Latte art by Andrew Feldon

‘I’m sorry sir, we don’t have any wipes; there’s Kleenex on the table right in front of you though.’

I know he was being helpful, but I’m neither blind nor stupid; nor am I so up there that regular Kleenex no longer met my normal wiping requirements. What bothered me the most though, is that I’d actually asked for wine, not wipes.

‘Well thanks anyway.’

‘Anything else I can get you?’

I was tempted, really.

It’s all too easy to get angry at waiters, and many of them will take it too. Waiting tables is mostly a thankless, low-paying job that already places you at the bottom of the social chain. Yet for my money nothing makes my stay better than a genuinely friendly, well mannered and efficient waiter; so when you meet one that is less than efficient, you take it, for the sake of the rest. Farah disagreed.

‘You should’ve told him off, you know; you let them get away with the little things and the overall quality of service decreases. Also, now I’m out one white wine; care to fix that?’

I know my friends, and this little one was more interested in picking a fight, than in her wine, or the greater good and café’s overall quality of service. But one mishap does not a bad waiter make. Two mishaps? Maybe.

‘Hey, I’d like a white wine please, and a latte.’

‘Right away sir.’

And that was that; all it took was a bit of luck and a bit of patience. I’d managed to avoid ruining my evening by sacrificing 5 minutes of it to do the right thing. As he moved towards us a few minutes later, I got ready to turn to my coffee-date with a self-righteous smile and a prepared speech; very glad I didn’t.

‘Your order sir, one white wine.’

The tray was decidedly latte-free; maybe he had to go back for it? But no, he didn’t look like he was going anywhere, anytime soon.

‘You’re forgetting something though,’ I finally said.

‘Oh right, of course sir; here’s your lighter.’

Latte, lighter; yeah I got it. I didn’t much like it, but I got it: ‘I’d also like the check please.’

He laughed out loud: ‘That’s silly, what on earth do you need chalk for?’

I looked at Farah, and she instantly took over: ‘That’s wine not wipes, and latte not lighter. Why don’t you stop hitting that crack-pipe, get your act together and get to work sober! Now, focus, and I’ll say this slowly: check please, and no chalk!

Photo by Okinawa Soba

Tigers don’t care much for humor.

To be fair, most animals can’t really laugh; but if tigers could let out the occasional chuckle, it would probably fall somewhere in between a hiccup and a dying gazelle. I make that kind of sound as well, mostly when flawless Chinese women ask if I’d like an escort back home, and leave the option of post-coital marriage entirely on the table.

‘Home, now?’

‘Oh, sorry what? No, no; not tonight.’

‘You don’t like me? I can be better.’

Of all the illnesses that could befall a foreigner in China, lack of communication with the libido has to be the most frustrating.

‘Libido,’ said I, ‘did you just tell that pretty lady to leave without us?’

It was upon me; destroyer of worlds, bane of men, the force behind a woman’s chuckle, and Viagra’s entire marketing angle. I’d seen this in movies; none of them ended well.

Sometime during my stay in China, I’d been ruined. Whether it was the immense availability of the women, or the total disregard for their opinion inevitably brought on by our inability to communicate all but very basic ideas in English, I couldn’t say.

I was loss, I was despair; I was running to the hospital like a mad man with terminal cooties. A few nights and a dozen blood tests later I had worked my way through half a Chinese medical encyclopedia and a bottle of scotch but, alas, even the sweating dancers in my local club could stir nothing but my newfound stomach ulcer.

‘You don’t know China,’ advised my friend and interpreter. ‘The best medicines are secret; but I think you cannot eat.’

I’d endured duck heads, pig paws and tomato-dipped chicken feet (by God I said feet, not legs!); I was ready for whatever China could throw at me.

‘Why couldn’t I eat it?’

‘These problems,’ he continued, ‘need special medicine; need rare tiger penis.’

Bring it on! Well no wait, let’s window-shop first.

