The hippie

She was inappropriate from the start. She rocked up to the cocktail party in this stretchy lycra ensemble with a denim vest as garnish. Everyone else was in blazers, jackets or suits. She was a hippie. No doubt about it.

The dinner began, we were all seated. The speeches were boring, the starter was average. And for the fifth time, no I will not be drinking wine this evening, but yes, my Chinese is impressive, isn't it.

One thought kept gnawing at me like the buzz of a mosquito in the ear. The presenter's dress needed steaming. A good thorough steam at that and I would gladly do it there and then. Back to reality. The speeches were still going. The whole event was a self-congratulatory cult of personality. Mr Brown (or the German equivalent) would get up on stage at every opportunity and give himself a pat on the back. Oh well done you, what a fabulous event.

Then it was the performances. Apparently those who work in the textile industry are unable to entertain themselves over the course of a dinner, or hold a perfectly reasonable conversation, and so, must be provided with distractions at all times.

They'd asked participants from the exhibition to make 15 minute presentations. There was a witty, dry-humoured British speech. There was a cheesy, we-need-the-audience-to-participate Chinese game show and last but far from least, there was the hippie.

She was American. She was dressed in that stretchy lycra ensemble and that denim vest, all the more garish and offensive in the bright lights on stage. Her performance was spectacular - it began with slow swaying to Chinese pop, and a quick singalong so everyone would know she spoke Chinese. It progressed onto the whipping out of a violin. I have no idea where she'd been keeping it but it wasn't there, and then it was and all of a sudden she's playing, and she's still swaying, and swaying and playing. It was bewildering and far from the end. She had something to say. Forget about staying hungry, and forget about staying foolish. This is all you need in life:

"My first passion is China. My second passion is cotton. And cotton is music".

And that concluded her speech [followed by 5 minutes of literally prancing around the stage like it were a catwalk].
In the words of a wise British man "I think the woman's nuts". Unfortunately, the German thought "she was qvaiiight guuud".

Gustav

Ladies, gentlemen,

One of my favourite (favorite) things to do is to send you long winded, never ending emails. I like giving people presents and my emails are little presents to you all. If we were in England, I might’ve even sent you a letter, though that would be a lot more personal and I’m not sure I like any of you that much.

It’s a sunny glorious day in Beijing and consequently, one of many “good china days”. Yesterday was undoubtedly a “bad china day”, so much so that I felt compelled to go to the gym (the gym!!!) and just needed to exercise all the anger out. Apparently exercise gives you endorphins and endorphins make you happy. They just made me tired, but that was good enough for me.

As mentioned in previous emails, I went to see Gustav the Syrian last night. You know how in Beijing, you tend to meet people and do things (not.dodgy.) that you would never ever do back home? Well that was what last night was...

I traipsed through the hutongs for a good half hour, avoiding potholes and urine, until I finally stumbled upon a faintly lit red door in a sea of darkness. The door had a little sign indicating that I had finally reached my destination and so I proceeded to try and enter. It was most uninviting, I could barely work out whether it was a “pull” or “push” situation, and my “push” was a little more violent than was probably necessary, only accentuated by the fact that I tripped over the little step, making my entrance even more grandiose than it already was. I was met by a large brick wall cloaked in darkness, only broken by a faint hum. As I tried to navigate my way in, the hum became voices and the voices grew louder - I knew I was getting somewhere. It was all child’s play “colder warmer warmer, hot.” The undistinguishable whispers became a discussion about the poor fate of some Chinese girl who had to have dinner at home every evening.
And then there was light. Warm and inviting, I felt like I’d walked into someone’s home and really didn’t want to disturb the scene. There were cats walking around from table to table, the old music being played filled the air with a sense of nostalgia and the patrons seemed merry with their glasses of whisky or their bottles of beer. All but one table that is. In one corner, there seemed to be a serious discussion happening, politics or economics or the likes. Upon closer inspection, it became apparent that the discussion was in fact a monologue, for only one man spoke. The others huddled around him, tensely holding their glasses or peeling the labels off of their bottles They listened intently, shaking their heads at every depression in his tone and smiling or nodding with every inflexion in his voice. And that, my dear friends, is Gustav the Syrian.

a message

Hi Katey,

You came up in conversation today, a friend of mine you never met actually brought you up.

What a sad coincidence.

I wish you had more pictures on your facebook.

xxx