Motherf**in' Culture Shock

A lifetime ago I was in the Army. For 5 years, no less. This is often a shock for people who only know me as old, soft, weak, fragile Charlie, but indeed I served my country.

Like anyone in the Army, I'd go on field exercises and deployments. When you're "in the field," things get kinda salty. You curse a lot, you spit, do dip, talk a lot of trash, and generally act macho and tough. And when you return from the field to "the world," its always a bit of a transition. The old joke, but dead accurate, is that when you go home for Thanksgiving you'll inevitably end up saying "Pass the motherfu*king potatoes, Grandma."

Returning to the US is kind of like that. I've now been in China for 2 months as an expat, versus just a periodic visit, and have just returned to Atlanta for my first visit. Its a bit of a transition.

First off, forks suck. At nearly every sitting, I find myself desperately missing chopsticks. Its just so much easier to eat with them. Even something like steak or a chicken breast... I'd so much rather pick up the whole bloody thing with chopsticks and take a big bite outta it like some kind of hobo than be inconvenienced taking a knife and fork... cutting a piece... setting the knife back down, eating the single piece, then getting the knife again, later, rinse, repeat. Waste of damn time and effort. Western manners suck.

And dealing with bones, gristle, shells, olive pits, etc is so much easier in China. Here you have to delicately spit the non-digestible item into a napkin, elegantly and discretely. In China if you don't wanna swallow it, you just spit it out... right there on the table. PTOOOEY. Problem solved.

I also miss screaming "FUYAN" across a restaurant every time I want something. Its so much easier to bark for service than having to wait for a waiter to happen buy, or desperately trying to flag one down from across the room. I'm dying to scream "HEY WAITRESS" at the top of my lungs across TGI MCFUGNUTS to get a fresh order of wings, but I know I'd get tossed out for doing so...

And I probably don't need to mention the dirty looks I got when I hocked a big loogie on the street this morning? Mind you, I usually get funny looks in China when i do it but its more of a "HEY! LOOK! The big laowai just spit on the sidewalk, too" than any true judgment.

Another weird transition is driving again. I haven't been behind the wheel of a car in over 60 days, and now have Beijing cabbies as my automotive role model. Atlantans seem less tolerant of me honking, swerving and weaving, stopping wherever I want, turning without a signal across multiple lanes, and driving with an unpredictable mix of g-force speed and an unexplained crawl.

And could I actually be craving baiju?! I swear I miss the stuff. Tonight I soaked a dirty sock in some grain alcohol trying to recreate that perfect mix of burning and stinking. Its just not the same.

But, oh man... Five Guys Burgers make it all worthwhile. Aside from my son, Chip, 5 Guys may just be the finest thing in America. I'd like to marry a 5 guys burger, have sex with it, and have baby 5 Guys burgers, just so i could eat them, too.

And you know as I was enjoying it, without thinking, I asked my Grandma to pass the motherf*ckin' french fries. Some things never change.

The One Where Charlie Gets Rubbed By A Guy

It started innocently enough.

It'd been a very long day. I'm heading back to the US in a few days, and my Mom wanted me to bring back some wall-hangings for her. So after 3+ hours at the Panjiayuan antique market, haggling and negotiating and fighting and arguing, I was beat.

And when in Beijing and tired, only one thing will do - a nice foot massage!

For those not familiar with this heavenly blessing, a good Chinese foot massage lasts 90 minutes and really involves a good back and shoulder massage, followed by a lengthy deep-tissue rub of both feet, followed by the legs. During this, at a decent spa, you'll gnosh on gratis snacks and tea. One of the better spas in Beijing, Oriental Taipan, conveniently has a location just 2 blocks from my apartment.

And so off I went. It started off innocently enough. I went in, indicated I'd like a foot massage, was shown to a room, ordered some snacks, ordered my usual foot-massage girl (#22 - she does a good job), and settled in for 90 minutes of pampering.

When there was a knock at the door I barely even glanced up, knowing it'd be Ol' #22. I'd already taken off my shoes and socks and had reclined my chair into a position of total relaxation. I didn't even look up as #22 carried in the standard vat of hot tea to soak my feet. She took the customary seat, placed my feet in the steaming tea and started washing down my feet.

This was the first hint that something wasn't right. #22's touch seemed different than usual. Stronger and more... hrmmm... manly, almost? I forced myself to open my eyes and sit up enough to glance down and see what was amiss... maybe she was wearing gloves or something?

IT WAS A DUDE!

Now, not that there's anything wrong with it, but this wasn't what I had in mind. I quickly hit the buzzer for the hostess. She came in and I explained that, no offense to the guy at my feet, but where the heck was #22?!! She explained that #22 was no longer with the spa and, unfortunately, all the other female masseuses were with customers. Only guys were available, and I should be psyched, since they have stronger hands and give a better massage.

At this point I was already calf-deep in hot tea, so I figured in-for-a-penny, in-for-a-pound and shrugged. Besides, I reasoned with myself, who had it worse? Me or the poor bastard who had to rub my tired dogs?

To paraphrase Lilly Allen, "A guy rubbed me down, and I liked it." #34's touch was strong and firm. He worked on muscles I didn't know I had. In fact, even now, days later, I have a bruise on my shoulder from where he went after a muscle-knot like a dog on a bone.

Really, my only complaint would be that during the 3rd act of the massage (Act 1: Shoulders/arms; Act 2: Feet; Act 3: legs), his leg massage went decidedly north. Like... to the waist. He got my thighs and enough of my pelvis that he was getting close to Melvin & The Boys. Never made contact, thank God, but I was sweating it... I figure he was about a quarter-inch from an international incident.

He was less shy when getting the back of my thighs, kneading my butt like pizza dough.

So I guess its true what they say - once you go masseur, you never go back. Next time I visit Oriental Taipan, I'll be asking for #34 by name... er... number, and revisiting the forbidden fruit of the man-massage.