UBC Coffee
“It’s sort of a Western place,” Calvin said, “Emphasis on sort of”
I didn’t pay much attention to Calvin because I wanted to live like a Chinese woman, to really experience something new. I had come to China to see new things, and a Western-style coffeehouse wasn’t new. I loved qipas, blue and white glazed pottery, painted silk and the rest of my imagined China. I wanted to be an ex-pat, but one who learned about her host country, one who was taught by her host country. I didn’t realize yet how hard that would be.
Travelers in a new country are supposed to go through a honeymoon phase. I felt instead that China was a boyfriend I was struggling to love, someone who had seduced me with out-of-date pictures or with tales of how his band was just about to be discovered, and now I was really trying to make things work between us. I really wanted to love China.
I didn’t know that in a few months, I‘d be contemplating a trip to Beijing just to eat at an American chain restaurant… or that eight months in, I’d do it.
But soon I explored UBC. It was the second story, over a corner grocery, a dirty dumpling shop and a yan piu (smoke beer). UBC had been decorated with leftover scenery from a film involving a wild-west saloon, Fountains of Wayne and a Maxwell house commercial. Or maybe three partners each wanted a different style. A florist had exploded nearby, and left plastic flowers all over the coffeeshop… on the marble stairs, against the wall mural of Juan Valdez, hanging from the ceiling.
My apartment was right near UBC, and I’d go there for breakfast in the mornings, amused that I finally had the time and money to eat out, but no one to eat with me. I’d bring a book from my limited library, drink coffee and read.
On occasion, I was used as an ESL scratching post. I could always tell when this was about to happen because the stare of an English major gathering the courage to speak to a real live foreigner was much more intense that the curiosity of the other customers.
I considered, at one point, handing out cards that said my name, nationality and number of months in China, because the questions were growing repetitive. But I tried to have sympathy, thinking of how I would react if I saw an ancient Roman having a Reuben at my local diner.
Often boys would ask me these questions, followed nervously by asking if I had a boyfriend. In the past, I’ve been a bit fidelity-challenged. Out of sight, out of mind, you know? Harmless flirting would pass a train trip or a wait in the Bursars’ Office, and you never know who you could meet.
However, admitting that my boyfriend was finishing school on the other side of the planet led to relentless requests for dates, and I started to say “I’m engaged to be married” and “I’m going to join my fiancé next year”automatically.
I was a bit more comfortable talking to the girls. One of these girls told me I looked just like the actress in Italian Vacation. I giggled, because one of my students had already pointed this out, so I knew she meant Roman Holiday and not Eurotrip. She promised not to tell anyone.
“Tell anyone what?”I asked.
“I won’t tell you are a famous actress,”
“Oh, no, I’m not. I don’t even look — ”
“It is okay. I won’t tell anyone. You don’t want always to have attention,”
“Well, then, that’s very considerate of you,” I said, wondering just how much more attention Audrey Hepburn would be receiving, if she were in a coffeeshop in Yantai.
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