Zhuhai Autumn and a Massage Parlor

There aren’t any leaves to turn bright colors, but there are other signs that autumn has come. For one, the temperature has fallen to 60 and the humidity has slaked.

People stand in the wind at the bus stop in the morning dressed in long sleeve knits, vests and jackets, and shiver miserably. Me, of course I failed to bring any warm clothing from my closet. I have only the BRCC denim shirt gifted to me before I left. On the other hand, I have been totally unsuccessfully in my dieting efforts, so I can’t say the cold has penetrated.

The other morning I was watching ABC Nightly News. At the top of the screen TV station displays the time and the weather. I knew we were in for it when the TV weather bar read 16º 14º. Well, I don’t know either what those Celsius numbers mean, but I figured the arrow was going the wrong way!

Ladies, ladies, ladies (gents look the other way) I just paid a man $2.80 to run his fingers all over my body! He’ll start at the coccyx and won’t stop until he finds that sweet spot at the base of my skull. And he does this every week! At the end of an evening class, when I know I don’t have to work the next morning, I call and let him know I’m coming. I dump my books on the desk, race my students down the school steps out to the waiting van. In five minutes I am there. (Well, on bad days the van is broken, I get off at the wrong bus stop and wind up walking ten hurried minutes. He said he’d wait for me until 9:20, which is the time I got off the bus, looked around and realized I’m still two blocks away.) My face lights up when I reach the top of the stairs and see him waiting for me in his yellow sweatsuit.

This time I forego the foot massage. It is way too painful. He manages to find every pressure point full of toxins, and one by agonizing one he releases all that nasty stuff until I look for an unpeeled banana to clamp between my jaws. No, three times is enough. This is my night for pleasure, not pain. So we go straight to the private room with two massage tables. It’s a weeknight, so we have it all to ourselves.

First, he motions me to lie on my back. He doesn’t speak a word of English. I close my eyes, and he begins to stroke my forehead. For half an hour he works my scalp, my jaw, my ears, the back of my neck, even tries to do something about the puffy eyes! He has this thing he does, where he rubs his hands together and then brings them to me, lays them on eyes and they are burning hot! While he’s working the back of the neck I open my eyes long enough to glance at the clock and pantomime, “Hey, are we going to get to the back?” He answers me, “yi ge *** liang ge”. Whadidisay? I missed a word in between. Maybe he’s saying, one half hour the head, the second half hour the back. ‘Yi’ means one and ‘liang’ means two. But my silence prompts him to repeat it. Ah, he’s asking me if I want one hour or two!

“Yi ge, yi ge” I answer, holding up one finger, thinking, what useless pulp would be left of me if I took two hours of this!

For a tenth of a nanosecond I fret that there won’t be enough time for him to reach the soles of my feet. But why waste this soothed and smoothed head on worry?

A half hour later we were done. He had indeed managed to work my entire back, my thighs, calves, ankles and did some good prayerful whacking on the soles[1]. He cracked bones along the way, shook out tension, stiffness and discontent.

He can’t leave me there on my stomach when the hour is up, because I will fall asleep. So he finishes by sitting me up and massaging the shoulders. Finally he declares the mysterious words that end the session. Mischievously I fumble in my bag for some yuan. I’ve asked my Chinese friends about tipping, and they concur with the guidebooks. No! But deep down I’m a New Yorker, what can I say? So I slip him ¥10 or ¥15. Well, it paid off, didn’t it? I mean, he waited for me tonight even though I was late, didn’t he.

I was led to the front desk where I paid. I sat down for a few minutes before bracing to stand out in the cold night at a bus stop. (Sure I could take a taxi, but we’d have the evening tab run full up to $5 if we weren’t careful, now, wouldn’t we.) I grabbed a banana on the way to the chair, from the overflowing bowl on the counter. He brought me a bowl of my favorite sweet red bean porridge, and signaled for some tea. Now that work was done, he showed me his smile.

I know him only as badge no. 84.

Last Sunday the Chinese Olympics were ushered in with fanfare that rivaled L.A.’s best effort. Students from the Immersion Class invited a few teachers over to their dorm for a barbecue fête. The TV was on, and to my great surprise there was Guangzhou[2] on the screen, showing off her new sports arena. [Now I understand the flower display that was just set up at the major intersection near my home; I recognize the Chinese Olympic symbol now when I see it, but I had wondered what there was to celebrate.] The opening ceremonies went on and on and on. I was there to socialize, but it was hard to keep my eyes off the screen. Helpful people stood in front of it periodically so I could visit.

The nonchalance of our hosts made me wonder if they had known the event would be taking place during their party. I remember opening day of the L.A. Olympics. I was invited to a party at the condo clubhouse of a co-worker. There was food and drinks laid out, but the TV was the center focus. Conversations took place, but always with the head angled towards the TV.

For relief there were occasional helicopter shots of Guangzhou. The ceremony must have gone on for two hours. The color commentary was lost on me, unfortunately, but now and again I was able to interpret the costumed synchronized gymnasts to be green fields, then mountains, then golden waves of grain. The ocean undulated. There was more, so much more, of wonderful music and talented athletes woven into it. Skaters, bicyclists, skate boarders, some gymnastic feats I haven’t a name for, and one extraordinary hoola hoop lady who turned her body into a swirling rainbow. As it wound down, the precision army in yet another costume change laid out the Great Wall across the floor.

Fortunately, the next day was my day off and for background noise I turned the TV on, only to find the complete replay. It filled the morning.

After eating entirely too much Sunday, in a feeble attempt to just sample the tiniest bit of everything, Monday was to be the day of a body cleansing diet of fruits and fresh vegetables. I started out with half a cantaloupe for breakfast. I had a green salad for lunch with a potato added and a little tuna fish. Great, I’m thinking. Then Jill came over and I made us a pot of coffee. It went downhill after that. Jill left, admonishing me not to diet too strictly. She saw how I was leaning against the wall. Then my abdomen complained bitterly, I felt weak and hot. By 4:30 I called the school office and asked if someone could come with me to the doctor. I chose the traditional doctor across the street from my apartment. It was close, and I felt weak.

The doctor listened to my pulse. I was used to this. When I lived in Dharmsala, the Dalai Lama shared his physician with the townspeople. When I came down with hepatitis he took care of me. After that, whenever I wasn’t feeling right, I went to him and he laid his four fingers, three edges each finger, to my wrist and listened. We had no language in common, but he was always able to point to the problem area. Stomach, knee, kidneys, he always knew why I was there and could pantomime my symptoms. Awesome. Here in Zhuhai I walked back to my apartment with enough medication to last me three days. Before I left his examining stool I said that after he fixed this problem up, I’d like to come back and talk with him about arthritis. My right arm has been giving me agony. He smiled and waved me off. You take this first, then see.

I’ve finished the medicine. My right arm has been pain free since Tuesday morning.

My former housemate Jill accepted a long-standing invitation to move in with a Chinese woman who is from the North. The woman’s mother is snowbirding it for the winter, so it is the three of them. In the spring the mother will return north. The school Director said I could stay in this apartment alone without paying extra rent. I must keep the second bedroom available for the next teacher who arrives. At the moment, there is no one in the wings.

Me and my Lili are enjoying the space. She is bored out of her mind, without a playmate and no toys or scratching post! What little furniture there is is caning. I can only hope it survives her! Tomorrow’s another day off, so I’ll have to search around for some post fixins.

[1] Place your hands together as for prayer, with fingers relaxed. Then bring the palm edges down on the desired spot, rapidly, rhythmically, producing a ‘thwacking’ sound.
[2] Formerly Canton