Dirty Dancing in Gaodong

The ballroom was a bar/club on the second floor of the other wing of our hotel. Disco balls, dance floor, television monitors for karoake, Chinese pop music blasting. The room was empty when we arrived except for the bartender, who was over in the karoake control room fiddling with the sound system, and four or five young women in make up and tacky clothing sitting in a clutch over by the door. S referred to them as "dancing girls." Apparently, they were staff members.

A dancing girl was distributed to each of the males in our party (Uncle Bobo, myself, the mayor and his assistant) as we sat down. Uncle Bobo took to his girl, the tall one, immediately and when he was not dancing with her, he avuncularly ran his hands up and down her legs. I felt awkward dancing with my girl, but Uncle Bobo encouraged me and S acted like it was the most natural thing in the world. I couldn't say anything to my girl except "thank you," but I tried to be a gentleman. She kept me well supplied in bottled water and insisted on shelling my pinenuts, despite my gestures not to trouble herself. I shelled some pinenuts for her. To my knowledge, it is the first time I have danced with a, ahem, professional. A rite of manhood, I suppose, right up there with walking on the Great Wall.

Later another group of Chinese businessmen entered the club and was seated at a little table on the other side of the dance floor. Instantly, more young women appeared wearing too much cosmetic. The men looked like they were already flowing with rice wine and, while on the dancefloor, I noticed a couple girls having to practically resort to martial arts to extricate themselves from the aggressive embrace of their partners.

S had a grand time singing karoake and dancing with the mayor and his assistant. There was one page of Western song titles that ran about halfway through the letter A. S cajoled me into singing one song. I gave a rather mournful, off-key rendition of "All You Need Is Love." I'm no Bill Murray.

I think Uncle Bobo ended up taking one or two girls back with him to his room across the hall. As we left the club, he pulled the mayor and his assistant aside for some kind of intense, private negotiation. And though he was alone when we got back to our rooms, I've heard the door to his room slam twice since then.

S just backed up the toilet. Unable to flush it clear, and the phone out of order, she sent me down to the front desk with a note. The girl there read it and said something to me in Chinese, at which point I realized that I don't even know how to say, "I don't speak Chinese" in Chinese. (And, stupidly, it's not in my phrase book.) One of the busboys followed me back to the room, retrieving a plunger along the way. Once back here, I asked S how to say, "I don't speak Chinese":

Wo bu hoy shwa zhong-wan. (phonetically)

"Does anyone here speak English?"

Shway hway jong ing-wan?

We offered the busboy ¥5 for his trouble. But he steadfastly refused, saying it was against hotel policy to take tips. (I just read in my phrase book that tips are illegal in China.) So S decided to write a letter of compliment to the hotel manager -- or she decided to have me write one which she would translate into Chinese. She says it will be a big lift for his career.