Pretty Woman Spitting: An American's Travels in China Read online

  We felt a bit foolish, but Linda and Mrs. Gu hadn’t heard us and as far as we knew the rest couldn’t understand what we were saying.

  Of course the communist party secretary was present. I hadn’t thought about it, but it made perfect sense. Communist China has one party and they like to keep a tight watch over things. At all the future school-sponsored meals, there would be a representative from the Communist Party present. This always made me a bit nervous, just like sitting at a table with a cop on duty.

  The huge table we gathered around was set with a white tablecloth and white linen napkins laid under bowls with one corner of each napkin hanging off the table. I later figured out that this was so that you could wipe your mouth on the dangling end. No napkins in your lap in this country. Royal blue Chinese designs circled the inside edge of the bowls and bordered the small plates that were set to the left of our bowls. Propped up on small white porcelain stands next to our bowls were the nicest sets of ornate blue and red porcelain chopsticks I had ever seen. They looked like artwork or hairpieces to me. I had never even considered the fact that chopsticks could be anything other than wood. I’d seen the fancy wooden ones at the nice restaurants at home, but I’d never seen ones made of another material. These were the fine silverware of chopsticks.

  Above the fancy chopsticks there were miniature white teacups with no handles sitting on mini white saucers, two regular-sized wine glasses and another tiny wine glass set above our bowls. I had no idea what to do first at the table. My training as a debutante in the South was useless here. I decided to watch Mrs. Gu, who was seated next to Margaret, for cues.

  First, the tea was served by two thin ladies wearing traditional-looking, blue satin Chinese dresses with white and red embroidery, high, tight fitting collars that were fastened with toggle clasp and short sleeves. In a glance, the women looked identical to me with their thick black hair tied into buns at the napes of their necks, their high cheekbones and long, thin fingers.

  They seemed like they were doing choreographed motions as they poured piping hot water in the baby teacups. I saw that chunks of green tea leaves swirled around in the bottom of my cup. When it settled, it looked like seaweed growing at the bottom.

  There was also no sugar in this tea and no packets of Sweet’N Low or milk to add to it. I kept waiting for them to return with the tray of additives. That was when I learned that tea in China is leaves and hot water. Period.

  When I turned to talk to Margaret about this, she started doing the finger-in-the-air motion at me. Apparently, one of the tea leaves had lodged between my two front teeth. Discretely digging for it, I only managed to bury it further in, but Margaret said that it looked fine, so I gave up trying to retrieve it.

  I was starting to break a sweat under my arms as the steaming tea went down my throat in the hot room. Everyone around the table seemed to have a slight glow about their faces. Then, other servers wearing the same blue dresses with the same black buns and long thin fingers started bringing out small plates of food. First, they brought out plates of peanuts in hot water, plates of curly, brown mushrooms and plates of white squares of tofu.

  The ladies placed these plates in the center of the table, which was raised up several inches. Then it started to spin. It was a gigantic Lazy Susan. I looked for the serving spoons for the dishes, but I didn’t see any. The men started in on the food with their chopsticks without hesitation.

  So the Chinese eat communally with their chopsticks. And they eat in their bowls instead of on plates.

  The unwanted food was pulled out of the mouth with the same chopsticks and discarded on the plate next to the bowl. This was a very strange concept to me. All of the food I put in the bowl seemed to meld together. At home, I liked to have a place for every dish and keep them separate so they wouldn’t touch the other food. In these small bowls, this was impossible. I started just picking up one bit of food at a time and trying not to put anything in my bowl.

  As I looked around the table at the bobbing black heads of hair, the chestnut skin and gleaming, almond-shaped eyes encased in a cloud of smoke billowing from lit cigarettes the men around the table held, I wished that I had a video camera with me so everyone at home could see what I was experiencing.

