Apologies to My Censor (16 page)

T
he weeks after Julia and I broke up were terrible. I felt gutted. But deep down, I knew I had made the right call. I ached—and would for months to come—but as spring arrived, I grew increasingly comfortable with my newfound independence.

Still, I reentered the dating game with some trepidation. After two years in the capital, I'd learned that dating in China was considerably different from dating in the West. Most foreigners lived in China for a finite period—a few months, a year, a few years—and for that reason the expat lifestyle often felt a lot like college. There was a lot of binge drinking and random hookups. Relationships tended to be short and sweet. Many people, like Julia and me, learned the hard way that maintaining a serious relationship between two individuals from different corners of the globe in a foreign city could be difficult, especially when both parties planned to eventually leave. Once burned, many people, like myself, were wary of making the same mistake twice. As a result, there were a lot of single expats in Beijing. And for a single man in his twenties, it could be a lot of fun.

I don't want to speak about their dating experiences on behalf of foreign women in Beijing, but I can say that many of my female friends complained about the talent pool of foreign men in the city. A few of my best women friends called their pub quiz team “The Goods Are Odd”—“the goods” being Beijing's population of foreign guys, “odd” being the best way to describe them. Beijing did indeed draw a strange assortment of expats, and there was no shortage of young Western men who wanted to use their time in China to mostly get drunk and chase girls.

Foreigner-Chinese dating was a whole other world unto itself. As a disclaimer, I should say that there are many successful, loving, long-term foreigner-Chinese relationships. But in my experience, I found that dating between foreigners and Chinese could be complex and often volatile. The very concept of “dating” is entirely different for many Chinese; in fact, very few actually
date
at all. In the West, a single person might try out different partners without commitment, dating several people at once. Sex is usually introduced into the equation long before there's any mention of “boyfriend” or “girlfriend” or “exclusive” or “relationship,” and most definitely before “love.”

In China, it can be the
exact
opposite. “Love” might be uttered at the very beginning of relationship, via text message, or in wild, teary declarations after the first date. In the West, couples ease into relationships; in China, they dive in headfirst. A lot of foreign men living in China take advantage of this dynamic, but the aftermath is usually nasty. I tried my best to avoid dating anyone who was interested in a serious relationship when I wasn't, but I learned the hard way, more than once, the stark differences between East and West concerning matters of the heart.

Not long after I had arrived in China, almost two years earlier, I met a nice young woman with the English name Mary who attended business school at the university across the street from
China Daily
. She was pretty and smart and spoke perfect English. We met one Saturday night at the Noodle Shop, while my friends and I were drinking at a table across from her and some of her classmates. My initial intentions were straightforward: to take her home. She withstood my initial charms but agreed to meet me for coffee later that week.

After I sobered up and we went for our coffee, I knew that we wouldn't be more than friends. She was sweet, but she was too young and a bit naïve and I didn't want to take advantage of that. We met for coffee a few more times, and one evening we went for a stroll by the polluted river near
China Daily
. She told me about her family and friends and said she was moving to Shanghai after graduation to work for a European shipping company.

She complained openly about the Chinese government, and I was surprised by her hostility toward it.

“You know, a lot of students apply for Communist Party membership. But I didn't.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't believe in it.”

“Really? Do you think China would be better off with a democracy?”

“Of course it would be better. I think ninety-five percent of Chinese people believe that.”

I enjoyed talking to her and regretted that she was moving. We could have been friends, I thought. But I could tell she was thinking differently. She seemed to be looking for some assurance that I found her attractive.

We walked back to the university and sat on a bench near the basketball courts. She was silent for a few moments and then turned to look at me.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

“Okay.”

“What do you think of me?”

“I think you're great.”

“Do you like me?”

“Sure, I like you, but to be honest, I'm not looking for a relationship or anything.”

She looked toward the empty basketball courts.

“So we're friends, right?” she said.

“Yeah, we're friends.”

A few days before she left for Shanghai, we went for coffee at the university. I wished her luck, shook her hand, and we said goodbye.

Later that night, I was playing pool with Rob in Sanlitun when my phone rang. The voice on the phone explained that she was Mary's friend.

“Where are you? Mary is very drunk,” she said. “She wants to talk to you.”

“Me? Why?”

“I don't know. She just says she wants to talk to you. She's very drunk.”

“I think maybe you should take her home and have her call me tomorrow.”

A few minutes later, Mary called me herself. She was weeping and said she had to see me right away. She said she was downstairs from the bar I was in, waiting for me.

When I found Mary in the busy alley below, she was almost hyperventilating. Her eyes were red and makeup-smeared.

“Whoa, what's wrong? Why are you crying?”

She took a few deep breaths.

“What?”

“I . . . I . . . love . . .”

I knew it was coming, but I tried to stop it anyway.

“Please don't say—”

“ . . . you.”

She started wailing. “I have to tell you this. I love you.”

“But . . . but we've only known each other for two weeks. And we're not even dating. We're just friends. Remember? We talked about it.”

“I know,” she said between flustered breaths, “but I feel like . . . we're more than . . . just friends.”

“Even if we
were
more than just friends—which we're not—you're moving to Shanghai in a couple of days.”

“I thought . . . we could do . . . long distance.”

“Long distance? No, that's not an option.”

The floodgates were opening. I didn't know how to handle the situation so I stiffened up and leaned against a railing, waiting for her to stop. After a few minutes, she calmed down and dried the tears from her eyes.

“Can I ask you a question?” she said.

“Uh, I'm not su—”

“Did you ever like me?”

“Yes, I like you. But just as friends.”

“Okay,” she said, sniffling. “Friends.”

We shook hands, as friends, and never saw each other again.

