She thought back just a few months ago. It was tax season in the US and she was doing taxes for the couple down the street. She was trying to start her own business and this was one of a handful of clients. The work was so easy it was difficult, and when the husband of the couple started to explain US tax law to her she just smiled and nodded. And resigned to quit. This was just absurd. She had an advanced degree in finance, was toward the top of her class at a major university, yet could not find a decent job. All the action was in Beijing these days anyway, why not return home and get in the middle of it. She knew she would be successful there. Just look at her younger brother, not as smart or charming yet he was living the life of a king. After five years of marriage to this American, things had slowed down. The say one has three loves in life. Your first love. Your great love. And your last love. She was pretty sure this was none of the three. Certainly not the great love. And god help her not the last. At first, he was interesting and charming and the beer amplified this. But then she stopped drinking the beer and his charm diminished and he just became someone in the bed next to her that from time to time smelled like a pint. Truth be told, it was his DUI that made her stop drinking and made her realize he had a problem. He wouldn’t acknowledge that going to the bar after work, slamming three drafts down, then driving home was anyone’s issue but out of control cops. So she let him continue and she stayed home and watched TV. The husband didn’t mind much when she left for Beijing to be the CFO for a well funded trading company. He didn’t understand all that stuff really, he just knew computers. After a week in Beijing she was starting to feel alive again, a weight lifted from her shoulders. Then her husband called and said he’d just been laid off and would be arriving in town the next day. Shit. He did arrive the next day, his suitcase hastily packed, she worrying that all the plants would die and the laundry half done. He was meticulous in what he did but lazy in doing it. Not a good combination. They slept together that night, in the side bedroom of her parent’s flat, and she woke up feeling that weight again. It was her job to cheer him up and show him around Beijing. She put on a good face for about a week but with his drinking and the late nights her work was beginning to suffer. She had to choose and she picked her job. He understood and didn’t even mind much. He was free to wander around Beijing and do as he pleased. A few days later he was enjoying the typical Beijing hutong 8 kuai lunch when he overhead a white guy talking what sounded like perfect Chinese to a young woman. He didn’t understand a word but knew they were flirting. And it was working. The white guy left with the girl. He sat there, along, thinking he must learn Chinese. Of course he didn’t learn Chinese, at 42 there is really no hope for that, but he did run into the guy the very next day. Turns out he was a 20 year old brit who was studying at the nearby university. Studying, yea, he thought. He would like to go back to school himself. He got to talking with the brit and they hit it off. If he was wiser and aware of such things he may have realized the brit was flirting on him too. They started going out at night, hitting the bars, while his wife worked late. The young brit was always good at warming up the young Chinese women. He like this. But what he really like was the beer. And he drank a lot. Almost every night up until 3am. He felt like he was in college again but this time he didn’t have to wake up and go to class. And no tests. Damn those tests. After about a month of this he realized he needed to get a job or at least seriously consider getting one. His wife was working like he had never seen her before. He considered opening an American restaurant. Now that would be a stereotype switch, wouldn’t it? But he didn’t realize this obvious switch in life’s stations; he was just trying to find a way in his new unemployed life. When he had about given up hope, he received an email from a former co-worker. Seems there was a job back in the States if he wanted it. All this time he was telling himself he was happy here, letting go for the first time in a long time. But when he got that offer he felt like a man again. Even performed like one for a few minutes. And got on a plane back to LA. His wife was glad to see him, well, erect again and was even more happy to see him go. Maybe this would be the end to their marriage, with him in the US and her here, but at least they weren’t pretending. No “I will always be with you” or “I love you today as much as ever”. Those sure sounds of impending doom. It was a simple peck on the forehead and a closing of the taxi door. The wife continued to stay with her parents, both retired university professors, and commuted daily to her downtown office building. One day, she stopped