I’ve once again been summoned from my post near the main entrance of the 2009 China International Mining Exhibition.  For one month I have been preparing for this mining exhibition, held in the outskirts of Tianjin^W, the economic powerhorse one hour away from Beijing.  Prior to arriving at the exhibition I have been on loan to Mountain River Travel Service in order to be up to date on the conference.  I don’t normally work with this travel service, but my boss shared me as an “English resource” with a friend of his who is the head of the Mountain River company.  Apparently, there are mining exhibitors from all over the world attending this conference and he doesn’t trust the English abilities of his current employees enough to leave foreigners in their hands during the conference.  It is Mr. Zhang’s (the boss or Mountain River) hope that some of the participants in the conference will want to do a bit of traveling in China after the conference and inspections of mines in various areas of the country.  I have translated and researched cities famous in coal, zinc, gold, copper…cities and sites that I have never heard of before.  It’s been a month of learning and research.  He has had me write and translate a selection of itineraries for the participants.  I have visions of leading an expeditionary force of geologists blackfaced covered with soot and wearing headlamps out of the mouth of a coal mine. 

“AMERICAN TOUR GUIDE SAVES GROUP OF BRAZILIAN MINERS,” the headline will read in some future newspaper somewhere.  I’ll be a star.  The geologists will thank me.  My boss will thank me.  I’ll reach across borders and learn about other cultures while appreciating veins of raw material deep down in the bowels of the Earth at the same time.  Historic.

 When we arrive at the conference, however, it’s a different story.  My hopes and dreams are dashed almost as soon as Mr. Zhang, Pei Pei (the cute assistant…pronounced “pay pay,”) and the other tour guide named Jenny all don our matching pink shirts that we’ll wear throughout the remainder of the conference.  We look and feel out of place at the conference.  We set up a lap top computer and one stool tall enough to sit at the desk where we’ll hopefully greet hordes of perspective customers.  We take out our copies of the different itineraries and spread them nicely over the desk for the mining participants to glance over.  I have nowhere to sit, so I find a stool that is much too small and sit down next to Pei Pei while Mr. Zhang walks out to the car to have a smoke.  Jenny and Pei Pei soon lose interest in the conference and begin watching a movie on the laptop.  I take out the Wallace Stegner book I happen to be reading and dive into it, determined to get something done.  A few minutes later, a Chinese volunteer at the conference rushes over to me and asks me to deal with the Zimbabwean, which brings us up to date.

“Ok…so what is it that he wants us to do?” asks the Chinese exhibitor from Guangxi^W Province.  I am not a translator, and this business has nothing to do with tourism…it won’t help our business.  Still, translating is fun because it’s a challenge, and I’ve never really done it much.

“Tell him that we have LOTS of GOALDDDD.  And it’s not just deep in the grrrrouuund.  Much of it is on the surface.  We are looking for investors.  We don’t want to pleeeey around,”  he repeats himself again.  I try my best to translate.

“Well, if we are going to invest, or talk about business, we need to see some information.  How can we just take your word for it?”  asks the Chinese exhibitor.

“That is what I have been TRYING to EXPLLAAAAIN.  Our hotel is not around HERE. We are staying in Beijing, and would like for you to meet us at a quiet place near there.  We never know who we can trust until we sit DOWN for a face to FACE.”  In my mind I, the translator, even begin to question this presenter’s credibility.  How do you come to a mining conference with nothing to hand out…not even a business card?  And all of the information is back in the hotel in another city?  Seems shady to me.  Yet…this has nothing to do with me.  I’m just the communications manager.  The “meeting” ends in a sort of stalemate without the Chinese committing to anything.  The Zimbabwean pulls his belt up closer to his gut and walks away.

When I return to our desk Pei Pei and Jenny are still watching the movie that they were watching before.  Apparently no customers have arrived at this point.  Mr. Zhang is nowhere to be seen.  Beside Pei Pei is a girl who, unlike the four of us, is constantly busy.  She works with ticket sales for flights and trains.  She is extremely cordial, and as it turns out she can also speak in sign language.  I have been learning a little bit of sign language with my friend, Zhang Long, and we have a brief conversation.  From time to time she calls me over to help her translate requests for certain foreign visitors. 

There are 2 men from Brazil who return to the flight desk to repeatedly change there flight times and inquire about whether or not the airline will refund their tickets, should they change their flight times again.  One of the men is quite handsome, and they are both large with broad Western shoulders.  I know almost nothing about South America.  It seems so foreign to me, and I am intrigued by the two of them.  Most of the participants in the conference seem to be from Australia, Africa, and Canada.  These two are the only ones I have seen from Brazil.  They seem as intrigued with me as I am with them.  Each time they return to the desk to ask for new information about different flights, they also ask about me as well.

