by Taylor Dean
To our surprise, the door leads to the tiniest kitchen known to mankind.
“Calling this a strange layout would be a complete understatement.” Dakota steps inside. There isn’t any room for me to join her.
“I guess we won’t be cooking together any time soon,” I say.
Dakota laughs with disbelief. “Is this for real? We have a sink, a hot plate, and some other contraption that resembles a hot dog roaster at a convenience store.” She fiddles with the odd device. “Oh, it’s a dish sanitizer. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
I point to one corner. “Looks like we have our own washing machine.” It’s the size of a medium cardboard box. We’d be hard pressed to fit one entire load inside.
Dakota cringes. “No dryer. Guess that means we have to air dry our clothing. Good thing we have a balcony.”
We walk back inside our main apartment. Our room also includes a mini-fridge, a TV, and a water cooler that offers both hot and cold water.
“Nice. With the hot water we can make noodle cups,” Dakota says as she flicks the TV on.
Chinese cartoons come to life on the small screen, the sounds unfamiliar and strange, making me feel as though I’m on some sort of alien planet. “Where are we?” I say and we both start to laugh.
“Not in Kansas anymore. That’s for sure.” Dakota collapses onto her bed.
I follow suit and take a deep breath. “I love it.”
“Me too.”
We face each other and smile.
Dakota raises her eyebrows. “We’re gonna have a great time.”
“Yes, we will.” Having a wonderful roommate will certainly contribute to my experience in China and I thank my lucky stars for Dakota.
I close my eyes, feigning sleep. As much as I love Dakota, I need a little peace and quiet to absorb my new life.
My mind wanders to Paul. Every moment brings me closer to him; every tick of the clock, every beat of my heart.
He is close. I can feel it.
I’m coming for you Paul.
“IT IS MY honor to order for you,” Tao says, after we’re seated at Chairman Mao restaurant.
I feel refreshed and ready to enjoy the evening. After a brief nap, Dakota and I found the computer room down the hall. I sent my sisters a quick email, letting them know I’d arrived safely, and Dakota sent her boyfriend a quick message.
The food arrives in several bowls and platters, neatly placed on a lazy Susan in the middle of the table. We are each given a plate and we can choose whatever we want. There are pig’s feet, chicken feet, fish balls, and many other things that downright frighten me. The shrimp still have their eyes and antennas attached and I don’t like the way they are looking at me. The bowl of chicken noodle soup seems safe until I notice it has a chicken head floating in it and my stomach turns. I’m simply not that adventurous. To my surprise, I actually have to request rice. I thought it would be served with everything, but apparently not. I end up choosing a noodle dish with a light red sauce, intermixed with bits of chicken and green onion. It seems harmless and smells appetizing.
Looks can be deceiving. It’s delicious, but very spicy. The more I eat, the stranger I feel. Soon my lips feel numb and my mouth feels like it’s on fire. The heat seems to take on a life of its own as it enters my body, getting hotter and hotter until I’m positive I’m about to explode. When I glance at Dakota, there are tears running down her face—and not from emotions.
“It’s a bit hot for me,” she squeaks.
Tao and Luli giggle under their breath. They’re enjoying this. However, their faces darken when Stacy refuses to eat anything, looking extremely unhappy. SEN warned us that this is very offensive behavior to the Chinese.
“Stacy,” Dakota says, “Why don’t we order something else for you?”
“The rice is cooked to perfection,” I add.
She just shakes her head. “I hate rice.”
So far, Stacy has ignored all overtures of friendship and I don’t know what to make of her. Something tells me she doesn’t really want to be in China. But I worry she’ll pass out if she doesn’t eat something.
Not so with Hunter. He’s eating voraciously; sweat beading on his forehead, completely in his element. “This is burning my face off, but I love it.”
I cautiously try a fish ball and find it still has small bones in it. I surreptitiously spit it out into my napkin before those bones turn into tiny slivers in my mouth.
Jason makes Lori close her eyes as he surprises her with each bite, and vice versa. They live in their own giggly little world and everyone chooses to ignore them.
