Beijing Boyce

Last Wednesday was one of those Beijing days…

My apartment building is a monstrous mouth, every unit is a tooth, and a deranged dentist methodically scrapes, hammers and drills each for a month, before starting all over again.

It’s the kind of nightmare from which one awakens – to the soothing vibrations of jackhammers, no less – when the jerks two floors above spend week after week renovating.

A bad way to start the day, but this one looks okay: a meeting with a wine industry guy, a slew of fun emails to write, and parties at a friend’s company and at Block 8 for “the ten most influential people in Beijing.” (In a major oversight, yours truly was not nominated, but as they say, to forgive is divine.)

Sequoia Cafe
Beijing’s road system forgot to take its city-sized ex-lax today, so I arrive 20 minutes late for my meeting. Actually, it took longer to cab it from my home near Workers’ Stadium (35 minutes) than to walk it (30 minutes).

My friend is not here, so I call … You’re stuck in traffic, I bet! … You’re not? Well, that’s lucky … I see, you realized half an hour after our meeting is supposed to start that you can’t make it… No, that’s okay, I love riding pointlessly around this city with a driver whose breath smells like dirty diapers.One of those days… anyway, I spend the day at Sequoia and drink enough caffeine to wire a baby whale. At 5:20, I figure out the logistics of getting home, changing into a suit, and returning just south of here at 7 PM. I decide to walk.True to form, the key components of Beijing post-work traffic are in full play:

One world, one dream (with a soundtrack of jackhammers and car horns)…

LG Towers
Suited, I leave home and take a cab at 7:05, destination LG Towers. The trip takes an hour. Add five minutes to find the right tower and floor, and I arrive at the office 20 minutes before the event ends. Here’s the best part: the party is on Thursday, which is tomorrow, rather than on Wednesday, which is today.

A lone employee is at the office. I apologize for disturbing her, explain my inability to comprehend the seven-day calendar, and leave a note for my friend. Bummed out, I leave LG Towers and spot…

Kenny Rogers Roasters
Less than a week ago, Special K had a hunger for roast chicken and we wondered if The Gambler, as we know him, had a franchise in Beijing. And he does! Things are looking up. I go in, sit down, and decide to play the safe hand and to order the restaurant’s namesake meal: the original roast chicken.

“Sorry, 15 minutes,” says the waitress. Hmm, a roast chicken place with no roast chicken ready. Granted, it is a bit late, so I decide to wait.

“Not 15 minutes, 40 minutes,” chimes in another waiter about 15 seconds later.

As Kenny sang, “you gotta know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em.” Well, you also gotta know when to roast ‘em. I leave and head to…

McDonald’s
I once went a decade without eating at Mickey D’s, but I am hungry now and combo number seven, displayed on a big poster, looks like the solution. I approach the cashier, say “number 7″ in Chinese and point at the poster. She has a deer in the headlights look. I say it in English and point again. Not even a blink. I hold up seven fingers. Nope. Finally someone else comes over and takes my order and soon I am scooting about with my tray looking for a place to sit.

Unfortunately, I eat near two people in their late twenties on what I guess is their first date. Not first date with each other, but, given the looks of them, first date ever. They are uncomfortable being across from a member of the opposite sex, especially at a distance of under ten meters, and I am a perfect diversion from their unease and played-out conversations about cell phone accessories, anime, Super Girl contestants, or whatever.

“Look, a foreigner,” says one, and points at me. “Yes, a foreigner,” says the other, and stares. They blush, but continue to look and make reference to me. It’s been a trying day, so I walk over, jam a chicken McNugget into each of their nostrils, draw a ketchup mustache beneath, stick pickle slices on their cheeks, and hoarsely whisper in Mandarin, “This is considered foreplay in New Jersey.” Actually, I made that up. Instead, I made a huffing sound and left. Little did I know, things were about to get worse – or better, depending on your perspective.

In part 2, Special K shares his fashion secrets, we drink bubbly at Block 8, neither of us makes the “most influential list” and a magazine editor yells at me.