“You’ve been in China for how long?” says the younger of the two men.  He has huge hands and curly hair that is kept in place by some kind of spray.  His eyes are green, with a clean-shaven face.

“About 4 years,” I answer.

“And not married?  No girlfriend now?” he asks.

“Not at the moment, no.”

“What are you DOING here?”  he asks.  I’m stuck for a moment at how to answer this question.  I feel as if he’s seen right through my facade.  I’m just another foreigner having fun, enjoying life, riding the wave in China.  Going with the flow, delaying the day when I have to grow up.  Making itineraries that will never be seen through and preparing for trips that will never, ever happen.  The smokescreen of my life is blown away in seconds by this broad-shouldered Brazilian Goliath, and I feel naked without any protection.  Luckily, I’m only phased for a few seconds.

“Just enjoying life, working as a travel agent,” I answer.  His colleague calls him over, and the two leave me to think about the time-freeze I’ve just experienced.  I don’t have much time, however.  A voice from behind me is calling my name.

“Jeffrey….?  Jeffrey…..?  Is that you?”  I turn around to find one of shortest and cutest Chinese girls smiling up at me.  She’s saying my name, but I have no idea who she is.

“Yes, I’m Jeffrey.  I’m sorry.  You are….?”

“I’m Sophie.  I was at Yichun University in Jiangxi^W Province,” she answers.  Yichun….the bamboo trees of Bright Moon Mountain flash through my brain.  I’m swimming in the Xiu Jiang River.  I walk across the rice fields to my English classes.  I devoted two years of my life to this school and city, but the girl standing in front of me doesn’t register in my head.

“It’s ok.  I was Brandon’s student.  The other American teacher.  Not yours.  I’m so surprised to see you here.”  I feel better now, relieved.  She was not one of my 800 students after all.  Still, it’s an incredible coincidence to find a Jiangxi connection here at a mining conference in Tianjin.  So this is what happens to our students.  It turns out that Sophie is working as a translator in a company that deals with iron ore, so she is here with her boss, a very funny man from Henan^W who stands next to her and watches her speaking English with intent. 

“She’s a good girl,” he says.  “Maybe she can go to America and stay there?  Her English is pretty good, right?  You know any guys looking for a Chinese girl?”

“Don’t listen to him,” Sophie says with a shrug.  Apparently sexual harrassment is no problem in these parts.  She seems to be pretty happy.  It turns out that her boyfriend is also living in Tianjin.  This is the 3rd job she’s found within 5 months in the city, and she likes it so far.  We talk for a few minutes and then plan to meet up later in the evening.  It feels good to be back in the Jiangxi world, and for a moment I can feel my invisible hand reaching in my pocket to once again don my teacher’s cap.  Just before I’m about to place the cap on my head, our conversation is interrupted once again by another volunteer from the conference.  A young girl in a white track suit runs over to me.

“Excuse me, sir?  Could you help us with some translation again?  There’s another African from Zimbabwe who needs your help.” 

I’m on it.  I leave Sophie and my colleagues behind so that I can tend to the workload that isn’t mind.  Although the weekend gives us no customers, I do get an insight into the world of mining through the eyes of a few Zimbabweans.  While they may not be here to play around, I certainly am.

In the words of my grandmother, Louise Oppenheimer Levin, the opening lyrics of “Hope,” when translated into English would be considered, “Corn, pure corn.”  It’s true, that they are extremely over the top and sentimental…too sentimental for any singer from the West to put his or her name to the song nowadays.  Still, when I first heard the song I couldn’t understand the lyrics at all.  It was just the melody I liked.  And now…here I am in a recording studio trying to sing the song over and over again.

We’ve been in the studio for a couple of hours now, and we keep having to do double-takes, as I cannot remember the lyrics, or I sing them off key, or not in time.  The lyrics that I downloaded and practiced for this recording session were from an alternate version of “Hope,” so all of my preparations were in vain.  In the room, there are a few young hipsters who work for the Anhui TV station.  The guy with the longest hair coaches me through singing the lyrics as I re-enter the studio after they have taken a 10 minute pizza break.  Watching them scarf down the pizza during the interim, I’m reminded of my college days at Indiana University when my housemates and I would order a “Big 10″ pizza which came equipped with 10 fattening breadsticks and ranch dipping sauce.  I can’t imagine eating this stuff anymore, I’m so conditioned on Chinese food now.