at home for lunch as she had a meeting in the area. She was surprised to find the 20 year old brit there, drinking tea and talking with her mother. Your mother is fascinating, the brit said, and he seemed to really mean it. How weird she thought, but she was happy her mother had found someone to talk to. In the states, at 38 she felt life 48, here she felt like 28 and it started to show. She started to dress hipper, she found an energy in her walk, she found she was starting to like herself again. One day the brit called and asked about her Mother, he was worried that she might be ill. She was ok, she said, just taking a few days in the countryside to enjoy some fresh air. The brit asked about her husband and it turned out the brit knew as much as she for he was emailing him almost everyday. She asked the brit what he did during summer break and he said odd jobs here and there, teach a little English like every other foreign student. She didn’t know why but she offered him a job right then, to teach English at her company even though she had never thought about it before. He started to come teach two days a week for small group lessons and 1:1s. When she saw him teaching, and laughing, with a younger female employee of hers she felt a strange surge through her. Ger a grip she said. After the first couple of weeks the interest in the training had died down a bit and one day no one showed up. The brit was told to go home, that they didn’t need him that day, so no pay. The brit was outraged and cursed his way out of the building. When she found out she called him on the phone, apologized, and said of course he would be paid. It’s just some of the local people don’t understand the principle of time the same way. She asked him to please continue teaching. He said he would. And she felt something let go inside of her. Relief? Joy? Whatever it was, the brit seemed to sense it and asked her to buy him a pizza at a favorite expat place, joking that she owned him at least that. She said sure. She went straight from work to the pizza place. She washed her face, pulled back her hair, left the sport jacket, and unbutton the top button on her blouse. Well, the top two buttons. She felt a bit flush. Get a grip, she said. She arrived at the pizza place and sat next to the brit, on the same side of the table as him. She did this without even thinking. They talked easy, bumped shoulders a bit, and laughed a lot. She noticed his small wrists, the V of his back, and they way his glasses tipped when he smiled. She was too old for this, but she had a crush. They headed for the nightclub next and danced. She undid one more button and got a sweat going. The brit took her close after one song and kissed her. Nice lips. They had a good time that night, and for many nights after that. The brit continued to visit her mother and exchange email with her husband. ...

I think being connected is the key to peace. Connected with a friend or two. Connected with a lover or two. Connected with a wife, or two. Connected with a city. Connected with a movement. Connected with the environment. Connected with yourself. Connected with your kids. Connected with your work. Feeling connected isn’t the same as being connected. At times I feel connected. And briefly I will feel at peace. For some, this is as good as good is. Some of us our broken, unable to connect in a sustained way. Unable to connect to anything that matters. We connect to books, movies, a piece of music. We connect to a tear. We connect to these transitory things just to feel connected. Some of us make many personal connections just to feel connected ourselves. Some of us make no personal connections; the fear of not being connected is too great. But feeling connected isn’t being connected. The other night I had a dream that made me feel connected. I have these dreams a half dozen or so times a year and I always wake up with a warm feeling. These connected dreams all center on a woman ¨C no not that wet dream kind of thing. It’s more about feeling. The other night I dreamt of her, she hadn’t been in my mind in that obsessive way in a while but I was having an intense conversation with a friend of hers in real life, so I guess it’s no surprise she showed up in my dreams that night. The dream itself was simple enough, as these dreams go. We were at a conference of some sort and ran into each other. It was not unexpected or a surprise. It just fit. We went to her hotel room where I knew two of her male friends had spent the night. I was relieved to see two sets of sofa beds appearing slept in. Made me think she didn’t have sex with them. Then somehow we ended up connecting, in a physical and mental sense, but not sexual. Oh, heck, there was a sexual element, but it was a secondary element. It was something else. We lingered. We whispered nice things. We acknowledged the moment and savored it. It was connection. I woke up feeling connected. But not actually connected. ...

