I am standing in front of the hotel check-in counter with my then young son Aidan. I am waiting patiently for one of the two clerks to look up from their paperwork and process us. A man walks up behind my right shoulder and talks over it at the clerks. They look up and one of them gets him his room. The other goes back to ignoring me. I am in line at Starbucks waiting for the cashier to finish processing the previous transaction. A near middle age man walks up, stands between me and the cashier, and starts to order. I tell him I was waiting and in excellent English he apologies and steps back. We are exiting the arena. There are hundreds of people trying to get down the flight of stairs and into the arena lobby. A woman decides to stop in the middle of the stairs and put a jacket on her two year old, slowing everyone down as they try to avoid them. The intersection is congested. A car is blocked by traffic from making a right turn holding up cars behind it. A driver honks, but doesn’t just honk, leans on the horn relentlessly as school children and parents walk by. I am driving and waiting on a long red; testing my patience The light turns green and I get ready to punch it when I notice an e-bike speeding in front of my car. And then another. I go into the Jack Jones clothing store because somehow I ended up at work without any underwear. A young clerk greets me and follows me as I walk into the store. There is nothing flirtatious or about it, she’s just doing her job. As she stands right behind me, and I mean right behind me, as I look at the underwear selection. ...

After dinner Lydia and I are walking to 7-11 for some snacks and she’s playfully asking me how tall Allio’s get. I say, “What do you call a tall Allio? A mutation.” She laughs. At 13 she can appreciate my wit for she has the same sometimes sharp tongue. And I feel connected. When I first started my “kids weeks” four years ago, it was loose footing as Mr. Mom. Or what I would tell the kids “baba ayi” (father nanny). There was the morning rush getting them up, some semblance of a breakfast, and into a car or rickshaw to school. Then home, out to dinner, back home making sure they did homework, endless laundry, then shower and sleep. When the following week came and I sent them off to school I would feel relieved and strangely accomplished. I would have the following week as the “single” part of my “single dad” status although mostly that meant watching TV episodes and thinking about dating. A night out would typically be with one of my few guy friends and involve a beer or two. Then I started dating and had a real relationship. Then a second, which is the current state of things. Now back in the present time, Aidan and Lydia and increasingly Elisa can take care of themselves. I cook dinner for them about half the time, about half the time we go out. It is important to me, as it was to my mom, that we sit with each other and talk during dinner. We have our routines, from pizza party movie night, to utown ramen, to taco night. Lately Elisa and I have been playing Monopoly and Uno. It is now Monday again - I keep the kids Monday to Monday - and I’m taking Elisa to school. We are not talking too much this morning, just sitting the back of our didi (China’s uber). We get to her school and my heart tugs when I say “have a good day, see you next week” and then she’s gone as loud speakers blast Chinese music that I don’t understand. I feel the same when Aidan and Lydia take off on Monday morning for their school. That I will miss them terribly. I no longer look forward to my life being single with a sense of accomplishment, the week instead greets me with a sense of longing and isolation. Isolation because I’ve become more isolated at work being the only non Chinese speaker in my group. More isolated in relationships since the few good friends I either don’t see or they have left China. Isolated in relationship since Sabrina works crazy startup hours and I often only see her during the week when I kiss her goodbye in the morning. They kids have left the house quite a mess. I guess I could clean in. But it’s a happy mess. ...

Yang sends me a WeChat that Elisa’s school will have her participate in some government event this week. I text back that Trump is in town on Thursday. “That must be it”, she says. I am added to the WeChat group with the other parents of the 10 American kids selected from Elisa’s school. There are instructions in Chinese and English including dress code. The coordinating teachers ask for photos of what the kids will wear and we dutifully send. No black stockings for Elisa, white or grey is ok. Some details trickle in - welcoming ceremony, outside of great hall of the people, kids up front. There is no direct mention of Trump. We all know. ...