“Let’s try it again,” says the long-haired stud.  I’m not sure why I’m recording my voice singing this song.  It’s my understanding that they are going to use my recording at a later date.  In addition to singing the song, they also have me read a self introduction in Chinese that roughly translates to the following:

“Hello.  My name is Jeffrey, just an ordinary volunteer.  When I volunteer and teach English to my blind students, I’m filled with hope.  This is why I chose this song to sing.  Their hope is my hope.  I hope in the future, we can all have more hope.”  Perfect…the selfless hero.  Except I’m not.

I push through the lyrics of the song, thinking that my job is done, that this is the last time that I’ll have to put on this masquerade as the volunteer I’m not.  But I learn, it’s only just beginning.  After the recording is finished, the long-haired stud turns to me and tells me of the next plan.

“Alright.  Now that we’ve got it down, you’ll be ready to perform it on stage with He Jie (the 3rd place finisher in China’s “Supergirls,” kind of a Chinese version of American idol).  We’ll just use the voice that you recorded today during the performance. ”

It Comes Together

Two weeks later.  I wait outside the metro stop near Yong He Lama temple.  The long-haired stud told me that he should be arriving in a few minutes.  I wonder what kind of car he’ll be driving?  I stand out of the Sun as it shines down, so as to keep out of the heat.  I’m wearing shorts, a collared shirt, and sandals.  I decided to wear the collared shirt in order to make the tiniest effor at dressing up.  I remember that they told me to look “semi-nice” for this performance, so hopefully my half-hearted attempt will suffice.  I imagine that today’s “performance” will only be a replica of last time.  Maybe we’ll be filmed from the waist up lip-synching the song, “Hope.”  Maybe.

I get a call.  The long-haired stud has arrived.  There’s a bus at the end of the street where I see him waving me on.  As I hop on the bus, I look around and notice that it’s mostly full.  Apparently I’m not the only volunteer today.  Sitting in front of me is a robust, young, man who took an all night train from Sichuan to Beijing.  He does volunteer work with pandas.  Beside me is a girl from Hebei Province who works at Beijing Institute for Disabilities as a sign language interpreter and teacher.  Two rows in front of me is a young man who is missing both of his arms.  Sitting beside him is his young girlfriend with dyed blond hair.  Behind me is a young deaf couple.  The guy’s name is Zhang Long, and he is from Tianjin, not far from Beijing.  I don’t know it at the time, but after today we will become friends.

I’m sitting on the bus, unsure of where are destination is.  All I’m told is that we are going to a recording studio on the outskirts of Beijing and that dinner will be provided.  I take the lyrics of “Hope” out of my pocket to look them over.  I want to be prepared for the “performance” whenever it happens.  Still, it doesn’t matter how many times I look over the lyrics; I can’t remember the song in it’s entirety.  I’m not that worried, though.  If this “performance” is anything like the last recording, there will be plenty of double-takes to correct my mistakes.

We take the bus for about an hour, going through the Beijing suburbian traffic.  The cityscape changes to flat fields and smaller buildings.  When we arrive at the studio, we pull into a parking lot filled with cars and news crews.  After deboarding the bus, a young man wearing horn-rimmed blackframe glasses from Anhui TV station comes out to greet us.  He takes one look at the flip-flops I am wearing and frowns.

“Hey man….don’t do that.”  He points down at my feet.  Now I know that today is not going to be a simple studio recording.  This is going to be a full on camera, live TV audience type deal.  My whole body, including my feet will be shown somewhere in China at some point in the future.   It’s all beginning to dawn on me, and I feel duped.  I also feel like a deceiver–the modern day white male version of Lin Miaoke^W.

“So, let’s show you guys where the performance will be,” Blackframe Glasses says to us.  He and another girl from Changsha^W accompany us into the studio.  We’re lead into a dark auditorium with a large stage set up at the front.  Facing the stage of rows of bleachers.  In a couple of hours, the stage will be embellished with lights and bubbles, and the bleachers will be filled with teeny-boppers getting ready to see their favorite stars lip-synch their one-hit wonders.  It’s all coming together in my mind.  I am just a ligament the skeleton of a “Volunteer and Superstar Variety Show” that Anhui TV has set up.  Each of the volunteers has his/her own speciality.  The Panda guy will sing a song about loving nature, Zhang Long will use sign language to a sort of interpretive dance to a popular Chinese song, the guy without any arms will incredibly and unbelievably play a piano song with his feet!  And I will lip-synch to the song, “Hope.”  I am an impostor.  In a way I think it’s appropriate that I wear no shoes…I shouldn’t even be wearing shorts or underwear.  I should just strip naked to the audience to show them what a fake I am.