For some time now he thought he was going to die. It was just a lingering feeling that his body was sick and it was only a matter of time. Maybe it was because his grandfather had a heart attack at 42 and his chest was starting to feel tight. Maybe it was because his liver labs have been so-so and that was before he started drinking so heavily. Maybe it was because he was so constantly tired, mentally and physically. Maybe it was guilt coming to get him and make him pay in kind. Maybe it was a simple case of depression and his pride was keeping him from the help he so desperately needs. But mainly he thought it just was his body winding things down. It’s another Sunday night, a typical day for him in Beijing. Lunch with folks he can’t talk too, dishes arriving that he doesn’t know the content of. It used to be an experience, now it’s just time to load up on the rice. Then an afternoon wandering the streets of Beijing, getting back in touch with himself, finding a sense of peace and rhythm. But all the while the sense of sickness was still with him. The lack of energy, the lack of pep. The knowing feeling that he is going to die. Soon. He’s tried talking about it to those close to him. Once. But who wants to here this talk. He looks fit enough. He looks bright enough. But if you probe a little deeper you see the shadows, his struggle to stay alert. But no one looks deeper. He takes solace in this. For he knows one day he will just up and stop and be gone. He thought that day might be today, he was walking along a tree lined northeast-southwest angled road ¨C so atypical from all the north/south, east/west roads here ¨C and he thought he was going to pass out. He quickly inventoried his belongings. Would the people who find him know who to call? Would it matter? Would anyone notice? Or would they just push him off to the side of the road and wait for the next bus. Or maybe all he needed was a new pair of shoes. He’s been thinking about getting a motorcycle, well a scooter if truth be told, but it’s hard to navigate the shops when you don’t speak the language. He’s been watching people on scooters around town and thinks it would be fun. He’s starting to feel a bit careless. It doesn’t cross his mind until someone mentions it that a driving scooter in Beijing would be really dangerous, maybe a car would be a better choice. He thinks of crashing and getting hurt and it doesn’t seem so bad. It seems kind of neutral. Then he thinks he has obligations and things to take care of and even if he feels these things would be better without him he knows it is not his choice. He really just thinks his body is about quit. One day the sun won’t rise. But it will set. ...

The Mom wakes to the sound of The Son asking for her. She stirs, pleased, ready to face another day. The Son said “cheerios, cheerios”, as The Mom pours the milk onto the cereal in the small plastic yellow bowl. The bowl came with the box of cereal, total cost 14 kuai. The Mom walks the bowl over to The Son, who sits transfixed on cartoons. She spoon feeds him, he without looking knowing exactly when to open his mouth to allow the food in. Her, knowing how fast to feed him. They do this every day and they have a rhythm. The Man walks into the room, points at The Son and laughs with him. He barely acknowledges her presence. He hasn’t touched her in weeks. Off to work The Man goes. After breakfast she gives The Son a bath, checking the water to make sure it is not too hot or becomes too hot. She washes him with care, keeping the soap out of his eyes, and letting him play with the little plastic duck. Yesterday it was a dinosaurs. Most days, if the weather was right, she will take him to Ritan park to play on the sides and such. Today is one of those days. It is a 15 minute walk and she carries him most of the way but she doesn’t mind. The Mom is doing her job. Its time for lunch by the time they get home. The old nanny has prepared dumplings. It’s The Son’s favorite, besides ice cream that is. He wants to eat in front of the TV and she has resigned herself to whatever works. Whatever works. The Son grows tired and asks for The Mom to hold him, to put him to sleep. She does, without complaint. While he sleeps she takes a break too, but only briefly. There are household chores to do and what better time than when The Son was sleeping. The afternoon found them at the indoor playground. Other mothers walking up to her saying how cute The Son was. Saying how a foreign baby mix was always the best. She could not disagree. She left him to play with his ultraman and dinosaurs, telling himself a story that only he knew, so she could concentrate on making dinner for the family. The Man would not be home for dinner tonight, stuck at work again. She did not mind much. After dinner and after desert, when the house was quiet and The Man still away, she grabs her cell phone. She has a text message from her father asking her to call. She does. Her father says her brother needs some money. He will open a small store in their home town. The Mom now The Sister wants to help, yet she is worried. How much money, she asks. The father tells her. She tells him, of course, she will help. This is family duty. But Father, that is more money than I make in a year. The father asks The Daughter to use her savings and ask her husband for his. Of course she will. Her family duty is clear. She text messages her husband and then calls him. He is not happy, they’ve been working and saving for a long time and they will have to start all over again. She persists. He gives in. She finds a new respect for him, holds the phone to her heart, then says thank you and hangs up. She hasn’t seen her husband for almost a year, just before she left that small town for the northern big city and he for the southern big city. She looks at the phone, sees the picture of her son on its display. Not as cute as that foreign baby maybe, but all hers. The Man sits in the back of the taxi, exhausted from work and reading a story from an expat rag that strangely makes him cry. ...