Selling parts of a tiger is illegal, and that translates to a 9 thousand dollar price tag on a complete organ; but of course a small (and ornately phallic) bottle of juice will only set you back about a hundred; a mere nothing for a dire need.

That night I ended up in a club, and another half a bottle of scotch had given me just enough courage to try the elixir; I opened the vial, took a deep breath and prepared for death.

‘You’re not really going to drink that are you?’

She was tall, beautiful and Dutch; but it was her grammar that took my breath away.

‘I’m sorry, can you say that again; or anything else for that matter, in your perfect English?’

‘How about, drop that vile looking bottle and buy me a drink?’

Be still, my beating heart.

Big Pharmaceutical dropped by 2 points, man-kind sighed and jungle-cats everywhere rejoiced. They say beauty is from within, and seeing how I almost drank down tiger mojo I’m now inclined to agree; charm, wit and great communication skills is where it all is.

But I guess it doesn’t hurt if you’re Dutch.

Photo by François

Imagine a world where your pleasure is of singular importance, where everyone eagerly caters to your every whim and defines the quality of their very existence through your level of comfort.

Damn, I should be writing their brochures.

Welcome to your typical Chinese Spa.

Six Chinese women bowed to me as I walked through the glass doors, greeting me softly in two languages. An attendant took my arm and led me to the front desk; good thing too as my legs weren’t going anywhere.

‘First time sir?’

‘First time for everything I guess.’

The attendant wrapped my wrist with a numbered elastic bracelet, led me to the locker rooms and yelled something in Chinese, presumably: ‘Scared Arab coming through. Be gentle.’

If you don’t know what a Zerg rush is then you really can’t imagine my expression, but after a few minutes of adapting I picked an escort from the swarm of Chinese teens that surrounded me. I named him Bruce.

Bruce took me to my locker, flashed my bracelet to the sensor and set up the seating area. Then pulled my shorts off.

‘Excuse me?’

‘No clothes inside. No clothes.’

‘Shouldn’t we warm up to each other first? Can’t you like buy a drink or something?’

‘No clothes inside. Drink inside. Yes?’

I undressed myself while Bruce neatly hung and folded my clothes in the locker. He led me into a large room with more pools than naked people and gave me the low down.

‘Sauna here, steam here, after pool, and scrub. Then upstairs.’

‘What’s upstairs?’

‘After, after.’

I followed his lead. Ten minutes in the sauna, a bit longer in the steam, a round through the whirlpool, the hot-pool, the jet-pool and the cooling pool, and then I hit the showers before heading to the scrubbing room.

Hell no.

It’s something like a Turkish bath, you see; they rip all your skin off with a hard brush and send you out looking like a Thanksgiving turkey; that I was prepared for, but I was decidedly unprepared to have my dingle-berries lifted by a muscular Chinese man armed with milk and honey.

‘It’s OK, I go upstairs now,’ I pleaded with Bruce.

‘No scrub? Good scrub!’

‘No scrub Bruce. Bruce you understand homophobia? You understand gay?’

‘No.’

‘Thank God. Please take me upstairs.’

He led me to the stairs where I was fitted with a robe and shorts. This was a very interesting experience for them as they hadn’t seen a 250 pound man before.

‘You 100 K G?’

‘More like 120.’

‘Oh my god! Me 50!’

‘My little sister 50.’

Bruce said his goodbyes through fits of oriental laughter and a steaming Chinese dumpling led me through an elevator, to a lounge. Things were looking up already.

‘I am Sheryl, and you can sleep here,’ she said.

‘Marry me?’

The chair had a flat screen on a swivel, a built in sound system and came complete with hot attendant. God I was in heaven.

‘Foot massage sir?’

‘Marry me.’

Within half an hour I had 5 women working on me. Count them: one on the foot massage, one on the pedicure, one on the manicure and on for my hand massage; and one that made my head feel as though it were on a cloud. She also cleaned my ears with tiny feathers.

Yeah, who knew.