Over the Top

We go back to the “green room,” a classroom on the 3rd floor, to prepare for our “performances.”  I pull out the crumpled lyrics to “Hope” and begin to study them a little frantically.  The room is a little cold and intense.  It feels like we’re all getting ready for the guillotine or a big interview.  The audience will begin arriving soon, waiting to see which superstars are paired with which volunteers.  After 4 years in China I am still just as unfamiliar with modern pop and movie stars as before.  I don’t have a tv, and I rarely watch movies; instead, spending most of my time trying to learn about obscure historical figures like Fang Xiao Ru^W (read about him!) and places like Handan^W (will have to write an upcoming post about this place).  I have no time for pop culture; yet, now I find myself being plunked right down in the middle of it. 

I am one of the first people who will perform, so my stage death will end soon enough.  As I prepare, Blackframe Glasses comes into the green room to talk with me.

“Jeffrey, after you sing your song with He Jie, the MC is going to ask you a couple of questions.  They’ll ask you a question about which student made the deepest impression on you during your time with Hong Dan Dan.  MAKE SURE to tell them about Lu Yao, the student who gave you the drawing (see previous post titled “Voice in the Dark” for reference).  Remember, this is very important to talk about this story.”

“Ok. Sure.”

“Oh…and put my shoes on, man.  You can’t go on stage with He Jie wearing sandals!  Come on.  Don’t do that.”  He takes off his shoes and I squeeze into them just barely.  A little more respectful.  After the shoe switch he leaves the room.  15 minutes until I’m on stage.

The girl from Changsha comes into the green room to fetch me.

“Jeffrey.  Let’s go.  You should meet He Jie before you two ‘perform’ together.”

Changsha girl takes me by the hand and leads me out of the green room.  The air chills. 

SLAM!

I turn behind me.  The door of the green room has been slammed shut.  In its place is a whirling darkness that leads into a void.  There’s no going back there.  Changsha girl’s hand turns icy cold in my grip.  I turn around to look at her once more and am horrified to find that the skin has peeled off her face.  Muscles and tendons melt and drip down to the floor in a sticky glob.  Her once tight-fitting (and attractive) jeans and snug shirt have been replaced by a black robe.  She floats down the hall and pulls me with her, a scythe of impending death resting in her left hand.  The bony joints of her left hand pull me towards the door of the film studio.  I can hear the crowd inside. 

“Walk in through the door.  We’ll go to the left side of the stage.  He Jie is waiting to meet you,”  the Spirit of Death says to me.  The doors open.  Inside the live studio audience of teeny-boppers is waiting to greet the next act.  No one sees me enter as all eyes are currently on the superstar on stage. 

He Jie is indeed a beautiful girl.  She has sparkles on her face, and a lovely smile.  I turn to look for the spirit of death, but Changsha girl has returned.  Time to face reality.

“Let’s take a picture together, so 10 years later when our children ask us about how we met, we can show them this photo,” I say to He Jie.

She complies with my request and we snap one photo together.  Changsha girl gives me instructions of how I’m to walk on stage.  She takes me behind centerstage.

“So, when the instrumental music starts, you’ll just walk through the stage.  It’s going to split open, and you walk out there and just start lip-synching.  Remember to open your mouth so that it looks like you are singing,” she reminds me.

I sit down behind the stage and pull out my lyrics to study them one last time.  It doesn’t matter.  Everything will look perfect or horrible on tv.  And I will never watch this farce for as long as I live.  My feet feel uncomfortably squished at this point.  It’s as I’m amidst studying the lyrics that I notice my own voice piping in the loudspeakers…

“Hello.  My name is Jeffrey, just an ordinary volunteer.  When I volunteer and teach English to my blind students….”

It’s the same recording I did in the studio.  The moment is coming.  The music starts.  I stuff the lyrics into my shorts and stand up.  God splits the stage in two, it opens up, the lights hit my face, and I walk out to the loving people.  He Jie is there in her splendored and glitzy shortness, awaiting her prince.  As soon as the lyrics begin, my mind draws a complete blank.  I completely forget how to even say, “hello” in Chinese….but….I remember to open and close my mouth as the words of my own voice magically come out of the loudspeakers.  I must look just like a marionette puppet throughout the song, my mouth dropping and raising just like a dummy.  It doesn’t matter.  The audience is mostly looking at He Jie.  She must be thinking, this idiot foreigner….how did I get hooked up with him.  God, I’ve fallen!