My son places his toy airplane (as opposed to his real one) on the keyboard while I type and then rolls over and continues his flight. I’m sitting in bed, HBO on because I couldn’t find cartoons for him to give me the space I need to wine down. My daughter is being walked to sleep down our apartment building hallway by the Ayi. Another plane crash on the keyboard and then he’s off again. I wonder if I ever played like that. I doubt it. And I mean I doubt it in a serious way. Another crash. I remember having toy soldiers as a kid and being excited by the idea of playing with them but when I actually did it I was bored. I am always bored and disinterested except by work and things that make me think of less interesting things. He’s now telling himself a story. It sounds like a real dogfight. Yesterday was my daughter’s birthday. I left home for work at 7am and returned home at 10pm. I did not see hew awake. Priorities outside of myself are not my strength. The nice thing about having children is you realize what it’s like to be one and what you missed. He likes to crash the planes. He’s asking me to crash the planes with him. He asks in English which is nice because I don’t understand it when he speaks Chinese. He’s now throwing the airplanes. He makes eye contact and smiles a lot. To be a child, for a day, if not less. ...

I’m walking down the hall at work thinking about my next meeting and how not to embarrass myself at it. How not to make a total fool out of myself. Again. It is just then that she walks by me and whispers “I know”. “What?”, I turn and say, but she is gone, down a hall, into the restroom, into thin air, I don’t know where. I wonder how she knows, but I think she must have known all along. It’s the crazy ones who get to me. Especially the crazy, hyper smart, hyper thin ones. I’m not sure why this is. I guess because I know the hyper thin is caused by the hyper smart and the hyper smart is just a façade for the crazy. This, and if they are crazy, then I will seem sane. So sane that I am interesting to the crazy ones. Until they get to know me and realize what you already know from reading this, that I’m the nut in the basket of eggs. Or perhaps, and I think this often, not that crazy ones appeal to me, it’s just than normal people bore me to death. It’s not that normal people are in black and white vs. the color of the crazy ones, it’s more like normal people are white light and I can’t see them at all. So, now it’s confirmed that she “knows” and I can’t live in denial anymore. I wonder why she felt compelled to tell me, this is the question. If I knew she knew and she knew I knew she knew, then what is the point anyway? I just stepped into the elevator. I’m looking down like I always do and I see her small shoes moving fast trying to catch a ride. Do I hit the close button, or open? I hit open, she angles in even though I’m the only other person in the elevator. I press P for parking and stand back. She turns, faces me, stands very close, and looks up at me. I feel her breath. I notice a tiny bit of facial hair. “I know about her”, she says, and she turns and walks out of the elevator. The door closes, I am still inside. Now, why did she have to go and say that? The elevator vaults upward, I exit on the second floor, and race down the stairs. I reach the garage and see just entering her white prius. Ugly car. “Wait!”, I yell. Well, not out load, that isn’t me. Rather, I run to her car and pound on the window. She lowers her window. “What are you doing?” I ask. “Just thought you should know since, you know, I’m one of them”, she says I do not need to look at her sunken eyes again, I knew she was one of them from the first moment we met. “How?” “The tape”, she says, and she backs up and drives away. Always that tape. ...