  Then I got to work, trying to get a peanut every time the small plates slowly passed, taunting me. I’m pretty good with chopsticks after years of eating takeout, but this was just plain hard. Trying to get a hold of these nuts was like grabbing a goldfish out of a tank with your bare hand.

  The conversation at the table was in Chinese and I was feeling more and more like a child at the grownup table, so I didn’t mind busying myself with the slippery nuts. As I drank more hot tea, I could feel the eyes of the people at the table roaming from the top of my head to my pink skin that was getting redder as the room and my insides warmed up.

  After a feeble attempt to grasp some food that made the chopsticks resemble scissors, Margaret picked up a ceramic soup spoon and managed to get a little bit of the tofu as it passed.

  Dianne was trying repeatedly for anything with her chopsticks. One of the directors even stopped the electric tabletop with his hand so she could have a few goes at the curly brown mushrooms. Then, he took his own chopsticks (the ones that he had been sucking on moments before) and grabbed a hunk of mushrooms for her and placed it on her plate. She thanked him and he nodded his head vigorously and gave a huge grin of satisfaction. I later learned that it is common for a host to serve his guests with his or her own chopsticks and it is good manners to attempt to serve the host yourself.

  When President One finally arrived, we all jumped up. Everyone in the room grasped his hand while shaking their heads furiously in deference. They all seemed to be screaming for joy that he was there as if he were the President of China. He was a thick man of average height, for the Chinese, with pockets under his eyes. Shaking hands along the way and bowing quickly, he finally came around the table and took long looks at each one of us. He seemed to be sizing us up. He had a sense of power about him and was obviously respected by his associates. He took each one of our hands, greeting us with a low nod and a faint smile. We did the same.

  The president ordered us to sit back down. Then, the wine was brought out along with many more plates of food. We were offered either red or white wine, but the president insisted, using encouraging hand gestures, that we have both. We were served large glasses of each. Then the banquet really began with ceremonial toasting.

  When the Chinese have a formal meal, they toast in the beginning with brief statements of welcome, gratitude or meaningful comments about the future. Then, throughout the meal, they toast at every sip to one or more people to show respect to the other people they are dining with. They try to toast lower than their companions to show their respect. They don’t toast like we do at the beginning of a meal with glasses raised high in the air. I didn’t know all of this at the time, but I noticed that after taking down a big swig of wine to calm my nerves and prepare me for the rest of the meal that Margaret, Dianne and I were the only people who took a sip of our drink.

  The first toast was made by President One, as Linda translated. He paused occasionally and motioned to Linda with his thick hand to translate for us.

  “Welcome to our China. We Chinese people are so happy to have you in our country.” He went on to say, “You all seem very healthy. We are very fortunate to have you three foreign teachers to give our students much knowledge. Teach them with the newest methods. You will be very happy in our China.”

  Then he led the table in a cheer, “Gan bei,” which literally means “dry glass.”

  We drank. Then, other directors gave similar toasts to us. Then, as everyone sat down, the diminutive and spry Director Li came running around the table to us with some of his white wine poured into one of the tiny wine glasses.

  “Director Li wants to share a drink with you,” Linda explained.

  We stood to have a drink with him. Standing, I was a head taller th
an Director Li.

  He began speaking to us, grinning and bowing and showing us his glass, and miming that we toast with the white wine in the small glass. We awkwardly poured some of our white wine into the small glass, sloshing a fair amount of it onto the table, and held it up in the air for Director Li’s toast. Then Linda translated his words.

  “He says, ‘Welcome to our China.’ He wishes you will be very happy here.”

  The director drank his wine from the glass like a shot. We did the same, throwing back our heads.

  “Gan bei,” the Chinese cheered.

  As soon as I tasted the liquid, I knew it wasn’t wine. It was liquor. We found out later that it was called Baijiu. It tasted like stiff Sambuca that had been left out, making the licorice taste like rancid vinegar. After we drank it, all three of us were choking and holding our chests.

  The Director was so impressed that he began clapping and yelling out to the other directors.