As soon as the song finishes, the crowd of TV teeny-bopper zombies bursts into applause.  The music changes to a piano melody that drips like sap from a pine tree.  An MC who looks like a price is right contestant with slicked back hair comes out to “interview” me in front of the audience.  He asks the usual questions about how long I’ve been in China, where I’ve learned my chinese, how long I’ve “volunteered” at Hong Dan Dan.  Then he asks me the question I was prepped for:

“So, Jeffrey,” the music gets quiet, “tell us…is there a blind student that you can tell us about?  Maybe one who left a lasting impression on you?”

Like a robot, I tell them the story of Lu Yao, of how she participated in one of our English corners and drew a picture for me.  I remember her face being mere millimeters from the picture she drew as she labored away on her artwork.  It’s really the only story I have about a particular “student” or longterm member of Hong Dan Dan.  The MC looks at me; it’s a look of anticipation.

“Well, Jeffrey, we’re sorry that Lu Yao couldn’t be here today….but…” he gestures to someone offstage, “….she was able to prepare a special gift from her home in Liaoning^W province.  We hope that you enjoy.”  One young staff member of the TV station comes on stage carrying a framed pencil sketch of my likeness playing the banjo.  It’s been autographed by none other than Lu Yao.  At this moment, my mind freezes.

How the hell could Lu Yao draw this in such a short amount of time?  And how did they get it here from Liaoning?  There’s no way that she drew this.

Just like Lin Miaoke, I put on a pretty smile as I’m handed this gift, the origins of which are still ambiguous to me.  I try to act as if I am genuinely touched by this presentation, and yet I feel perplexed and almost fooled instead.  I take my gift and exit the stage, leaving the ruse behind me.  The next act is up.  It’s the Panda guy from Sichuan.  I watch him enter the stage, and the audience goes wild as he is accompanied by another one of China’s teeny-bopper hearthrobs.  They execute their songs perfectly.  The Sichuan guy gives a 5 minute speech about the love he feels for the pandas, followed by professing his love to his girlfriend, who amazingly the TV station has managed to contact via video phone.  It is a perfect performance, pulling the audience’s heartstrings.  Teeny-boppers bat their eyelashes at the superstar on stage and shed tears over the young man from Sichuan letting his soul open to the world on national television.  It’s a perfect TV story with a happy ending for all.  I’m just happy I don’t have a tv and can let it live on in memory.

A call from Heart’s Eye

On my way back from Ningxia^W and Inner Mongolia^W I received a phone call from Mrs. Zheng, the leader of the Heart’s Eye movie theater for the blind.  This theater is located in the same courtyard where our office is currently located, and I’ve mentioned it in previous posts.  Every Saturday morning members of Beijing’s blind community come from near and far to “watch” a movie.  Someone with regular vision sits at the front of the theater with a microphone and narrates those portions of the movie that the listeners cannot see and need narration for.  In addition to these movie features, the Heart’s Eye Theater (also called “Hong Dan Dan”) organizes other activities and outings for Beijing’s blind community.  Hong Dan Dan has a small staff of regular employees, and Mrs. Zheng and her husband are constantly busy trying to organize and improve the activities.  Besides the blind community itself, however, the other major players who take the major role in all of the activities are the volunteers who come every week to assist.  I, myself, have not personally been a volunteer for the theater.  Once we organized a dumpling making activity and Lu Yao, one of the blind students who used to live in the dormitory next to the theater joined us.  From time to time when we host events at our center, some of the members of Hong Dan Dan join in.  It’s mostly a friendly and neighborly relationship.  Or so I thought it was, before I received the call from Mrs. Zheng.

Mrs. Zheng:  Jeffrey, I’ve got something important to talk with you about.

(The noise of the train is so loud, I have to talk at the top of my voice, while sticking my finger in my left ear to block out the background noise).

Me:  What’s up?  Is something wrong?

Mrs. Zheng:  Anhui TV Station is doing a program on volunteers, and they want to include Hong Dan Dan in their program.

Me (sensing that I will be asked a favor):  Yeah?  That’s great!

Mrs. Zheng:  They need a white, western, male, who has been a volunteer for us and was born after 1980.  Do you think that you could do it?  I was going to ask the English girl who teaches them choir, but they specifically requested a white male.

Me:  Well…I’d be fine with it.  But a couple of things.  I was born in 1979…December 26, 1979…almost 1980.  Also, I’ve never volnteered with you guys before.  This could be a problem.  (I’m trying to say no, but the words won’t come out…part of me wants to see where this goes).

Mrs. Zheng:  That’s not that important.  We can talk about it more when you get back.  I’ll go ahead and tell them it’s ok with you.  Alright?

Me:  Alright (I guess).

