Dedication and Dehydration (Polkahontas Gets a Chinese Hangover)

Dedication and focus run my life in China. I have never been more set on success. It has become apparent how quickly a year actually goes by, and I want to look back on this year with a sense of accomplishment and pride. Practices are hot, river runs are early, and studying for the GRE reminds me how difficult it is to set aside time for schoolwork. But then there are days off, when I am free to do anything my heart desires. A few weeks ago my heart desired to go on an exploratory jog on the other side of the river. I had not yet crossed over to see the other bank where the grass looked a little greener and the air seemed a little less polluted. I ran across the bridge and down a stairwell to find a park with bustling basketball courts, ping-pong tables, a jungle gym, and the most run-down tennis courts I’ve ever seen (and that’s saying something coming from Farmington, New Mexico). Two men were playing on one of the courts, which were cracked with weeds growing out of the crevices, had lines faded from the sun, and no nets. The men had fashioned a net out of string tied to the fence with fishing net draped over it. They were playing with beat up racquets that had to be 10-15 years old. I stopped running to blatantly stare. They uncomfortably took glances at me in-between points. The social acceptability part of my brain screamed at me to keep running.

Stop being a creep, Darrah!

But I couldn’t. I stared because I was soaking in a hard dose of inspiration. These men may not have been great tennis players, but they enjoyed the game enough to make a court out of trash. I was suddenly even more thankful for our oven-like tennis courts on the roof of the wet market. My thoughts drifted to Tennis Fantasy Week back at the ranch in Texas, sitting at the dinner table with some of the greatest tennis players to ever live, and listening to Roy Emerson tell the story of his first tennis court in the bush of Australia which was made out of the clay of a flattened termite mound, sticks, and chicken wire as the net. This raises the question- how bad do you want to play? How much do you want to succeed? Couple this with Ross Case’s story about raising money to buy a plane ticket to go on tour. He reported that he was given a per diem to ride the train when he worked as a courier. Instead of riding the train, he ran his route and saved the money for a ticket. How bad do you want to succeed? Do you want it more than comfort? Do you want it more than luxury? I was even taken back to my own story of coming to the game as a young girl, volleying against the dented garage door all evening until it was too dark to see. My body kept running up the river even though my head traveled to Texas, Australia, and New Mexico circa 1999. I was brought back to reality by a heavy rain that drenched me as I ran. There was one cloud in the sky and it was raining on me. The sun shone through the rain, forming a full rainbow, spanning across the river. The end of the rainbow seemed to be south of the river, just over the place where I work- the place with nets on the tennis courts.

Contrary to everything I just wrote about motivation and dedication, I have had some fun in Zhong Shan, too. As much as I enjoy my life here, I have been quite lonely. I am a very social person and I’ve struggled with living alone on ‘English Island’. Loneliness is not conducive to motivation, so I set out to find some friends. Actually, I set out to read and drink a glass of wine with the hope of finding friends. After my run I went home and took a shower. I put on makeup, which is becoming a rarity in my Chinese life, wore clothes other than tennis attire for the first time since arriving in China, and left the apartment. I ventured to Deyas Café, a small restaurant about a block away from my apartment. I practiced ordering a glass of red wine as I walked. When I arrived, the restaurant was empty and nobody was behind the register. As I turned to leave, a man came down the stairs. I used my well-practiced line to ask him if they served red wine. I had to say it a few times before he understood what I was saying. He gave me a firm ‘bushi’-‘no’ and called a woman down from the loft. As I started to make my exit, the woman followed me out and pointed south. I used broken Chinese to ask her how far and where to turn. I have no idea what she told me, but I started walking south without a clue of where I was going. I stopped at a park to watch kids roller blade, then meandered up the block to the next restaurant I saw. There was a young hostess blowing up balloons for two little girls eagerly waiting. I asked her if there was an English menu available. She and a few more employees scrambled for a few minutes and even brought out their best English speaker, a bus boy who informed me that there were no English menus. I thanked him and left. I decided to try once more before giving up. I walked up the block 20 meters, took a deep breath, and entered the next café. As I tried to ask if they had an English menu, everyone in the small restaurant whipped their heads around to witness the communication failure. I got an uncomfortable feeling, like the ‘being on stage in your underwear’ dream. I thought the stress of trying to find a glass of red wine had made something snap, because I heard an unfamiliar voice in my head- a male voice speaking English. Wait. No. That’s an actual voice.

‘What is it that you want?’ I swiveled around to see a Chinese man at the closest table looking at me from behind his trendy glasses.

‘Just a glass of red wine.’ I stuttered. He laughed and passed the request on to the group of employees that had accumulated. They informed him that they would sell me a whole bottle of wine, but not just a glass. I scoffed, thanked them, but said I didn’t need a whole bottle. They immediately lost interest in me and dispersed. I talked to ‘Glasses Man’ for a few minutes. He told me that there was a new Italian deli next door. I kept up the conversation too long because I was in such shock that I ran into someone who speaks English. This was my first conversation with anyone outside of the tennis bubble. I thanked the man and walked next door. Joe Molese is a pizza deli run by an Italian man. I walked in and was greeted by a man in the kitchen who spoke enough English to show me the red wine selection, which was chilled in a wine cooler. Strange, but I decided that this day was not the day to be a wine snob. I sat and sipped my chilled wine, reading and feeling accomplished. An old Italian man walked in and took the place by storm. He went into the open kitchen and started cooking. My gaze went to him after each paragraph I read, wondering about him. He finally emerged from the kitchen with the pizza he had made. As he walked by me, he greeted me and did a double take. Then he started talking to me in Italian.