  Linda turned to us smiling and said, “Director Li is very impressed with your strength. We have heard that you foreigners can drink a lot of wine.”

  In China, it is widely believed that all Westerners are big drinkers. In our cases, they weren’t exactly wrong, but I didn’t want to drink large amounts of stale liquor and wine before eating more unfamiliar foods…but we had no choice.

  More directors came around the table to have an individual shot with us. In a parade of bowing heads and shaking glasses that became more and more fuzzy, we drank the stiff liquor with five of the men, who I imagine were the top directors in the room, during the individual toasts. I started cheating and pouring less and less into my glass. The men weren’t fooled, but they only laughed, pointing and speaking to the others, when I did this.

  After the formal toasting with the Baijiu was finished, we sat down as more food was laid out. By now, I was ready to eat to calm the acid-like burning in my throat and my stomach. The food that was presented included what we would come to call “chainsaw chicken,” which is served in bite-sized pieces with skin, bone and meat all chummed up together. Various kinds of cooked bamboo shoots, spicy noodles and dumplings were also served.

  The red wine we drank was thick and tasted like stale oak, but it could wash down a bad taste in my mouth. I found myself gulping some after every other bite of food, frequently forgetting to toast someone at the table before drinking. Luckily, the Chinese forgive foreigners for social faux pas just like we do.

  In the next round of food came several large fish, fried in the flared-up position with heads and tails attached. There was a lot of commotion when a huge bowl of uncooked lobster with a foot-long tail cocked in the air was served. The fish and the lobster were placed right in front of us. We were being honored with a first go at the delicacies. I felt a swell in my chest and almost got teary-eyed as I wondered how these people probably lived at home and how much they were doing for us. Then, I felt the slightest bit guilty for thinking of the Center for Disease Control’s warning against eating raw fish.

  I heard Margaret whisper, “I’m not eating that.”

  With the president staring at me expectantly with a hand poised towards the lobster, I picked up my chopsticks and hesitantly grabbed a big hunk. Just as I got it to my mouth, President One stopped my hand. He took his own chopsticks and dipped a chunk of the lobster into a green sauce in a small bowl on the table. Then he popped it in his mouth. He gave me a smile and a nod to do the same. I followed suit, dunking my chunk of raw lobster into the green dip. When I put the lobster in my mouth I knew immediately what the sauce was. Wasabi. Concentrated wasabi. I felt like I’d ingested a clump of industrial waste. A shot of lightening ran from my mouth into the center of my forehead.

  I choked and the wad of lobster and sauce splurted to the front of my mouth. I smiled through the tears that were clouding my eyes and the table erupted in cheers. Completely forgetting the toasting rule again, I guzzled some red wine and wondered if my stomach would ever be the same.

  After the nearly finished plates of fish and lobster were taken away, noodles and rice were served. I learned then that the Chinese call this the “main course.” The noodles are eaten in the north of China and rice in the south, but because Wuhu was in between we had both. I was already stuffed, but managed to get down a few of the noodles. Their bland taste helped to soothe my scorched taste buds.

  As the meal came to a close, the president made another speech. Linda translated. He said we should teach the students well and again he said that we should use “the latest techniques.” I, however, didn’t know any techniques. He wanted us to be happy in China. He also said that Linda would take care of all of our needs and that he hoped that our visit to China would bring our countries closer to each other. Even though I was sitting next to him, I sunk into a fog because the liquor was taking hold of me and clouding the room more than the smoke.

  By the end of the meal, a sheen of sweat coated my entire body. All of the other guests had worked up a sweat, too, by the looks of their wet foreheads. I could see rings of sweat under the men’s arms and on their backs.

  As soon as we stepped out of the restaurant door, I started shivering inside my winter coat as the sweat on my body turned instantly into ice.