A Song of Times’ Past

Besides checking in with Mrs. Zheng about the Anhui TV station activity, I don’t worry much about the activity.  We decide that maybe it would be best if I were to actually go in and volunteer at least once before the activity so that I can talk about what it is like to be a volunteer.  I tell her that I don’t think I’m ready to narrate a movie, but I’ll come in and tell a story instead.  I mostly busy myself with office work, etc.  Then one day in the office, an unknown number calls my mobile phone and I answer.

Me:  Hello? Who’s this?

Other:  Hi, is this Jeffrey?  I’m with Anhui TV station.  Mrs. Zheng told you we would call?

Me:  That’s right.

Anhui:  Anyway, so maybe we can ask you some questions about the blind students you have been teaching sometime.  We can find a place and time to meet.

Me:  Oh, that would be fine.  But I think you should know…I don’t have any blind students.  I haven’t really volunteered there.  I just know some of them and Mrs. Zheng.  I go there often.  My friends and I organize activities near there.

(Silence)

Anhui:  Well.  That’s alright.  Can you tell me your favorite Chinese song?

Me:  Uh….”Camel Bell?”

Anhui:…..any others?  that one is kind of old…

Me:  the “Chinese Kung-fu” song is cool, too.

Anhui:….no, no…not right.  Anymore?

I think back to one of the first songs that I heard when I came to China:

I arrive in Jiangxi^W hearing the song over and over again.  It is the theme song to a Korean soap opera, but it really has quite a sentimental melody to it.  At one point there is a chorus of children in the background.  The chorus of children doesn’t feel cheesy to me.  It feels appropriate.  When I first hear it, I have no idea what the words are saying, but I like the melody.  It gives me goosebumps to think about it now.  It is all around me.  When I walk down the street in Yichun I can hear the theme song of the tv show blaring out from the stores that I pass by…there is a store that sells metalworks and pipes, there’s another store that sells solar water heaters, a restaurant owner sits lazily at a table with no customers.  A fly swatter dangles from his fingertips as he rests his head in the crook of his right elbow.  The song is a wistful first impression of culture shock and part of my introduction to my 800 students in Yichun.  I hear it and think of a certain crisp autumn day in Yichun^W, Jiangxi Province.  The sky is blue, and the rustle of the rattling of the swirling leaves on the ground fill the air.  I am going to a lunch for my South African colleague’s child’s 100 days of life celebration, a watermark event in a baby’s life in China.  We’ll eat plate after plate of food.  Outside, the wind will continue to swirl as leaves are gently pulled off the tree branches lining the town’s streets.  I see another day where I hike up Bright Moon Mountain, about a half an hour drive from Yichun.  I go there with my student, Nancy.  The weather is cold, the sky is blue again–always with this song, the sky is blue.  Waterfalls on the mountain are either frozen or trickling.  I can see Nancy’s breath as she pushes the air out.  The mountain is sleeping.  She puts her face close to my camera as I take a close-up.  She is in Shanghai now.  I’m in Beijing.  I miss these days.  The song is always missing, hoping.

Me:  “Hope.”  From that tv show.

Anhui:  Good….good.  That’s a good song.  Can you learn that song?  You may be performing it with Sister He (pronounced “Huh”) from the “Supergirls” show (China’s version of “American Idol”).

Me:  I can try to learn it…but I’m not a very good singer.

Anhui:  It doesn’t matter.  As long as you try.  Anyway, talk with you later Jeffrey.

I look up the lyrics to “Hope” in the evening when I get home.  I have no idea what “performance” the guy on the other end was talking about, but I have a feeling that I will find out soon enough, in a very intimate way.  In the evening, I return home and say a little prayer of hope to Lin Miaoke, knowing that her spirit of guidance is the only force able to pull me through the next chapter of this particular Chinese saga in my life’s story.

“The most dangerous asteroids, capable of a global disaster, are extremely rare…These bodies impact the Earth only once every 1,000 centuries.  Comets in this size range are thought to impact even less frequently, perhaps once every 5,000 centuries or so.”

Space is just too large.  The void is endless.  There are too many paths for the asteroids and comets to follow.  Zeroing in on planet Earth is (luckily for us) a possibility that is so small, it practically doesn’t even exist.  These massive, destructive bodies go whizzing by us, making “near misses” of our precious planet by distances of hundreds of thousands of kilometers away.  It’s almost as if they are purposefully ignoring our planet, swooping through outer space without any directive other than to miss us.

My older brother, Bryan, is not an asteroid, I am not a comet, and my boss is far from being any sort of space debris.  We are not destructive bodies, at least not on a large scale.  Our paths are neither as fast, nor as aimless as these gigantic space projectiles.  But…the Earth is a large place (in comparison to the size of our bodies)…there are many places we could choose to go.  The chances of the three of us getting together are minute.  Yet, it happened in Seattle.  I was there.  I am one of the three.  I can attest to the miracle of the 3 heavenly bodies colliding together in a gigantic explosive BASH of rock, ice, and a lot of love.

