Guys in Workingmen’s Uniforms

Got in around 10:00PM to Beijing Capital Airport.  Had slept for two hours at least on the flight, sandwiched between two other men my size.  My daughter had a big paper she wanted me to look over.  And before I could finish ordering a DiDi I needed to join a call between Boston and Seoul.  “Dad!?  My paper!” She typed.  At home, I hadn’t seen my son and his wife for a month.  It wasn’t till late that I finally sent it off to her, and went to bed.

And I was very glad that I’d requested the morning meeting at Starbucks to be relocated to the one right outside our compound.  I couldn’t find a turquoise Qing Ju bike outside.  There was one here last night.  But I found one around the corner which shaved a minute or two off, and by 7:00AM I was early, the first one there.   The glass doors to the Meng Xiu mall remained locked at this hour and I had to watch as one and then another patron pushed on the locked doors in vain, for the next two hours.

Yes.  I wanted to sleep but I had one call and then another.  A scheduled call at 2:00PM, which I needed to get ready for and then I’d promised to speak with a visiting delegation at 4:30PM down town.  It was located at the YingKe center, where, eight or nine years ago, I used to manage an office full of people.  It, like so much of Beijing has had an extreme make-over, I realized as I rolled up for my talk.  We used to think Starbucks was pretty nifty, there in the ninety’s vintage mall.  In bad need of amphetamines, I noticed the Bluefish Café, there next to the wooden entrance to the We Work facility I was heading to.  Post-post-modern, with room for only six or seven people, Bluefish poured a fantastic shot of espresso. 

This meeting would have been a train-wreck if I was supposed to sit and listen to it.  I'd have been fast asleep.  But tasked with talking I rose to the occasion and walked this lovely group of visiting Brasileros through and my one-hour version of YiJing to Xi Jinping and though one could always do better, and draw things together more tightly, I’m pretty sure they enjoyed what I had to say.  They were smart, asked good questions and I left this remarkable WeWork facility, complete with its own swimming pool, with a pleasant afterglow from this talk I’d gave. 

Back home we discussed for about thirty seconds and plodded across the street to the “Shanxi Place.”  We ordered about six dishes, forgetting that the servings were old-school beifang portions with piles of food per-plate.  A folksy joint, someone is always talking loudly.  Tonight, there were three guys in workman’s uniforms, slurping Friday night beers with their meal.   No one minded their volume and I’m calloused enough to let it pass for atmosphere.  My daughter in law pointed out one of the loud utterances that I otherwise would have missed: “The dead pig doesn’t mind boiling water!” She took this to mean that “You’re already in trouble.  How could it get any worse?”  I was oddly sorry, to watch them stumble out and go. 

Friday, 11/01/19