They say you should dance like no one is watching. Nice idea. People are watching. And judging. I don’t dance anymore. Save for the occasional wiggles tune with my two year old and the ultraman theme song with my three year old. And maybe the very rare caffeine induced shake to kid rock. When I was in the 7th grade, I was not afraid to dance. I was afraid of girls. Still am mostly. Anyway, in the 7th grade it took some courage for me to ask one to dance. So I usually found one I didn’t like that much and asked her. The dancing seemed easy. I few 360 degrees spins, a finger pointing to the floor, and then one to the air. Girls started to ask me to dance. I was cool. Or so I thought. Turns out they just thought the way I danced was funny. In my 20s I married a girl who met her first husband on a dance floor. So, I thought I should dance too. After a go, she decided dancing was no longer necessary for a relationship. When I was 30 and single again a woman asked me to dance. I told her I don’t really dance, but she insisted and I really liked her, so I went for it. A minute into the song I was feeling pretty good, that maybe my earlier self assessment was wrong. In my best self deprecating tone I said “I told you I can’t dance” and she said “now why is that”. She was not being sarcastic. The single life being what it is, I did not wait another seven years before dancing again. There’s this misconception, held mainly by married men, that single guys are getting hooked up every weekend. That they have to beat the women off with a stick. So many choices, so little time! But, the sad fact is, that a married guy getting his twice monthly bodily function action is doing better than most single guys. It is a lonely life. So, with that as a background you can understand why I tried another attempt. After 30 seconds the woman stopped dancing. At 45 seconds she walked off the floor without excuse or eye contact. At 32, one would think I would have learned my lesson, once and for all. I had a new age friend pushing me to dance “like no one is watching.” She was not convinced by my stories. She wanted me to dance. But I didn’t want to dance with her. She was ugly. Well, is ugly, ugly isn’t something you grow out of even if you are Nicole Richtie. So I danced with another girl, one I used to like but no longer did mainly because she no longer did and halfway through the song she said “Vince, what is wrong with you?” expressing real, sincere concern. She also was not being sarcastic. So, now, when I watch my two year old girl dance to the wiggles I just want to giggle. Why? Because, the dancing is hereditary. She dances like her daddy. But unlike him, she truly dances like no one is watching and her joy is unbounded. For now? ps: the only way to dance like no one is watching to make sure no one is. ...

What’s in a name Dear students of boring topics. Today’s lesson is the street naming convention found around Beijing. To a foreigner, the names may seem a bit exotic or mysterious but once you break them down, they are quite boring. The strange thing is, it’s hard to get a local to break them down for you (like say my wife) but other foreigners are quite happy to. Let’s start with my address: 26 Chaowai Da Jie. Well, the 26 is easy enough. Let’s say you are on Chaowai and looking for #26. It is nowhere to be found. You ask the local security guard, where’s #26? He will have no idea. Even if you are speaking perfect Chinese (which you¡¯re not). Two problems here. First, and most important, Beijingers do not use address numbers. The use relative positions to known landmarks. So you would accurately describe my building’s location as across from Kuntai or down the street from Lan Bao. This, the guard would know. The second reason is my building isn’t actually on Chaowai. It’s one full city block south. A smaller street and a 30 story building, Kuntai, is between me and Chaowai. So good luck trying to find me by address. Mapquest would fart. Now onto the name. Chaowai is short for Chao Yang Men Wai. I don’t actually know what Chao Yang means. Strangely enough it’s the same name as my wife but the characters and tones are different. For that matter, I don¡¯t really know what my wife’s name means either except for the Yang part. But, hold on, I know all about the Men and the Wai part. Once there was a city wall around Beijing and every so often along this city wall were gates for people to pass thru. The wall itself was torn down in the 1950s to build a road called the second ring road. The road itself has since turned into a new type of wall, one that goes in the direction of traffic. But I digress. The word for gate is Men, hence the name Chao Yang Men describes the location where the Chao Yang gate once was. Now, onto the Wai part. Simple enough. Wai means “outside” as in outside of the wall. (laowai, are what foreigners are called, meaning old outsider). So a building on Chaowai means a building outside of the Chao Yang Men gate. Moving on. Da means big. Jie means street. So Chao Wai Da Jie, means the main street outside of Chao Yang Men. The word Nei means inside, so Chao Nei Da Jie, is the same street on the inner side of the second ring road. Make sense? If not, check your brain at the door. Ok, moving on to advanced lessons. A block north there is a street called Chao Wai Bei Da Jie. Can you figure out the Bei? What can I say, you are a genius. Bei is north. Anyway, the names go on like this with direction and size variations. North, south, small, large, outer, inner. So, the small street to the south would be Chao Wai Nan Xiao Jie. Nan being south and Xiao being small. The final trick is written Chinese doesn’t have spaces ¨C go figure ¨C so often the street names run together as in Chaowaidajie. Got it? Now you are ready for Beijng. ...

