Dumb Foreigner

Last Saturday, I went to see an apartment in a posh neighborhood, because my current lease expires at the end of this month, but mainly because my company increased my housing allowance. “Find me a penthouse in a new building that has floor-to-ceiling windows, offers a great view, and is close to a metro station,” I told my agent. “That’s not going to be easy,” he said, “you’ll have to be more flexible.”

I believe finding the right apartment is like finding the right mate. If you don’t know what you want, you’ll end up with one that no one else wants. “Is that your requirement or your wife’s?” he asked. “I’m single,” I said. “But you’re old,” he said.

On the way out of the building where I rejected all the vacant apartments, I ran into my personal trainer, Sally, and her husband. Turned out they lived in the same building. “You should check out the penthouse,” Sally said. “Tā bùkě yòng” (It’s not available,) my agent told her in Chinese. “Zhè shì. Wǒ de péngyǒu shì lóuzhǔ” (It is. My friend is the owner,) she said.

Sally and her husband invited me to dinner that night, to introduce me to the owner of the penthouse. “And she’s single,” Sally winked. “So let’s do a double date,” her husband said. “Sure,” I laughed, and waved them a farewell as they left the building through the revolving glass doors.

“How can a personal trainer afford to live in this building?” my agent said. “Her husband owns many gyms around China,” I said. “Lucky girl,” he said. “I think it’s the other way around,” I laughed.

Dinner was at 7:00 pm at a Korean BBQ restaurant. I searched the map to look for the closest metro station, but there were none, so I took a Didi (Chinese Uber) and arrived five minutes early. I gave Sally’s name to the hostess, and she walked me to our table. I expected it to be empty, but there was a woman there, reading a book. It must be her, I thought.

Her hair was midnight-black and it flowed over her shoulders. When I came closer, I noticed her scrolled ears, elegant nose, and heart shaped lips. She held the biography of Steve Jobs in her hands, her varnished fingernails covered half of his face. “Love Walter Isaacson,” I said. She looked at me with her rapture-blue eyes. Those are definitely contact lenses, I thought. She placed a bookmark in the center, and looked at the hardcover, “me too, love the way he writes,” she said, and put the book in her Louis Vuitton handbag.

“Hey hey,” someone said from across the room. I turned around, and it was Sally and her husband, being escorted by the hostess. We hugged, and then took our seats. “Looks like you guys already met,” Sally said. “Kind of,” I smiled at my date. “Let’s order food,” Sally’s husband said, “I’m starving,” he picked up the menu. “Me too,” my date said, “I wonder what’s good here.”

I looked at the menu, and it reminded me of my time in South Korea. “Let’s get Galbi, Bulgogi, and Galbisal,” I said. “Are you half Korean?” my date said. “Of course not,” I laughed, “I lived in Korea for a few years. “Seoul?” she said. “Gwangju,” I said, “it’s famous for its cuisine.” We added a few more things to my recommendation, ordered two bottles of Soju, and filled each other’s tea cups. “I should wash my hands,” my date stood up. She had a sculpted figure. “I’ll join you,” Sally got up, and they left together.

While they were gone, I asked Sally’s husband to tell me more about my date. He said that she went to Stanford for her MBA, was featured on the Forbes Top 30 Under 30 list, and recently sold her startup to Google. “She’s got everything,” he said, “brains, beauty, and big bucks,” he laughed. The server brought raw meat and vegetables, and oiled the grill for us. I placed the ribs on the grill, they sizzled, and the girls returned to the table. “Smells good,” my date said.

While everyone ate and paid no attention to me, I thought of impressing my date. I slid the Chinese menu under the table and placed it on my lap. I then scanned it with Baidu translation app. I told everyone how Galbi (beef short ribs) were marinated with garlic soya sauce, and Bulgogi (thin-sliced beef) was marinated in ginger, siracha, sesame oil, garlic, and brown sugar. “Really?” Sally’s eyes widened. “Wow, how do you know that?” Sally’s husband said. “Can’t you taste it?” I said. My date smirked, “I saw you,” she said. “What are you talking about?” I produced my biggest grin. “You’re a scam artist,” she said, and then explained to everyone in Chinese what I did. They laughed.

