down Guanghua Lu in fits and starts, the driver alternately accelerating and braking until I am woozy from the motion mixed with the wine. Finally, the car passes through a gate and stops outside the darkened embassy. Charlie reaches over to grab his briefcase and then wrenches open his door.
“Isabelle.” His smile is like an afterthought. “I’m really sorry about this.”
“It’s okay. I understand.”
He hesitates for a second and then says: “I’m going to be away for a few weeks in Washington. But I’ll give you a call when I get back and maybe we can get together then.”
“Great!” I reply cheerily as my heart sinks. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions, but everyone knows that going away for a few weeks is code for “I’m not interested.”
He waves good-bye and slams the door shut. I watch the briefcase swing from his hand as he swiftly walks into the embassy.
“Xiaojie. Ni xiang qu na’r?” The driver turns and stares at me. Where do you want to go?
I glance at my watch: 9:00 P.M . I could go home, but thethought of our cold, empty apartment tightens my chest. “Wait a sec,” I say to the driver.
Geraldine answers on the first ring, but I can barely hear her over the din of music. “Hold on! I’m going outside,” she shouts.
“How’s the karaoke?” I ask when she returns.
“Fun.” She giggles. “More importantly, how’s the date going? Are you calling me from the bathroom to tell me you’re in lurrrve?”
“Actually, the date’s over. Charlie had some sort of work emergency and—”
“Where are you?”
“You’re not going to believe this, but I’m sitting outside the American embassy in a car, and the driver’s staring at me like I have two heads.”
“Come meet us,” she says immediately. “A bunch of us are heading over to Gui Jie for hot pot.”
“Hot pot? It’s like eighty degrees outside.”
“That’s why they invented industrial air conditioners, my friend. Come on, give the phone to the driver and I’ll tell him where to go.”
Geraldine gives swift instructions and soon we are gliding toward Gui Jie, or Ghost Street, a bright and blinking stretch packed with twenty-four-hour eateries, popular for late night, postdrinking binges, the Chinese equivalent of an all-night diner. Touts surround me as I exit the car, clapping their hands and crying out, “Xiaojie! Xiaojie!” But I ignore them and make my way toward Xiao Shan Cheng, which beckons with all the electric glitz of a Las Vegas casino.
“Huanying guanglin!” exclaims the staff as I enter the restaurant. Welcome honored guest. Their voices are faint against the roar of diners, who are packed elbow-to-elbow at round tables of ten. A bubbling cauldron of broth fills the center of each table, and patrons jostle each other to dunk paper-thin slices of meat, orplop fat mushrooms and triangles of tofu, within its oily depths. Already my skin feels sweaty from the humid room, despite the promised air conditioners that ineffectively blow out lukewarm gasps. The place veritably embodies the term renao : it’s hot, noisy, and chaotic, a dining atmosphere beloved to most Chinese.
I wander through the crush of people wondering how I will locate Geraldine and her friends, when I hear a shout. “Isabelle! Over here!” She’s ensconced at a table of ten, the only blonde in the room. I’m not sure how I missed her. “I saved you a seat.” She pats the chair next to her and calls out: “Dajia! Zhe shi wo de tongshi, Li Jia. ”
“Why did you use my Chinese name?” I ask as I wave and smile at everyone.
“It’s just easier.” She shrugs. “So, tell me what happened.”
The story tumbles out, aided by a few healthy swigs of Yanjing beer.
“It doesn’t sound that bad,” says Geraldine. “I mean, he’s probably really busy.”
“I thought it was going really well. But when he had to go, he became a different person, all serious and stern.”
“Sounds kind of sexy.” Geraldine raises
“Isabelle.” His smile is like an afterthought. “I’m really sorry about this.”
“It’s okay. I understand.”
He hesitates for a second and then says: “I’m going to be away for a few weeks in Washington. But I’ll give you a call when I get back and maybe we can get together then.”
“Great!” I reply cheerily as my heart sinks. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions, but everyone knows that going away for a few weeks is code for “I’m not interested.”
He waves good-bye and slams the door shut. I watch the briefcase swing from his hand as he swiftly walks into the embassy.
“Xiaojie. Ni xiang qu na’r?” The driver turns and stares at me. Where do you want to go?
I glance at my watch: 9:00 P.M . I could go home, but thethought of our cold, empty apartment tightens my chest. “Wait a sec,” I say to the driver.
Geraldine answers on the first ring, but I can barely hear her over the din of music. “Hold on! I’m going outside,” she shouts.
“How’s the karaoke?” I ask when she returns.
“Fun.” She giggles. “More importantly, how’s the date going? Are you calling me from the bathroom to tell me you’re in lurrrve?”
“Actually, the date’s over. Charlie had some sort of work emergency and—”
“Where are you?”
“You’re not going to believe this, but I’m sitting outside the American embassy in a car, and the driver’s staring at me like I have two heads.”
“Come meet us,” she says immediately. “A bunch of us are heading over to Gui Jie for hot pot.”
“Hot pot? It’s like eighty degrees outside.”
“That’s why they invented industrial air conditioners, my friend. Come on, give the phone to the driver and I’ll tell him where to go.”
Geraldine gives swift instructions and soon we are gliding toward Gui Jie, or Ghost Street, a bright and blinking stretch packed with twenty-four-hour eateries, popular for late night, postdrinking binges, the Chinese equivalent of an all-night diner. Touts surround me as I exit the car, clapping their hands and crying out, “Xiaojie! Xiaojie!” But I ignore them and make my way toward Xiao Shan Cheng, which beckons with all the electric glitz of a Las Vegas casino.
“Huanying guanglin!” exclaims the staff as I enter the restaurant. Welcome honored guest. Their voices are faint against the roar of diners, who are packed elbow-to-elbow at round tables of ten. A bubbling cauldron of broth fills the center of each table, and patrons jostle each other to dunk paper-thin slices of meat, orplop fat mushrooms and triangles of tofu, within its oily depths. Already my skin feels sweaty from the humid room, despite the promised air conditioners that ineffectively blow out lukewarm gasps. The place veritably embodies the term renao : it’s hot, noisy, and chaotic, a dining atmosphere beloved to most Chinese.
I wander through the crush of people wondering how I will locate Geraldine and her friends, when I hear a shout. “Isabelle! Over here!” She’s ensconced at a table of ten, the only blonde in the room. I’m not sure how I missed her. “I saved you a seat.” She pats the chair next to her and calls out: “Dajia! Zhe shi wo de tongshi, Li Jia. ”
“Why did you use my Chinese name?” I ask as I wave and smile at everyone.
“It’s just easier.” She shrugs. “So, tell me what happened.”
The story tumbles out, aided by a few healthy swigs of Yanjing beer.
“It doesn’t sound that bad,” says Geraldine. “I mean, he’s probably really busy.”
“I thought it was going really well. But when he had to go, he became a different person, all serious and stern.”
“Sounds kind of sexy.” Geraldine raises
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