When I first visited Beijing in 2000 my then girlfriend and future ex wife took me to the Sanlitun bar street. We ordered a beer but it wasn’t just any beer. It was a warm Heineken. And it came in groups of six which the waiter opened at the table. We moved to Beijing in 2005 and the next summer was our fifth wedding anniversary. I was looking in the expat rags for somewhere to celebrate came accross Bar Blu, which was in Sanlitun but not on the main street we visited back in 2000. It was on the back street. Yea. It was empty at 8pm. I really didn’t know anything about going out; certainly not in Beijing. That would change over the next few years as we discovered place after place. Not always Sanlitun, but often. The DVD shop was the starter drug. And even if the night wasn’t centered around Sanlitun if often started there and finished there. Often at The Tree and often on the street having chuanr. We had a gang of folks who went - the steadies of Mike, Charlie, Fanny, Steve, Yang, and myself. There were many additions on any given evening and many adhoc toasts. It was a place of bonding with coworkers. Sometimes it was just a stare from across the room. The Tree was nearly a once a week pilgrimage. The rude waitresses grew on us and somehow treated us well, like a bully’s best friend. We sat near the pizza oven in winter and near the bar in summer. At some point the tree became less interesting and committed the mortal sin of having mediocre pizza. It was about that time we capped off night near our 10th anniversary and I whispered to a young woman in our party “a personal best”. First Floor was a late entry into our Sanlitun universe and was witness to some epic evenings. My brother Don even went there when he visited back in 2011. A lot has changed since then. A lot has not. First floor is where in 2012 I told my two best male friends in Beijing that my marriage was over. One’s response was to go to the restroom and cry. The other said “shame on you”. We’ve done a couple of “get the old gang” together reunions at Sanlitun since 2012. It was fine, fun, maybe healing even. But it wasn’t the same. The crews came earlier this year and tore down all the rogue shops on one side of that back alley as part of the city’s beautification project. One could argue but I won’t that replacing the pseudo illegal structures and businesses with fencing and decorations is an improvement. Like dental floss to a dentist. This past week they came in and destroyed the other side of the street. Sanlitun may rise to see another day. But it won’t be the same. These things never are. ...

I’m running in the hotel gym that overlooks the pool. There are no pretty bodies in the pool, just kids and the occasional mom and the attendant who pointed my way to the gym. When I say pretty bodies I mean fit adult women with a pretty face. And that is sexist of me to write. As I’m running, slowly, without pop in my legs and I think it’s really unfair to be short and with a bald spot. I’m glad the pod of a treadmill with it’s TV on CNN blocks the view of myself in the mirror as it spares me from my husky self. The is nothing young and good skin about me at 51. But I do work. ...

Lydia and Elisa had birthdays this week with Lydia becoming a teenager and Elisa turning nine. I’m feeling grateful for having these two beautiful, smart, caring daughters Four years apart they are at such different stages. Elisa holds my hand when we walk to the market and she cuddles up next to me when we watch a TV show. She’s outgoing and talks a lot. She likes to snoop around the house and was always to first of my kids to detect if I was dating someone new (fortunately, not a too frequent occurrence). She’s becoming less picky about what she eats and she is nostalgic for the meals and activities we used to do way back when she was seven. She finds silly things silly and funny things funny and dramatic things dramatic. All evidenced in her love for the Jackie Chan/Chris Tucker Rush Hour series. Lydia is also caring and has grown up so much these past 18 months but she’s not so interested in holding hands or public signs of affection. She shows her love with jabs, the tell tale Allio sense of humor the cuts sharp and sometimes cross the line. For instance, we were talking about her mom’s upcoming birthday. I was proposing a countdown. Every day a big WeChat posts with “120 days until 50” combined with an unflattering picture. It’s kind of mean, but instead of stopping there we came up with “50 years of bad hair styles” and “Things that didn’t exist when mom was born” ending with dirt. Birthday party wise, we celebrated Lydia’s birthday last Tuesday. She helped the ayi make roast chicken and mashed potatoes. It is a similar to what we’ve had for Thanksgiving and I was pleased to see her picking up on the tradition. Elisa is on vacation with her mom and the other kids and will have a celebration tonight. My gift is supposedly packed. When she’s back, I will through her another little party including her nostalgically favorite ice cream cake. ...

The Serial podcast taught us that memories are fallible and yet it is with these memories that we live. I am in the fourth or fifth or sixth grade and home from school. I wanted to get some kind of musical instrument for school. I always wanted to play some kind of instrument but neither had the skill or vocation. To my surprise my dad gave me $4 to buy an instrument. I excitedly walked down to grand avenue and into a music shop. $4 wasn’t getting anything. I was disappointed, I really wanted a guitar or a sax or who knows what. I went into Ben Franklins. They had a flute. It cost maybe $2. It was plastic. Against my better judgement I bought it. I spend the rest of the money, again against my better guilt infused judgment on a plastic car and gum. I walked home, not so excitedly. The gum, like treats now, not delivering on it’s promise. When I got home my dad’s mood was different. A mood I forever learned to read. He asked what I got, I want to say he asked for his change too. I showed him the car and the flute. He was outraged and wanted to know where I spent the rest of the $4. I told him gum. That did not help. He stepped on the car and crushed it. He snapped the flute in half. I don’t remember what happened next, I guess I went downstairs without dinner. Later he would apologize for breaking the plastic flute. ...