Brother Bryan

My older brother, Bryan, used to live in Seattle.  I remember traveling to the city with my parents and then by myself to meet him and stay with him during the decade he moved from one neighborhood to the next.  Always elusive and mysterious, my family and I had some vague idea of what he was doing, but if someone asked us to write it down on a chalk board, the classroom might just end up looking at a gigantic question mark.  He definitely walks to the beat of his own drummer.  There is no doubt about that.  I’m more likely to receive a postcard or 8 page handwritten letter from him than I am an e-mail.  During one 3 week stretch I received numerous postcards from him, all from different locations:  Mexico, Japan, Seattle, Hong Kong.  The two of us know each other too well.  He is my twin; we just happened to be born 10 years apart.  I look up to him and model my writing after his example.  I think he is brilliant with a pen.  We share a sense of humor and similar outlook on life.  Upon seeing the stream of postcards from different locations I could only assume that he wanted to confuse me, throw me off his trail–like a serial killer playing cat and mouse with Sherlock Holmes.  At one point I received an e-mail from a high school acquaintance of his named Gavin Pinchback who told me that he had brushed shoulders with Bryan while enjoying a hotel breakfast in Kyoto, Japan.  Hot on his trail, I started to put the clues together.  I knew he could not evade me forever.  I would track this metor down at any cost.

Seattle

My boss told me that we would be taking a tour group to Yellowstone National Park in August.  Our first stop would be in Seattle.  We would be there for a day and a half.   Seattle.  SEATTLE!  This was it!  This was the chance I had been waiting for.  I had heard rumors from various family members that there had indeed been Bryan sightings in and around Seattle, and he was currently residing somewhere in the Pacific Northwest, like Bigfoot coming in and out of the city leaving only footprints.  I say “residing” cautiously. The Bryan Stone gathers no moss.  He is constantly on the move and manages to fit himself neatly and snuggly into just about any nook or cranny, disappearing from site like a phantom on Halloween night.  I took my chance and sent numerous e-mails to him, hoping for a response.  I told him the plan, that I would be in Seattle with 15 Chinese travelers, and it would be ideal if we could arrange a meeting, even if for a few hours.  At first there was no response to my e-mail, but I wasn’t surprised by this.  He was off in the wilderness for sure, out of tune with the world wide web, working on his writing or for the CIA (I’m still not sure which).  Surely, one day he would catch wind that I was e-mailing him.  The Bryan Stone is resourceful.  Surely, one day he would respond…and he did!

“Seattle sounds good.  I am there now (or close by).”  There were other things said in the e-mail, but this was all I needed to know.  Bryan was in the Seattle vicinity.  I prepared my lasso, now confident that I could rope up the most elusive of shooting stars.

World’s Collide on Queen Anne

After arriving in Seattle, meeting our local Chinese tour guides, and eating our local Chinese cuisine, we headed out past the Space Needle towards the strip mall area where we would be staying in a Holiday Inn Select hotel.  Despite not being the classiest of areas, everyone had a comfortable room with a nice bed.  Immediately after entering the room, I called the cellphone number where Bryan could be reached.  He picked up.  Flashes of the ensuing collision went through my imagination.  It was going to happen!  I told him of our plan to meet on Queen Anne in a small park that overlooks the city, the Sound, the Space Needle, and off into the distance, the ominous Mt. Ranier.  He agreed.  We hung up. 

After all the guests were washed up, getting the airplane smell and jetlag feeling off of their bodies, we piled into the large van that would take us to one of Seattle’s most beautiful urban spots of Queen Anne.  Some of the city’s nicest houses are there, and the passengers in the car “oooohed” and “ahhhhhhed” as we passed the spic-and-span colorfully painted houses with large gardens in front of them.  Upon arriving at the top of Queen Anne, we walked through the “open garden” of one of the houses.  The air wasn’t as crisp as it could have been, but still worlds apart from Beijing smog.  Off in the distance, I could smell the smell of a barbecue, giving me pangs of memories in Portland, Oregon where I loved to barbecue time and time again (sometimes loading up the grill with charcoal only to make one burger for yours truly).  We walked along the street towards the small park where I was to meet Bryan.  I have a picture that my mother took of the three brothers in that park:  Bryan, the eldest, myself, the middle one, and Jonny, the youngest.  But…am I remembering it wrong?  Was it my father, Jonny, and me in the picture?  I can’t remember clearly.  I need to be refreshed.  The meteors need to collide.  Worlds need to come together.