All we’ve been given to drink is green tea. When I request water, they bring me hot water, and I have no idea what to do with it. Upon further inquiry, I find that bottled water is the only cold water and it costs more than a glass of soda, so I settle on Sprite. Everyone else follows suit.
Tao and Luli seem thoroughly entertained by watching Americans eat Chinese food, and I’m pretty sure we’re all making spectacles of ourselves.
During the course of dinner, Tao and Luli are very informative.
“The children who attend Zhongshan Academy are the children of prominent businessmen and NATO scientists. The parents want them to go to America or Europe to study one day. We must give them the skills they need to reach their goals.” Tao bends her head in a deep nod.
“We will begin your training tomorrow morning.” Luli takes a bite of the dreaded noodle dish without so much as a blink and I feel impressed. “You can call me Mary if you would like, but I prefer my Chinese name.”
“Mary?” Hunter blots his face with a napkin. “You have an English name?”
While accented, Luli’s English is perfect and very proper. “Yes. Every English student in China is given an English name at one time or another during the course of their studies. Some are given their English names in kindergarten, others later in life. It all depends on when they begin their study of English. Some names are chosen by their teachers, others have their names chosen by their parents.”
“My English name is Celina.” Tao uses her chopsticks with notable dexterity. I try to watch and learn, but feel as useless as a baby trying to write her name. “I prefer my Chinese name as well, but you can call me Celina if it is easier for you.”
I vow to call them by their Chinese names, silently committing them to memory. They might be different, but they certainly aren’t hard names to remember.
“Do we get to name our students?” Hunter asks, excitement in his tone.
“Yes,” Tao answers. “At Zhongshan Academy, you will name your students if they do not have an English name already, unless the parents would like to choose.”
“Awesome.” Hunter smiles and Luli giggles adorably.
I have a feeling he’s going to be popular amongst the ladies in China. He’s a cute kid and even I feel a little drawn to him.
The dessert is a bland sponge cake with nuts and red beans on top, but it’s actually quite good. However, the ice cream seasoned with red pepper flakes does not go down well. My stomach rebels and lets me know it’s not happy. By the end of the meal, only Hunter looks pleased. He enjoyed every bite.
Before taking us back to the school, we stop at a supermarket, so we can stock our rooms with a few necessities. People stare at us, in particular, Hunter and Dakota. The blond and red hair make some people stop in their tracks. Some bravely approach to practice their English. A four year old boy, encouraged by his mother, walks up to me and says, “Hello, beautiful girl!” I tell him he is a handsome boy and he smiles from ear to ear as he returns to his mother. With my long black hair, I don’t exactly stand out amongst the Chinese, just as I’d suspected. But if someone stands close enough, they stare at my blue eyes with no reservations. It feels a little unnerving. Evidently my magic cloak doesn’t work in China. I won’t share that news with my sisters. It will only upset them. I promised them I’d be careful and I will. My magic cloak is merely a metaphor to them anyway
.
On the other hand, my mom asked me to stop watching, to find my life. And that’s what I’m doing. So far, so good.
All in all, it’s a fantastic first day in the magical world of China. I find myself in a surprisingly modern city, I feel pampered beyond expectation, and I fall asleep with a smile on my face. Turns out, a change of scenery and a new life was just what I’d needed.
And soon I’ll figure out a way to find Paul.
The Paul. It has to be him.
Chapter Five
August
AFTER TRAINING THE next morning, we decide to spend the afternoon exploring the city. Our group of six easily separates into two trios with everyone happy and no one feeling left out. I’m with Dakota and Hunter. Jason, Lori, and Stacy form the other group. As we part ways, I hear Lori say, “Oh, it’s starting to rain, Love. You know what that means?”
Jason rubs his nose to Lori’s. “Yes, I do. It’s cuddle weather.”
Hunter puts two fingers in his mouth, pointing them toward his throat, and acts as though he’s gagging.
Poor Stacy. She obviously feels like a third wheel with the newlyweds.
“Stacy, would you like to come with us?” Dakota invites, sensing her unease.
“C’mon, Stacy. It’ll be fun,” I say.
