Mail order love
Photo by Jessica Higgins
I’ve always had my reservations about true love.
Much like faith, love is hailed as an intangible absolute we’re expected to strive for, and one we’re considered lucky to have. Mhmm.
For my part, I have a clear set of expectations from a potential love, and it is a very rare time in my life when I meet someone who can begin to live up to them. The handful of times it has happened, whatever merits they had were quickly overshadowed by rejection, stupidity, infidelity, or a random combination of bad habits. This has happened so consistently that I’ve grown to believe in the impossibility of compatibility; and judging from the number of single men and women around me, I’m not alone.
Well, come to China.
I’m not sure how I feel about mail-order brides, and up till recently I hadn't been directly exposed to the concept. China however has an epidemic of single women who simply don’t want the local life, and consequently the local men. They’re ready, they’re online, and they’re looking for foreigners. It’s just weird.
When in China
Photo by Troy Holden
When in Rome, do the Romans. Or something.
You won’t find many brothels in China; love for money is a legal no-no. But no worries, you won't need to.
I expected to land on a dirt runway, live with farmers and frolic through rice fields. For some reason *cough* Hollywood*cough* I couldn't help but associate westernization with modernization, and expected China to lack both. Truth is, China is as modern as it gets. This is good news for someone who navigates new countries with his privates: cosmopolitan women are far more likely to end up in bed with me.
I’d found an apartment already, and for a few days my only companions were the pretty receptionist, jetlag and a hard bed. By the fifth day it was high time for a drink.
I hit the bars as soon as I could walk, and followed the pretty lights in the sky until I stumbled upon a massive, modern club called Tang. Two bottles of Jack Daniels made me a table of friends – even managed to attract another Arab. An hour of serious drinking had me ready for company, and the bar was full of it.
There must've been four women to every man in this place; mostly Asian, most stunning, and all staring at me.
Yes?
A steaming dumpling caught my eye, and flashed me the peace sign, along with a fantastic smile. A minute later she walked up to my table and started chatting away in broken but coherent English, asking all the right questions and leading the conversation in a direction I thought I’d have to take care of myself. Independent women rock my socks.
'It's time we go somewhere louder,' screamed my Arab friend.
He was insane, surely, but it seemed like the right night for it. We packed our things and head out, but a tiny Chinese hang tugged at my shirt; my hot spring-roll had reservations.
‘What’s the problem?’
‘I don’t want to move until I’m sure you want me.’
Chinese dumplings
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?’
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Linearity is overrated
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