And there he was.  Leaning against the railing overlooking the city was Brother Bryan, waiting for us.  I walked up to him and poked him on the shoulder.  We embraced.

“Brotherrrrrrrr!” We both said at the same time.  The chances of this meeting are so slim.

Even slimmer than the chances of us meeting on Queen Anne while I’m in Seattle for a day and a half are the chances of my friend and boss, Zhao Jing, meeting with Bryan on Queen Anne.  But he was there, too.  And this is one of my favorite things in the world.  I love it when this type of collision happens:  two bodies that have nothing to do with each other, other than the fact that they share a connection of ME, meet and talk with one another.  To me, this was already the highlight of the trip–watching Brother Bryan and Zhao Jing talk with each other, trying to figure one another out at the top of Queen Anne.  For a period of about 20 minutes the worlds collided in a once and 1,000 year chance miracle.

This was one of the first lines that Strong Horse told me on our first encounter at a Thanksgiving party.  The party, held last year to celebrate my personal favorite American holiday, was hosted by members of the Beijing Hash House Harriers.  The ‘Hash House Harries’ refer to themselves as “a drinking club with a running problem.”  Meeting every Sunday at a different location in the city, the Harriers convene (rain or shine), to run a predetermined route marked in chalk by arrows, false turns, and beer stops along the way.  At the end of every Sunday run, they reconvene in a circle to sing drinking songs, make toasts, and be as chauvenistic and “dudey” as possible.  They are, in essence, Beijing’s version of “Animal House”–beer bellies bobbing proudly along the wide avenues of the city’s streets amidst stares from bewildered local urbanites.  Whenever I want an “American” feel, I can certainly feel it in the Hash.

It was at this Thanksgiving party that I first met Strong Horse (the literal translation of his Chinese name).  With a perfectly placed British accent, he introduced himself to me in the ever so polite tones of the gentleman that he is.  He told me that he had recently returned from 4 years studying in Sheffield, England, or “Sheffie” as he liked to refer to it.  Upon returning to Beijing, he decided it was high time to spend some family time with his mother and father.

Sea Turtle

Chinese refer to their contrymen returning from overseas as “sea turtles.”  Strong Horse wears his shell with pride.  He used to work with Sinopec (a major Chinese oil company).  I assume that the job he help with this company was a relatively high status and well-paid job.  He is in his early 40s and has not been working since returning from his time in “Sheffie.”

I like this sea turtle’s style of life.  He seems to glide with ease with no apparent destination in mind from my point of view.  I feel comfortable with Strong Horse when I’m talking with him.  I feel like he can see certain things from my perspective.  I can talk with him like I can with a foreigner, switching back and forth between English and Chinese.  We are just good friends.  We talk about the things that good friends talk about, the life of two bachelors sitting together in a bar eating barbecue and drinking beers.

Each time I meet with Strong Horse he has a list of different English questions to ask me.  He pulls out a sheet with the following phrases:

“Stand Clear.”

“Weird.”

“No sales of alcoholic beverages to minors.”

I’m willing to play with these phrases and teach him some English when we meet.  I know that he’s not studying English for a test or to get a good job.  His English is excellent.  He studies language for the same reason that I do…to communicate and to use his mind.  We talk about the expression,”stand clear,” an expression I have never used once in my 29 years of life.  When can it be used?  Is it correct?  Is this British English or American English?  The pronunciation of “weird” is a question in his mind.  I go over it a few times with him.  It’s his new favorite word for the day.

“And why isn’t it, ‘no alcoholic beverages  for minors’ instead of ‘to’ minors?”

I can’t answer this question.  I’m not an English teacher anymore.  I could research it, but I haven’t until this point.

Strong Horse and I order another beer.  We are sitting at one of my favorite barbecue spots in Beijing.  Sometimes I feel the need to get some bbq scallops and oysters.  Barbecue, however, is not something one does alone.  You need a sea turtle, a man’s man, to join you on these occasions.  The weather is hot.  Strong Horse pulls off his shirt, exposing the gigantic bowling ball of a sea turtle’s shell that his belly has turned into.  Like a rock, it sits there taking in all of the food and drink that we consume.

“Come on…let it out,” he beckons me to take off my shirt. This is a habit Chinese have in the summer months.  You can find shirtless men anywhere and everywhere in public.  I don’t usually join them, but sitting here with Beijing Man, I decide, what the heck?  I lift my shirt up and let my chest hair air out in the summer night.  Strong Horse and I order another beer…another one down the hatch.