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.