-Kelly, Mr. Huang wants you to have a dinner with his friends... do you know him?
-Nope.
-Yes you do, he's short.
-Oh yes, him, sure I know. When's the dinner?
-Tonight. Are you okay?
-I'm okay.
Do do do do, do do do do, do do do do...
I stood at the school gate chatting with some students about the topic of choice: dinner. The wind blew cold off the snow dusted mountains and I checked my watch. A gray Buick minivan pulled up and the side door slid open. Kelly, get in. So I did.
The owner and driver of the minivan was indeed a short Chinese man with a dimple in his left cheek whose name turned out to be Mr. Huang. Mr. Huang from Jiangsu province. Mr. Huang whose Believing son was studying in America. Mr. Huang the vice president of our school. I didn't know it as the minivan swerved and screeched down the road making even the taxi drivers nervous, but I would know a lot more about Mr. Huang by the time the night was over.
As we were ushered into a restaurant famous because the waiters all wore Mao outfits and random bits of plastic fruit hung from the ceiling, I was informed by the nearly ecstatic Mr. Huang that since I would soon be leaving it was important for us to have a dinner together. One look into the room, steamy from mushroom hot pot bowls and crowded with about twenty people I didn't know, I was sure the dinner was not in my honor. So I did what any foreign girl whose been in China for nearly three years would do: took up the role of banquet decoration with finesse.
The food sat idle and strong Chinese liquor was downed as the table of Chinese men I would later discover were all provincial leaders of some sort made comments about my professional use of chopsticks, the way that sunshine escaped from me, how perfect my spice consumption was, my respectful countenance... and when the man sitting next to me proclaimed to my translator that I was like an angel I knew I had successfully completed my role as foreign face giver to the, now slightly drunk though still beaming, Mr. Huang.
Before I had taken three sips of my favorite sweet rice porridge Mr. Huang announced that dinner was over, though how he came to that conclusion was a mystery to me since it seemed like most people had done little aside from smoke and there was enough food left untouched on the table to feed a moderately sized village. Nonetheless, the entire dinner party made our exit, politely leaving the kadas given to us by the singing waitresses on the chairs. Ten minutes later the sun set, casting golden shadows over the sluggish Lhasa river and we arrived at the largest Karaoke club I'd ever seen.
The multicolored lights in a web pattern on the outside of the building blinked in time with the Twilight Zone's theme song and the now euphoric Mr. Huang guided us all inside to a room decorated with gaudy chandeliers, cream colored columns, renessiance-esque life sized paintings of mostly naked buxom women, and glass tables supported by golden cherubs. We ordered glasses of rose tea, which unfortunately didn't come with ear plugs, and by the time we had settled into the sage colored couches everyone had gone completely silly.
Songs were added to an on screen playlist by the various leaders we had dined with but the first up was 'Xiao Fang', an 80's Chinese love song of the highest order, and the only one I could sing any part of. Suffice it to say that a rousing duet remix with Mr. Huang and the night had only begun. At least four songs were sung/ attempted in honor of 'foreign friends', I stumble giggled through a slow dance with Mr. Huang who later insisted I sing Lionel Richies version of 'Say you Say me' which I had never heard until that moment, and didn't find out that 'One love' by the pop group Blue was an option until after the party had ended, about two and a half music blaring head pounding culturally confusing hours later.
The next time the minivan door slid open it was under a starry sky at the entrance to our school and I could have sworn that the shadowy trees were humming do do do do, do do do do, do do do do...
And as if life in general could make less sense I got on a bus this afternoon and sat next to a very creased Tibetan grandmother wearing a belt with a prominently placed wicked looking little knife hanging from it who stared at me until she got up the nerve to shake my hand with a spontaneous vigor I did not see coming and gave me the Chinese equivalent of an icey pop as she hobbled off the bus. How could she have known how much I love those things?
And just a moment ago I got a text from a student that contained a rather cryptic message reading: "wu wu can you help? me please" to which I didn't respond, not having the faintest idea how one could respond to that.
Do do do do, do do do do, do do do do... Twilight zone theme music couldn't be more appropriate... except that the zone is for real.