Never wear white below the waist. Enough said. Never dress like euro trash unless you are euro trash. Always wear a belt. Especially with jeans. No exceptions. If you are over 30, never wear a black leather jacket. Heck, no matter you age, ditch the black leather. If you are short, never go with the long leather jacket. You will look even shorter. Never go half tuck if you are over 35. Don’t dress like you are 19 if you are 25. Don’t dress like you are 25 if you are 35. And never dress like you are a 20 if you are 40. It’s not cool, it’s absurd. Androgyny is for the young. Sexless is for the middle age. Don’t confuse the two. Ok, for the dense: ...

My subway stop is Chaoyangmen and this night is no different when I get off. I edge myself closer to the door and when it opens I push, slide, and sometimes shove my way out. I used to say “excuse me” but after a year in Beijing I realize there is no need for such niceties and they will just slow you down. And to be slowed down here means being pushed back onto the train by the oncoming passengers. I make if off the train, and head for the “wai” side of Chaoyangmen. I take the stairs instead of the escalators up three flights of stairs to the street. Very few people do this and I tell myself I do it for the exercise but maybe it’s just because I have no patience for the escalator. There is no down escalator and at this time of night I am greeted by a flood of people walking down the stairs. They make way for me as I climb up, an occasional bemused smile but mainly indifference. The stairs are a bit steep and to make eye contact going down means risking a fall. At the top of the stairs I emerge into the early evening twilight, like an old car reaching the top of a hill and feeling a momentary resurgence. It’s then that I see her, 150 meters away, but a vision. I see long flowing straight here, a lean look, outlines of a pretty face. At 100 meters shape starts to come. At 50 meters I am obsessed. At 25 I think she sees me too, but I cannot be sure. She’s about 5'4", with a round smooth face, young but not a kid, thin but hips, athletic in he walk, smart in her look. People think I have a “type”. The first assumption now is that I like Asian women because I am like in China and married to a Chinese woman. Asian women are the generalization because whites are assumed to make no distinction between the Asian races. It’s all the same to us, and it’s all good, or so the line of thought goes. While it is true that fairly late in life I discovered my, let’s say, aptitude for Asian women, it is not a “type” for me. It’s more like discovering I like vanilla ice cream too when all I knew before was chocolate. Chocolate can still be damn good. Some people who think the “know” me (all five of them) will presume that my type is “thin” or petite because I tend to go for the thin ones and once was with a way too thin one. I can’t say the thin thing ever appealed to me, but if I am honest with myself I will acknowledge that after the way to thin one became what she became I do notice the unhealthy thin ones in a disturbing way. But sometimes it is best not to be so honest with oneself. So, at 10 meters, I can see she is not looking at me. And as much as I don’t have a type, this woman is it. Everything is right. I want to trip her or something. Anything to get to know her. I can feel the initial pangs of a crush coming on. At 5 meters she stops. Makes a hacking sound with her nose. And spits a luggie onto the cement that would make a sailor proud. This is China. This is Beijing. ...