I’ve been suffering from a bad case of blog block, a condition that just gets worse because the longer I go without writing the less blog-worthy what’s happening around me starts to feel, as though my return to the blog world must cover something truly epic. But wise people have told me this is an endless conundrum, the only way to break the block is to blog. About how much bitter mellon costs these days or the sparkling new 711 that opened up near my office, if I must. Luckily, last weekend gave me enough to work with.
November’s a special time for ex-pats in Chengdu, as with the end of fall come two of the biggest ex-pat-oriented events of the year – the Christmas Bazaar and the Marine Ball. Last year I heard about the Christmas Bazaar in retrospect and felt mighty disappointed I hadn’t heard in time about a Christmas fair in a land with very little Christmas spirit; it may have helped my dawning winter blues to mingle with like-minded ex-pats, Christmas goodies, Santa Claus, etc.
This year we were more prepared. The strangest thing about the Bazaar was how it made me remember that we’re not just 1 or 2 ex-pats floating in a Chengdu sea of Chinese, but one of (on last count) +11,000. An ex-pat community so large includes all the stereotypes you’d expect in any social community – it’s hard to believe that the waspy lady swathed in pearls that I spoke to has also eaten at a hot pot restaurant or used a squat toilet. But she probably has.
bros at the wine table. duh.
Although I have an imported boyfriend and the majority of my close friends are foreigners, my daily life does not include large gatherings of ex-pats or environments reminiscent of home. The Marine Ball was quite clearly set up to bring a little taste of America to Chengdu, as I assume marine balls around the world do for whatever marines are stationed there. Everyone looked dapper, there were special guests (like the Secretary of Agriculture), I ate a lot of smoked salmon and drank a lot of American wine. This was clearly an evening guests anticipated – a great excuse to get dolled up, have a tailor turn out a flashy bow tie for your husband in the same hue as your ball gown, etc. It was a particular privilege to briefly meet the Consul General and observe the dignified yet accessible way he and his lovely wife interacted with the guests, and enjoyed themselves on the dance floor. It was all fun. Until a female party goer decided mounting the VIP table for an unrequested table dance was a good idea and in the blink of an eye all remaining VIP guests had made a swift, diplomatic exit. At least she wasn’t American.
Worth mentioning are the 2 very Chinese encounters that sandwiched my serious concentration of ex-pat time this weekend, encounters that highlight some of the (countless) social contrasts in the worlds between which we are balancing.
Our ayi was over cleaning while Jeff and I got ready for the Marine Ball, so naturally she started “oo”ing and “ahh”ing as she watched our transformation from sweatpants to better than sweatpants. She kept repeating something else to me in between little fits of laughter as I got ready to leave. Finally I figured out what she was so hysterically telling me: [Abridged English Translation] “You have no chest !!!” Yes. It happened.
Then I was whisked away to a ball where no matter what anyone thought of your appearance, affinity for table dancing, or overindulgence in alcohol, such opinions would never be voiced out loud. Not socially “Appropriate.”
Monday night – after my weekend of ex-pat smiles – Jeff and I had a long overdue dinner with our Chinese best friends. There, over egg battered crab legs and abalone (harvested from the outrageous aquariums on the first floor of the restaurant) my friend Jenny put her hand on my stomach and said “Bigger than before!” Also happened. Also can’t think of any previous context in my life when a comment like that would not end my conversation, or friendship.
In case you feel like ordering Alligator.
So yes, in a 48 hour period two of the most important Chinese people in my life called me boobless and fat. And somehow I’m not that offended, or particularly concerned, because life here tends to boost an ego more often than hurt it. I’m OK.
The point is no matter how foreign friendly my weekend may have been, this is still China. And that’s something no amount of Christmas cheer, American patriotism, or homemade-Apple-Fritters-California-Pinot-Smoked-Salmon-Buttered-Foccacia-Bread can make me forget.
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