Bruce’s considerably hotter replacement kept coming back to check on me; she made sure my coffee remained full and my fruit cold. She also chatted with me in excellent English, something you miss when you’re in the mainland.

Two hours later I opened my eyes to Sheryl’s fantastic smile: ‘Massage?’

‘Didn’t I just get a dozen of them?’

Apparently not, this was just the lounge treatment. Sheryl led me (by the hand) past the arcade room and into the buffet. ‘Let’s eat,’ she said. ‘Massage after; cigarette?’

The chef came to the table twice to recommend dishes, and check on our meals. The food was fantastic, but I was not surprised; perfection was their bread and butter.

‘Now massage. Come.’

Yes ma’am.

She led me to the third floor, to what seemed to be a hotel within the spa.

‘Chess rooms,’ she said. ‘You pick girl, she comes to massage. You want A-class or B-class?’

A-class women were the stunners, the eye-candy. They wore schoolgirl outfits and sported smiles that could melt several parts of you simultaneously. B-classes were the massage experts, wore sailor-girl uniforms and could bend you like a 300 pound wrestler. Do I want eye-candy or a fantastic massage?

‘There is no A-class with great massage?’

‘Both? OK no problem.’

Moments later two women – scratch that, two goddesses – walk into the chess room. I got it then, both indeed.

‘We have Thai massage, Chinese massage, Japanese massage, acupuncture and gentle massage. You want?’

I hadn’t the foggiest idea what any of those meant, but hell yes I want: ‘I try Thai today please.’

‘5 hours?’

Sweet, sweet Lord come and take me now.

I was manhandled; these tiny deities bent me with absolutely no regard to Newtonian physics. They used every single part of their bodies to squeeze, bend, twist and pull every single part of mine; and if I could think of a simile better than two beautiful Chinese women bending you I’d use it here. Time flew.

‘Twenty minutes left, happy?’

‘Very, very happy. Completely happy.’

‘Happy now?’

As opposed to in general? ‘Yes, happy now.’

‘OK.’

My pants flew off, and oil bottles appeared; I froze in sheer terror.

I got it then, happy indeed.

They laughed: ‘No tell Sheryl.’

‘My quivering, girlishly frightened lips are sealed.’

I don’t usually shy away from intimate details, in fact I thrive on them. There are things however that are best left to the imagination, and twenty minutes later I’d experienced one of them. At some point in the afterglow one of the girls threw a blanket on me and tucked me in; both stuck around until I’d fallen asleep, randomly caressing my face.

I woke up a few hours later and walked into the private shower, and eventually made my way back to the locker rooms where my clothes were pressed and waiting (along with a tray for tips); an attendant stood ready to lead me back to the front desk; it was already light outside.

And I paid about $95.

Welcome to your typical Chinese spa.

Photo by Volker Neumann

I’ve never been much of a rapper, and this is something I now deeply regret.

At first glance rap may seem to be something of a grammatical blender. And in the mash-up of words and concepts you might be hard-pressed to believe that there’s an underlying order to the Ebonics, or any sense or reason behind the lyrics. You’re missing out.

Rappers are philosophers, and while we’ve been mining into Confucius and Plato, these young men have had the answers to life, the universe and women all along.

‘Got money, and you know it. Take it out your pocket and show it, then throw it, like.’ I assume he’s referring to the money.

But let me take a step back.

I’ve never been much a fan of material possessions; I figured I’m born with nothing and I’ll die with nothing but the clothes on my butt – if I’m lucky. And if the journey in between is the whole point then materialism can only be counterproductive; all I’d need on my way out is a clear head and clean underwear.

I took my brother’s convertible Mercedes this weekend and, as it turns out, I’m an idiot.

Philosophical journeys be damned; this is the only way to drive. As my moral fabric melted into the leather bucket-seats, I reached to signal right but only managed to blast on the stereo. There he was, Lil’ Wayne, wheezing on about money, cars and dem beeches.

Jesus H. Benz.

‘Gettin’ mug from everybody who see then, hang over the wall of the VIP, like.’