  My stomach felt like a washing machine churning inside me and my skin was puckering like raw chicken. I was miserable on the ride back to campus. I wondered if Dianne and Margaret were too, but with Linda in the van, I didn’t ask.

  By the time we were dropped off at the edge of campus and I made it up the building stairs to my apartment, I knew it was coming. I scrambled to open my front door and the sliding bathroom door so I could bolt to the toilet. I stayed there for the next hour with sweat dripping from my forehead, my body alternately freezing and burning up. I wondered what the world record was for the fastest case of traveler’s diarrhea. I was sure that I had set a new one.

  MIND OVER BLADDER

  China is not ideal for a person with a weak stomach or a small bladder. I have both. Before leaving home, I frequently joked about having to use squat pots – the small pots on the floor that you put your feet around, squat your tail within an inch of and go to the bathroom in, while spraying your feet, legs and clothes with urine. I imagined that I would be bothered by the squat pots like one is bothered by scratchy sheets or an empty jug of milk, but I didn’t know that they would become something that I would think about for hours a day, plan trips around and keep detailed logs of as I traveled.

  The first time I used one the stench of urine hit my nose and nearly gagged me fifteen feet before I opened the door. These “pots” were really holes in the tiled floor with indentations on either side for feet with short stalls surrounding them.

  As I stood looking down at the hole, I towered over the stalls that ended at my waist. This particular pot looked relatively clean, but had a strong odor that hung in the air like rotten cabbage. I finally took a deep, rancid breath and hunkered down to do my business.

  As I watched urine spraying forward like from a shaken two-liter bottle, I couldn’t help but think about how lucky I had been my whole life to have a Western toilet at almost every place I went to, excluding concerts and field parties. Using squat pots was like suffering through using a really rank Port-A-Potty only with the added discomfort of squatting way down.

  Since there was no toilet paper, I wiped with a napkin that Linda had handed me on the way to the toilet. I ran out of the bathroom before taking another breath. That was to be one of my better experiences with a squat pot.

  After the first month in China, squatting itself wasn’t what bothered me. I could feel the unused muscles in my legs getting used to the act of squatting. At first, it felt so strenuous my weak legs would shake. It was scary to sink my bare behind so close to something so foul. And because I wasn’t used to relaxing and going to the bathroom, I had to be down there for a while until I could let go and do my business. Early on, I felt at any minute that I might make a wrong move and my ass would end up touchin
g the grimy stall that was a mere three-feet wide or that it would be submerged in the cesspool on the ground.

  I started to cover my mouth with a wad of tissue before going into the restroom in order to strain the smell and be able to stand entering the rooms.

  I feared the places that didn’t have the pots the most – they had what I called “troughs.” The worst smelling places usually had troughs instead of holes and no stalls. I quickly learned to roll the hem of my pants before entering these bathrooms so they wouldn’t sink into the centimeter of urine surrounding the trough when I straddled the divide. Then, I would hunker my exposed derriere down in plain view of anyone around.

  Worse still, the rest of the people in the bathroom would still stare at me because they had never seen a foreigner before. I wondered what they thought of my white behind. Did they think it looked strange? Did I have acne?

  At times like this, I thought that the Chinese were a lot like people sitting in a subway car in a big city. They wouldn’t give each other so much as a second glance, but I was like a completely naked performer on that subway car so they couldn’t look away. You don’t get much privacy in a country with 1.3 billion people, especially if you’re a white-skinned foreigner.

  One of the first times I saw the dreaded trough, I was in a bus station. It was an eight by ten room and it had one long gutter. Women entered the bathroom, found an open area and squatted down to do their business. There was no line. It was just push your way to the trough and squat. And the stench was overpowering. I had to go so badly my stomach felt like a rock was trying to push its way out of my body because I’d bypassed other squat pots that day.

  Waiting to find a better squat pot in China is like playing Russian roulette. At some point, you’re going to get to the loaded chamber and have to pee in a trough instead of finding a cleaner, less-scented pot.