“No, thanks,” Stacy answers with a bit of a scowl, returning friendliness with frostiness.
“Suit yourself,” Dakota mutters. “What’s the matter with her?” she spouts as we walk down the sidewalk.
“She has to witness Jason and Lori. Enough said.” Hunter walks ahead and Dakota and I have to walk double-time to keep up with him.
The light shower doesn’t last long and soon the sun is shining on the streets of Zhongshan.
“You know, I’m loving all the t-shirts made with American letters screaming across the front,” Hunter comments.
“Have you noticed a lot of people seem to be wearing t-shirts that say YOUR?” My eyes dart about, taking everything in. The streets are teeming with life, with activity.
“I don’t get it,” Dakota says.
“I don’t think there’s anything to get. It’s just WRONG.” Hunter sings the last word, making us laugh with his comment.
“Doesn’t it make you wonder what all the popular t-shirts in America sporting Chinese characters really say? Probably something equally WRONG.” I mimic Hunter, singing the last word.
“I must have a YOUR shirt. I can’t go home without one.” Hunter suddenly ducks into a t-shirt shop. Dakota and I trail behind.
We each buy a YOUR shirt, the fact that it makes absolutely no sense makes them a fantastic souvenir.
We crack up when we read the t-shirt tag, which says, “Please remove person before washing.” We rein in our laughter quickly, not wanting to appear as rude Americans.
It’s even harder to keep from a good giggle when we stop for a snack at a bakery. The sign says, “Please use tongue.” Clearly, they mean tongs.
Even if they get a few things wrong, I’m still impressed with the use of English. It seems most people know a little here and there. I only know one language and can’t even begin to imagine how to pronounce anything in Mandarin.
The bakery items that look so sugary and appetizing end up tasting like cardboard. They aren’t sweet at all.
When dinnertime approaches, Hunter says, “Let’s go check out Burger, Burger.”
My stomach growls at the thought of American food. “Okay, you had me at burger.”
“After only one day, I’m craving American food. So pathetic.” Dakota shakes her head.
“Not me. I’m choosing something off the Chinese menu.” Hunter loves the food in China and downs it with gusto, fearless when it comes to trying something new.
“Something tells me we’re going to be just like our predecessors and eat at Burger, Burger often. If the school cafeteria is anything like American cafeteria food, we’re in trouble.” Dakota makes a good point and I’m already feeling thankful for Burger, Burger.
By chance, we meet up with Jason, Lori, and Stacy at the door of Burger, Burger.
“Hey guys, good timing,” Hunter booms.
I notice I can look down the street and see Zhongshan Academy in the distance. Burger, Burger certainly sits in a convenient location. I’d absolutely feel safe walking to and from the restaurant by myself. Nice to know. It makes me feel like I have a little freedom. We’re allowed to do whatever we want, but SEN does advise us to not roam Zhongshan on our own. Wise advice. Also, for our protection, we have a curfew. Of course, weekend trips for sightseeing are allowed if we report where we will be at all times. However, going by ourselves on a trip is strictly forbidden.
Upon entering the restaurant, I notice an in-your-face donation box practically taking over the foyer. It accepts donations for the local orphanage and is brimming with various toys.
“Nice,” Dakota mumbles and I agree.
“The American owner is really into helping children. I talked to him yesterday,” Stacy announces proudly, as if he’s her new best friend.
The others walk inside and Dakota whispers, “She’s beginning to annoy me. What’s with the perpetual scowl?”
“Don’t take it personally. I don’t think she’s happy here.”
“I don’t think she’s happy anywhere.”
Once inside, I feel as if I’ve just been engulfed by a warm hug. The smells are familiar, the atmosphere homey and welcoming.
Immediately, I’m engaged by the energy in the restaurant, a feeling few dining establishments evoke in me. A sign announces the two head chefs in large letters. Featuring: Julian Andreas and Zan Tang. Another sign announces: Chinese and American Cooking Lessons. Thursday nights. It makes me feel as though I’ve just entered a clubhouse—and I want to join, to feel as though I belong in this local hangout.