The top was down, the rap was happenin’, and feeling almost dirty I take my brother’s Raybans out of the compartment and slip them on. Could it all be this easy?

I turn into the beach road and like clockwork a Wrangler with four gorgeous women slows down beside me. Count them, that’s four bashful smiles aimed at my direction and I haven’t lifted a mental finger yet.

‘Okay, it’s Young Wayne on them hoes, AKA Mr. Make it Rain on them Hoes.’

They lower their stereo and start moving to my rap (and that certainly felt dirty). The blond in the back stands up to properly feel the, umm, groove? And her friend in the front initiates a shriek fest of approval. All I had to do was smile back, and I’d have made four lovely, barely clothed new friends. But no, that’s the sentimental rocker talking. Yo, what would Lil’ Wayne do?

‘Bitch ain’t shit but a hoe and a trick, but you no one ain’t trickin? If you got it.’ (huh?)

Something came over me, and I looked at them without expression. I lifted an eyebrow through mirrored Raybans and slammed the kick-down (Hondas don’t have a kick-down, you see). The shrieks doubled – by God that’s what they wanted – and heightened to an estrogenic crescendo, and somewhere between the car’s roar and the blonde’s Doppler effect, life became crystal clear:

Got money, and you know it. Take it out your pocket and show it, then throw it.

Like.

Photo by Andre Lucca

Every once in a while creation gets quirky whilst molding a woman.

With a steady hand it forms her curves, sprays on the shade of tan that communicates directly to your desire, rips out a few dust-bunnies from grandma’s attic to make the eyes, and sets her hair on fire. Red, red fire.

Then parents call her something silly. Like Nelly.

One of these women came into my little circle of friends recently. And as if mocking creation’s understanding of my libido she had written a story on her body, via tattoos that lead your eyes from her shoulder, down her back and along her right leg.

As though they needed an excuse.

Now I’m not good with affection. Somewhere in the mess of neurological pathways I call Karl (when I’m referring to myself in the psychotic third-person) I’ve managed to equate affection with violence; in other words, if I like someone, I hurt them.

‘Snake Bite!’

I heard it too late. Two fingers dug into my chest and attempted to dislodge a rib. His Kung Fu was strong.

‘Revolving Tiger Claw!’ I screamed, as I twisted at the waist and rotated a claw-fist into my friend’s kidney. Nelly studied us for a while, concerned no doubt, trying to assess whether we were drunk, stupid or worse: serious.

‘It’s an old game,’ I explained. ‘Someone came up with it in school and we haven’t been able to shake it off.’

‘Interesting. Any rules?’

‘Well, nothing’s set in stone really, you pick and animal, and just sort of sneak up on someone who deserves it and go SNAKE BITE!’

She was smart, but her Kung Fu was weak. My forked fist made contact with her abdomen, and she buckled over and choked back a laugh while also whimpering in pain.

I love girls who can take a joke (funny how that rhymes with choke) and adore those who don’t need handling with care. Moments later we were on the street again, searching for the next pub.

‘So what do you call this place,’ she asked.

‘The whole street is called Gemmayzeh. That building there is EDL, they essentially charge us for electricity they don’t give, and steal fuel they never receive. It’s an exciting new form of governance.’

‘And what’s that shiny red thing down on the highway?’ she points.

I turn to look, and half way through the movement my logic center takes a step back and looks me in the eye: ‘You idiot,’ it doesn’t say.

‘REVOLVING BEAR PAW!’ she screams, and punches me in the belly as hard as femininely possible.

I buckle, turn to look at her and feel my brain duck.

‘DRUNK CRANE ATTACK!’ she continues, and uppercuts my teeth into my tongue. She regrets it instantly.

‘Love me,’ I say, as I wipe the blood from my face. ‘You’ve managed to touch me in a new and interesting way. I suggest we get drunk then have children.’

‘Fair enough, but I’m leaving in a week; we’ll have to adopt.’

Wit and blood; I love it. Crap, wait, does that make me goth?