“Oh no,” Sally said. We all paused. “You didn’t take any photos,” she looked at me. “Photos of what?” my date said. “Food,” Sally said, “he’s a great photographer.”

I wiped my hands with a wet cloth, picked up my phone, and took a few photographs of the food. The server came to our table, stood next to my date, and refilled Banchan (Korean side dishes.) The server’s body blocked the harsh light that came from the ceiling, and it created a pleasing halo over my date’s head. At that moment, she lifted her eyes, looked at me, and smiled. So I took her photo, and then showed it to her. “Wow, you do have talent,” she said. “Tell her about your new project,” Sally looked at me.

I told my date that I had been thinking about creating a series of portraits of Chinese women over the age of 27 who were not married yet, to destigmatize the derogatory term Sheng nu, which means “leftover women.” This might be new for you, but for millennial Chinese women, it’s all-too-familiar concept. Women over the age of 27 who are still single, women who seek advanced education, financial freedom, and a more unconventional life path than their parents. But despite the progressive movement, the message from society remains unchanged: If you’re not married, you’re doing something wrong.

“Hmmm,” my date said. “You know what?” I refilled her tea, “I would love to photograph you for this series.” She took a sip from her cup, “I’m not sure about that.”

I told her that I recently discovered that if we replace the first Chinese character in Sheng nu with a different same sounding character, the meaning from “leftover women” changes to “victorious women" and the funny thing is that the word for victorious women doesn’t exist in the Chinese language. That way we are not creating a new label, we are un-labeling the stigma. When a Chinese person will see the characters for victorious women 胜女, the sound of that word will make them think of the stigma attached to the other word they didn’t even see.

My date rolled her eyes. “Did I say something wrong?” I raised my eyebrows. “To be honest,” she hunched her shoulders, “this is very offensive.”

“What’s offensive?”

“You bringing this issue under the spotlight,” she said, “using that word again will definitely back fire and make things worse.”

I told her that I spoke to over 20 Chinese female friends while developing this project, and the feeling was unanimous. “They all lied to you,” she said. “What makes you say that?” I said, “you are a strong leader in the business world, but not all Chinese women are like you.”

“No,” she put her chopsticks down, “I’m someone who studied gender and sexuality.”

“I thought you went to Stanford for your MBA.”

“I’m talking about my undergrad at Harvard.”

Harvard AND Stanford? Really? Damn, this woman is unstoppable, I thought, but that was all I could think of. I didn’t know how to respond to her.

“Let’s change the topic,” Sally said, “maybe you can do a series on sexy Chinese business women,” she winked.

“Yeah that sounds more suitable for a foreigner,” my date said, “you’re the last person who should do a project about women, and especially Chinese women, you have no idea about our culture.”

“Why not?” I said, “Many girls told me about their struggle.”

“Not girls,” her eyebrows pulled down, eyes glared, and lip corners narrowed, “women!”

I rolled my shoulders in, hung my head down, and looked at the floor, “so…what should I do instead?”

“The food is really good,” Sally’s husband said.

“Maybe you should photograph different kinds of kimchi,” her tone sharpened.

“Never mind,” I gave a hesitant smile, “Sally told me you’re renting your penthouse.”

“Oh,” she looked at her phone, “it’s not available.”

“Since when?” Sally raised her eyebrows.

“Măidān” (bill please,) my date raised her hand, and made an eye contact with the waiter, “Sorry, but I gotta go.”

“Really? Well, let’s at least exchange our WeChat,” I pulled the QR code on my phone, “I’ll send you your portrait that I took earlier.”

The waiter came over with the payment device, “you can just delete that photo,” she scanned the payment code, “and…dinner is on me,” she said.

“No, let’s split the bill,” I said.

She shook her head, and sighed.

“What?”

“You could’ve offered to pick up the tab,” she said, “then maybe I would’ve given you my number,” she grabbed her Louis Vuitton handbag.

“Just because I offended you?”

“Never mind,” she got up, and waved to Sally and her husband, “Tā shìgè yúchǔn de wàiguó rén” (he’s a dumb foreigner,) she said to them, and then gave me a look, “you don’t understand Chinese culture, and you never will, so don’t even bother.”

“But I was trying to help,” I said.

“Maybe stick to food photography,” she said, and walked out of the restaurant.