‘Ummmmm…what?’ I asked. He started talking to me in Chinese.

‘Ummmmmm…what?’ He gave up and called a waitress, Zuzu, over to my table. For the next twenty minutes, Zuzu translated a mixture of Italian, English and Chinese- a trifecta of languages. The man, Graziano, invited himself to my table, bringing with him his pizza, another glass of wine for me, and two cups of espresso with some kind of awful liquor. Graziano lit a cigarette and smoked as we talked and drank espresso. When he was about to leave, he kissed my hand and bowed.

‘Malto bella!’ he proclaimed. THAT I understood. He paid for my wine and left as quickly as he came. Zuzu and I talked for a while and made plans to reconnect. I left Joe Molese and walked home, buzzing from espresso, chilled red wine, and human connection. A block from my apartment I stopped to buy fruit from the fruit lady.  I made a stab at conversation. I found that I am much better at speaking Chinese after two glasses of wine.  

My night at Joe Molese was exactly what I needed. But a week later I needed another fix. I decided to venture out to a shopping center across town. The parents of a child I teach told me about a great Italian restaurant near the mall. The woman wrote down the name in Chinese so I could show it to the taxi driver. I hailed a cab and showed him the paper. Fifteen silent minutes later I arrived at the mall. It was HUGE. I am not much of a shopper (not like the people here; they consider shopping a sport. No joke) but this mall is a sight to see. It is the Las Vegas of Zhong Shan. It has gigantic LED lights and signs everywhere. The mall was a hive of shoppers, some craning their necks so hard to get a look at me that I thought they might snap. I wandered around with eyes the size of the moon, stopping in stores and boutiques to browse. I bought a dress on sale before deciding it was time to find some dinner. I navigated the streets, stopping people to point to my paper and ask which way the restaurant was. I finally stumbled upon Mamma Mia on a side street. It is a very humble little restaurant with maybe ten tables, the largest of which was full with a group of six people in the center of the room. I was seated and waited patiently for Gulio, the owner, to come take my order. I listened to the flood of languages swirling into my ears. I heard Italian, Chinese, English, and Spanish. I pulled out my Harvard Business Review magazine that I came armed with. Dining out alone is a science that I have mastered. When Gulio finally got to me, I ordered a salad and antipasti. I ate the delicious meal while reading about the human brain and trying not to creep on the boisterous table of 6. I caught eyes with a guy at the big table and gave him a ‘hello’ nod before diving deeper into my brain research.

Stop being a creep, Darrah.

As I was paying, two of the men were coming in from a smoke. The man I had nodded to stopped at the counter on his way in. He was dressed to celebrate in business pants and a white button up shirt.

‘Would you like to join us at our table?’ he asked in accented English. He motioned to his group of friends. I played coy for a second, pretending that’s not the exact outcome I wanted.

‘Excuse me? Join you…..? YES. YES I WOULD.’

I followed Jose from Spain over to his table and sat down to meet Jyrki from Finland, Irene from Singapore, and Simon from Italy. There was a couple with a baby, too. They were getting ready to leave as I sat. The group was out celebrating Jose’s return for a visit. He lived for 10 years in China before moving away for his business. Jyrki poured me a fishbowl of wine as I told them my story and interrogated them about the entertainment in Zhong Shan (there is none). We finished our drinks at Mamma Mia and then decided to migrate to a swanky bar a few blocks away. Simon acted as our translator as we ordered. I tried to think of something simple to order and decided to go for a gin and tonic. This set into motion a long negotiation between Simon, Jyrki and the waitress. The manager, an assertive Chinese woman who didn’t seem to believe in ‘the customer is always right’ American business motto, joined in on the debate. After much talk, she left, returning almost immediately with ice, lemon slices, tonic water and a full bottle of gin.

‘MOQ!’  Jyrki exclaimed!

‘MOQ!’ everybody cheered. Jose explained to me that in a factory (they all work in Zhong Shan because their businesses have factories here) there is an MOQ, or minimum order quantity, to certain items. You cannot buy just one item, so you buy a lot. And let me tell you, that was a LOT of gin. We all talked and laughed as Jyrki concocted a pitcher of the best gin and tonic I’ve ever had. We sipped our drinks and told travel stories about the crazy shit that has happened to us abroad. We gossiped about different countries as if we were at the mean girls table in high school.

‘No, Dallas is the worst. Austin is the place to be.’

Y’es, Moscow is the best. Did I tell you about the time I saw a man stabbed in the subway in Moscow?’

‘Zhong Shan is awful, but if I am away too long I miss it.’

‘You must go to the Philippines; it is so cheap to have fun there!’

 When I started feeling the alcohol a bit more than I wanted to with a group of new friends, I thanked them for the drinks and wonderful company, then jumped in a taxi and found my way home. I wish I could say I had a deep, introspective taxi ride- that I took a second to thank the heavens for human connection and my new friends. But in reality I sent a few drunk texts to America and passed out with my shoes on. I woke up the next morning with a splitting headache and no regrets. I had never been so happy to be hung over.