Chapter 295

Yet another day. It’s a bit eerie how the weather went from maple-syrup-sticky hot to hoodie cold in such a short time. It’s quite nice but it makes getting out of bed and getting in and out of the shower a bit harder.

I had been corresponding with the scribe behind the Nunavut-based black metal radio show, and he asked me to compile a playlist of Chinese tracks for a future episode. Challenge accepted. So I listened to a lot of good ol’ 黑金 throughout the day, and explored some newer and classic bands.

I taught my classes, and did a 40-minute invigilation period right after the lunch break. Everything went smoothly. I was ready to go teach Crazy Class when their head teacher told me it’s been cancelled, and the students were going to practice their parade for the opening ceremony of sports day. Great! So it meant my weekend was to start earlier, and I could just keep working on this black metal compilation and the description of the bands. I went to refill my tea bottle, and when I came back I was told that the class would be happening after all. The students were particularly crazy, but I got it done and at least it wasn’t boring.

I went home, walked the dog, and went to play badminton. I played for about an hour, which is enough for me. Most of them stay for two hours, but I get bored after a bit and also I just want to do a bit of cardio and active rest, not drain my muscles completely, already a bit sore from yesterday’s lifting. Then I went to a Xinjiang restaurant, with only a few customers at that late hour. They stopped making that meat pie I like so much, so I ordered a pile of mutton on some thick nang bread, and it hit the spot.

I rode to the bar, which had recently undergone renovations. The look was a bit more sleek and streamlined, compared to the more gritty decor of yesteryear, with people signing their name in chalk on the wall, and an assortment of national flags hanging from the ceiling. The new face will no doubt please the increasing and encroaching Chinese clientele, and we can’t really blame the owner for (intentionally or not) making the bar more attractive to these big spenders, compared to the notoriously penny-pinching laowai crowd. I got myself a Guinness and sat with a British pal, and as usual, we talked about history, a topic we’re both passionate about. Then he and his girlfriend left, I paid my bill and was about to head out as well just as a bunch of the guys came in, so I thought what the hell, might as well stay for another drink. One guy I work with told me a story I wasn’t even aware of: last year, a young female economics teacher got involved with a tenth-grade boy, and they got caught after being sighted in Starbucks and posting things on social media together. She got fired, or rather her contract didn’t get renewed, and the student is still there. That’s creepy as all hell, and it’s not the first time I heard of a story like that in China, always involving a young female teacher and a male student. At another school I worked at, they even got caught fooling around in the office at night by the big boss principal, and the student jumped out of the second-story window to escape, shattering his ankle. I heard of the story only months later, but I did remember vividly the student limping for a few days.

(Whether or not I also did things with that young cute teacher around that time, which makes the whole thing even more disturbing, is something I will only talk about in the presence of my attorney)

Anyway. We sat there shooting the shit a bit longer, and once again I paid for my Maker’s Mark and was about to leave when a bunch of guys waved at me from a corner table. They had a bottle of Laphroaig, and the peaty, smoky scotch vapors emanating from their glasses was very appealing, so I sat with them. The Pole who had given me a bottle of homemade limoncello poured me a glass of his new concoction, a coffee liqueur that was a bit too strong, but I imagine ways you could make it a great drink by mixing it with milk or cream. The Portuguese soccer coach was also there, and he told me about the word “saudades” and how it doesn’t have a direct translation in English. That’s one of the biggest clichés I always fight against, not a hill I’ll die on, but one where I’ll reinforce my machine gun nest with sandbags, get extra ammo and supplies to mow down any Portuguese or Brazilian assailant with bursts of “Yes, it’s nostalgia” or “Longing, caralho!”

A great time was had by all. I made it home barely after midnight, and wasn’t very drunk. I slept well.