the front of the room.  We are surrounded by Catholic symbolism, transcribed with Chinese characters.  The room is a world unto itself.  Young and old are gathered together, some holding hands, others clasping their hands together infront of them.  All of them are looking for some sort of answer from this young man, Andy Du.  It amazes me that so many in such a small room look to him.  He might not even be half the age of some of his audience members.  Once the prayer is finished, a roomful of eyes appears where before there were none.  Sound returns to the room, and I’m drawn to the face of a young girl, endearing and full of life.  She smiles the entire time I talk with her–a smile of innocence and curiousity.

Andy Du takes us to the main office of the church where we have a rest before retiring to our dormitory.  In the office, there is a large replica of  “The Last Supper” on the wall.  Underneath the replica a tuba rests.  The temptation to hear its voice too much to bear, I ask Andy Du to play me a little tune.  After a bit of friendly coaxing he picks it up and giggles to himself that same giddy giggle that Charlie Chaplin knows oh so well.  He picks up his  instrument.  Its golden sheen reflects the flourescent lights above, giving it a heavenly glow.  The scene is set:  Andy Du, the native Baodinger wedding coordinator is playing Beethoven’s 9th on a tuba while standing beneath “The Last Supper.”  It’s only about 15 seconds long, but as I see the soul of Baoding standing there in all of Jesus’ last hours of postprandial glory, I know with 100 percent certainty how to appropriately answer the queston, “why did you go to Baoding?”  I came to Baoding not because there was something to see; rather, I came to Baoding because there was someone to see, someone to meet, someone to talk with, someone to listen to.  Thank you for giving me an answer Andy Du, thank you for your time, and thank you for giving Baoding a face to remember.  Until we meet again, Andy Du…until we meet again…