However, this last event has changed the way I look at promises made by Chinese people forever. While searching for a new apartment, I stumbled upon a little 50sqm gem right between ???? Dongsishitiao and ??? Dongzhimen. I asked the agent whether there was a couch and other furniture included, and he replied, “Yes, of course.” The next day I went in to sign the contract, and asked the landlady when she could move a couch in.

She responded, aghast, “I never said there would be a couch!”
“But the agent told me that you would provide one? Where am I going to sit?”
The bickering continues for several minutes. To which the agent interjects and says, “I will buy you a couch, okay?”

My situation was complicated. I was originally leaving China, but received a job offer that would keep me here for a little longer. By the time I realised I should find a new place before I went home, the pressure was on to find a new place and move everything in in less than 72 hours (yes, it’s possible). Thus, I signed the contract, moved in, took his word, and left for two weeks—in theory giving the agent ample time to secure the right couch.

I return to China and call him after settling in. ”Oh, hi,“ he begins, “I will work on it, it’s been busy here, I’ll get back to you later this week.”
He did not.
I called him on Friday, and asked, “So…how’s the couch search coming along?” He said he needed some extra time. Fine.
No word from him all weekend. Then I call six times on Monday and he does not pick up. I call him ten times on Tuesday, then switch phones and call. He picks up immediately. I say, “Why are you ignoring my calls? Do you not have any respect?” To which he responds, “Hello? HELLO?! Hello?” And hangs up on me. I proceed to frantically call him back-to-back-to-back until he finally turns his phone off.

Consider this lesson learned.

Karma will get him back, and I may expedite that process through one or more of the following:

• Post his number on personal ads as a beautiful single Chinese woman wanting to marry a rich, white male;
• Advertise “special services” with his phone number;
• Make stickers advertising the purchasing of your unwanted pharmaceutical drugs and post them everywhere ;
• Or find out where he works and punch him in the face

Yes, I am working with limited resources here (his phone number, his name), but if the ???? human flesh search engine has shown me anything, the power of Google can never be underestimated.

But recently, I have found that bad things (be it sickness, bruises, or men) don’t go away by themselves. I thought I could trust my body or time to heal blemishes and wounds, but I was wrong.

I. Sickness
Last winter in Harbin, I made my third trip to one hospital (fourth trip overall) after the doctor made me take a CAT scan and a breathing test. I was suffering from breathing problems. She told me that I needed to spend at least one week living in the hospital to get medicine administered via IV for my sickness. Excuse me, what? Are you just trying to milk me for my money? I refused to pay exuberant amounts of money for something that can be solved without needles.

Upon arriving in Beijing, I saw a special Ears, Nose, and Throat doctor at a private hospital. He reviewed the x-rays, CAT scans, and breathing tests from Harbin and said, simply, “You have bronchitis and sinusitis.” Was it really that easy? How come my disease was a complete mystery in Harbin? Then, upon taking three weeks of antibiotic prescriptions and starting antihistamines on a daily basis, I was almost back to normal.

II. Bruises
In November, I went snowboarding and, not realizing that snow in China (did I say snow? I meant ice) is nothing like the snow at Lake Tahoe, bruised my knees pretty badly. In fact, in retrospect I’m pretty sure that I had ruptured a blood vessel. I left it alone and hoped that, like all bruises, it would improve with time. However, last week, there had been no noticeable improvement in my legs. In fact, the bruise had spread to other parts of my leg.

In December, I went to a special doctor that deals with fracture wounds. They deemed nothing wrong with me, warned me to be more careful, and stuck a smelly herbal compound they created on my knee, told me to keep it on for five days, and that was that. The bruise faded, and the swelling subsided.

III. