sofasurfers

So leaving the cocoon of my five-star hotel, I set out for my first
Chinese hosts, a French-Taiwanese couple who lived near Peking
University. A young couple, I thought – they’ll be feathering their
nest! The maternal instinct will be flowering! They will take care of
me! And while I’d originally intended to stay only with natives, I
speculated that ex-pats might give me a more honest perspective on
life here. And honest I got: however, I know with some certainty that
Big Brother is watching (check this Security Error Notice that popped
up when I was online: “It is possible that someone may be trying to
intercept your communication with this website”), so I’ll save it (and
my bacon).

But while the French post-doctorate biologist couldn’t have been
kinder, more hospitable or, dare I say, more handsome (he baked apple
cake, took me to the market, lent me his bike etc), she didn’t seem
possessed of the couchsurfing spirit. Maybe she had a headache. Maybe
she was cross because I broke the only toilet (yes, I sat down and
with my apparently doughy derriere, snapped the seat, creating one of
those cracks that pinches your bottom so sharply, you don’t know
whether to laugh or cry). Maybe she has only-child syndrome (China, a
nation of only children, doesn’t seem to exhibit this disorder of the
developed world, however). Or maybe she just felt threatened – she
certainly made it clear that I wasn’t to be accepted. At our second
dinner, she was virtually silent: her nails were top priority for some
15 minutes. Meanwhile, Monsieur mediated. He and I chatted like she
wasn’t there, though it was impossible to relax and defy her repelling
forcefield.