The décor is modern and contemporary. The walls are painted in a muted gray color and all of the accents are black. Small red lamps grace each table, giving off just the right amount of light. Perfectly illuminated pictures of famous American tourist sites line the walls and a red juke box sits prominently in one corner. It’s a slice of Americana smack dab in the middle of China. I feel a bit as though I’ve walked through a time warp.
The song “Collide” wafts over the airwaves, making me wonder if I’ll ever collide with Paul. My gut tightens with impatience. No time like the present to make it happen. I have every intention of doing so at the first opportunity.
“We ate here yesterday and it was so good,” Stacy tells us.
Since Stacy hates Chinese food, she’d probably wither away and die without Burger, Burger. I wonder what bet she lost that made her come to China. I have a sneaky feeling she’d been coerced by Lori, and now regrets her actions. It explains her mood, poor girl.
“That’s not all that was good,” Lori says, winking at Stacy.
Stacy turns fire engine red.
“What was good?” Hunter asks, assuming they mean food.
“We’re talking about who was good, silly,” Lori corrects him. Then she wraps one arm around her husband, “I mean good for Stacy.” Her eyes dart to the large open window that gives customers a perfect view of the kitchen. “There he is.”
“There who is?” Dakota asks.
“Mr. Pow Pow—at least that’s what the Chinese have nicknamed him. He’s the chef and part-owner of the restaurant. He’s an American.”
I turn toward the window, quickly realizing the chefs are the main attraction. Amidst the busy kitchen, the only American does stand out. He’s wearing a backwards baseball cap, a Henley t-shirt and jeans. The dinner hour is upon them and he’s engrossed in cooking. It doesn’t take long to figure out how he’s earned his name. When each dish is plated and ready to go, he rings a bell, grabs some sort of spice, poofs it onto the plate and yells, “Pow!” Then he grabs another spice and does it a second time, again yelling “Pow!” The patrons in the restaurant yell “Pow!” right along with him and clap every tim
e. He briefly looks up with a smile and wave before returning to his work.
Stacy pretty much swoons each and every time.
“He was looking right at you, Stacy. I think he smiled at you.” Lori thinks she’s whispering, but I hear every word.
The menu is an interesting one. Although the restaurant name makes me assume they only offer burgers, there are a few traditional American dishes to choose from also. The flip side of the menu offers Chinese cuisine.
I order a double bacon burger and fries, my mouth watering at the thought. When my plate arrives, I realize the “pow” means a dusting of red pepper flakes and the second “pow” means a hint of cayenne pepper. I suppose the added spice appeals to most of the Chinese population since they certainly like their food spicy. As I dig in, I find the spice to be light and it actually adds a nice little kick to my meal.
My eyes are drawn to the unexpected antics in the kitchen. The chefs make funny noises that sound like high-pitched whistles, indicating they are about to do something crazy. Sometimes two chefs will switch spatulas by throwing them in the air towards one another. Then they each catch them perfectly and keep on cooking. This happens several more times with various kitchen utensils and spice containers. When they toss bottled liquids, I hold my breath, sure they will crash mid-air and cause a catastrophe. It’s crazy and chaotic and entertaining. Yet somehow it feels like an interactive experience, as if the customer is involved in the cooking of their food. Not one chef drops a single item that goes flying through the air. Amazing.
I watch the show, captivated. Mr. Pow Pow does stop and look at Stacy a few times. But I catch his eyes resting on me a few times also. Embarrassment for staring at him doesn’t overcome me. The chefs are the main attraction and everyone in the restaurant is entertained by them.
We linger over dinner, even enjoying a dessert of soft baked chocolate chip cookies. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so much appreciation for familiar food. Eventually, the dinner crowd dies down and soon Mr. Pow Pow approaches our table as he removes his waist apron. He’s wearing sport slide sandals along with perfect fitting jeans and there’s something about his casual appearance I enjoy. I imagine he’d be wearing flip-flops if we were in America, but the traditional flip-flops are considered shower shoes here and would be considered unhygienic. He doesn’t remove his backwards baseball cap. I deduce he doesn’t care if people judge him by his laid back appearance. The artful stubble on his chin screams informal and unfussy—and I like it.