Out of rhythm, crazy world

Last week I came across a girl who referred to those in her blogging communty as "blogren", which caught my attention since in Mandarin "ren" (人) means "person". Turns out that Chinglish hasn't taken over the world yet (it will though, it will), they're "blogren" is just a combination of "blogger" and "brethren" . . .

Reading other fine blogs about life in China translates into me writing less, for whatever (could it be confidence-related?) reason. And ZX doesn't help with his complaining about bloggers (mainly girls, he says) who write about what they ate for breakfast, and expect people to care.

This morning I did not have the best baozi in the world, as I'd planned - the place was closed for Dragon Boat Festival (and quite rightly, who would eat anything but zongzi anyway?) Instead, Starbucks mocha in a mug is my reward for working straight through this three-day holiday. Pleasurable work though, for the most part, a lot of it coming down to organizing - the files on the laptop, good teaching materials I've collected, the pile of papers on which half-finished poems are scratched sideways between a row of my practiced Chinese characters. Which stack do those go into?

It feels strange to be all collected and put together. It is not me, yet it is. I am pleased with myself, though I realize the trade-off is being out of rhythm with the life outside. Early on the morning of the third day, when I walk with my laptop towards wireless at Starbucks, the streets are nearly deserted. The exception is the piles of nearly round watermelons - on four different corners - and their squatting sellers, and buyers. If you're not still lounging in bed you're supposed to be preparing for gathering with friends or family. The watermelon is insanely cheap - under one kuai for a jin - but I will ignore them. Later I have a twelve-kuai cranberry-orange scone heated in an stainless-steel industrial size oven that bings when the allotted heating time has passed.

Outside the Starbucks an old man in a purple dress shirt stands on the sidewalk pointing and yelling at the bikes that come toward him in the fenced-off bike lane. I ask one of the workers if he often comes here, and if she knows what he's saying. She thinks I'm pointing to the American guy in khakis who's reading his little travel Bible under one of the green umbrella-d tables outside. "Do you know what he says?" I repeat, and she says, "Yeah, he speaks Mandarin, so we can understand him. He comes often, always drinks coffee and reads his book."

I point again, "No, the guy out there!" She hadn't noticed him, and doesn't know what he's ranting about. "I can't figure out if he is saying something specific or if he ..." I trail off, and she finishes for me, "has a sickness of the mind." Silently, we watch him yell for another half-minute, then he gets on the bike he is standing beside, and pedals away.

The moth that was fluttering pitifully around inside escapes with the couple that leaves, pushing the creaky glass door wide in their awkward slow exit, she hanging on his arm held limp. As they shift around the door, the jazz music playing on the sound system and the weaving of her hips in the silky dress make me think of that sexy Hong Kong movie all in smoke and mist and silence. (Damn, what's the name?) The moth flies just in front of them until they reach the street, and the beauty of it makes my throat tight.

Closer to lunch the place fills up. The couple beside me lay their sleeping four-year-old daughter face down on the soft chairs by the big windows while they comment on a magazine in a mix of Mandarin and English. But when she wakes up they add German? Is there a fourth language as well? No way. That'd be crazy.

The next couple is also caucasian guy-asian girl. When she goes to pick up his sandwich from the counter he jokes with the friend (who talks about how busy she is dealing with customers from Egypt and Russia and Norway) about the other English word for wife: "slave." Then the two girls do the standard "Can you understand when we speak in Chinese?" He can't.

He seems like a nice enough guy, but I am secretly pleased when the businesswoman answers his "You don't have an easy life!" attempt at conversation with an impassive "No" and then turns back to his wife and back to Chinese, to complain about the crazy training schedule at her work. The wife is sympathetic. "Wow, that really is too much," she coos before they briefly switch back over to English to joke about husband being like a character out of Prison Break.

(Though I will not renounce my pride about last night's delicious homemade tortilla chips and salsa), I am aware that I am, um, judgmental and arrogant. And I knew that even before I overhear that the blundering can speak Swedish and German. Knowing language impresses me . . . and businesswoman, who says, "Oh my God, it's a huge potential market!" (One of her associates evidently wants to set up some kind of deal focused specifically on Scandinavia!)

But he begs to differ and because the biggest city in Sweden is only 1 million people.

Businesswoman talks about how empty the streets are in Europe. Especially after five or six in the evening, you almost can't see a single person out and about. Yeah, everything closes pretty early, they all agree.

"How can the people go buy things?" businesswoman wonders.

"Saturday," he says.

"But what if they forgot to buy something? Say I forgot to buy, I forgot to buy an ... onion?"

"Oh, the food markets are open," he says.

"No," his wife disagrees. "Even the grocery stores close at five or six. Only 7-11 is open. If you're hungry, you have to go to 7-11 and get a sandwich or something."

Even the bars are closed by one or two o'clock, they say. What a crazy world.