N
early two years later, the first date I went on as a newly single man in Beijing—not to mention one of China's 100 Hottest Bachelors—was with a girl named Mei Mei (which means “Beautiful Beautiful” in Chinese). It was a disaster.

Mei Mei was a Beijing socialite and had a reputation of dating guys with money, something I decidedly did not have. We had met through friends the previous year but had barely spoken the few times we'd bumped into each other. She was the type of girl who when she walked into a bar all eyes turned to her, and not always in a good way. The kind of girl whom guys fantasized about and women loathed. She wore laughable outfits, a ton of makeup, and carried herself with an air of condescension. She was intimidating, and maybe because of that she was surprised when I asked her out for dinner out of the blue one night. (I was slightly inebriated.) She said yes and a few days later, I texted her to arrange a time.

We met outside Workers Stadium. As she stepped out of her car, my heart started pounding. She was wearing jean shorts that were the size of panties. Six inches of her tiny belly were exposed. A belly-button ring glittered. Her heels were four inches high, and she had fake eyelashes extending off her eyelids like hair combs. She looked absolutely, totally, 110 percent absurd.

I panicked for a second at the idea of one of my friends spotting us together. Thinking on my feet, I suggested we go to a Chinese-owned Italian restaurant across the street, where, after two years in Beijing and many times passing by the establishment, I had never seen more than one or two patrons dining at a time.

She agreed. I exhaled.

I ordered spaghetti; she ordered a lasagna she didn't eat and coffee she didn't drink. She spoke virtually no English, and I ran out of things to talk about in Chinese after fifteen minutes. I was still taking lessons with Guo Li almost every day, but my conversational abilities remained limited. For the next forty-five minutes Mei Mei smoked cigarettes and texted her friends on her iPhone, while I twiddled my thumbs and prayed for it to all be over.

A few weeks later, I went out with a former Miss China contestant who called herself Angel. She hosted a show on Chinese television and we met at a magazine party. The following week, we went on our one and only date, in the same bar where we'd met. I was feeling melancholic that night and didn't really want to go on a date. I was tired and wanted nothing more than a massage and a movie, but I pushed through anyway, for the story of going out with a Miss China contestant, if nothing else. I arrived early and ordered a glass of wine. She arrived an hour late; I was on my third glass. As soon as she walked in and sat down on the stool beside me, I knocked over my wineglass and it smashed on the bar, sending small pellets of red wine onto her dress. We parted company after an awkward hour. That was the last I saw of Angel.

E
ventually I got the hang of being single in Beijing again, and I enjoyed it, mostly. But more often than not I just never felt on the same page with the Chinese women I went out with. That's not to say I didn't meet a lot of intelligent and charming Chinese girls. I did; I just found it difficult to bridge the cultural, not to mention linguistic, gap. And I shudder to think what many of them thought of me. When I went on dates and had to use my Chinese, I became Tall Rice, and I found Tall Rice's charms to be limited with the opposite sex. Whereas Tall Rice was quick to make people laugh with his poor Chinese and could break the ice like no other, being slow and stupid only went so far with women.

So I mostly went out with other foreigners, but I didn't find anything serious after Julia. I enjoyed the freedom of living in China, and because I was always in Beijing on a rolling basis—maybe another six months, maybe a year—it never seemed to make sense to enter into a long-term relationship. At least that's what I kept telling myself.

M
y extended bachelorhood was good news for my friend Ola, who was looking for single men to put in a bachelor auction that summer. Ola was from Poland and ran an event planning company that focused on things like speed dating. We had met through a mutual acquaintance the year before and became quick friends. She had invited me to her singles events on many occasions, and I always declined. I initially turned down her request to do the bachelor auction, too, but eventually capitulated.

Ola was thrilled. I was skeptical.

“Oh, come on. It'll be fun,” Ola said. “Plus, it's for charity.”

I tried to back out more than once, but Ola kept playing the fun/charity card. A few days before the event, I met with her and her business partner, Allison, at Café Zarah, and they peppered me with questions that would be used for my onstage Q&A. Questions like “What's the most romantic thing you've ever done?” and “What's a secret nobody knows about you?”

My answers were weak, and Ola and Allison exchanged worried glances.

“Come on, Mitch, just answer truthfully,” Ola said.

“These questions are crap,” I said. “If you had better questions, I'd give you better answers.”

“Look, if you
really
don't want to do this, we won't force you,” Allison said, her brow furrowed.

I sighed. “No, it's fine. I'll do it. It's for charity, right? Okay, a secret nobody knows about me . . . I like to watch romantic comedies on airplanes.”

“That's good,” Ola said, scribbling my answer.

The idea of a bachelor auction terrified me. Standing in front of a crowd of women like a circus monkey while they bid on what would surely be the most awkward date ever did not seem appealing, despite Ola's assertions that it would be “fun.”

On the night of the bachelor auction, I guzzled pints of Stella as the crowd started to form. Ola instructed me to “go mingle,” but, instead, I just chatted with a fellow bachelor who was as nervous as I was. I'd brought a few friends to watch: Kathleen and Michelle, two women I had met through friends in the first few months I was in Beijing. They came more or less to watch me squirm, and they seemed to relish the fact that I was so nervous. When they saw that I wasn't only nervous, I was
terrified
, they tried to comfort me. “Oh, you'll do fine, don't worry,” Michelle said.

It didn't help.

The first bachelor went for 800 yuan, about $125. The next went for a disappointing 300 yuan. Only two women bid on him, and I could tell from offstage that he was embarrassed and angry, which is exactly how I would feel—and might feel in a few minutes, since I was up next.

The whole Q&A portion was a blur, and it seemed to me that nobody was paying attention. After my answer about rom-coms on airplanes, the bidding began.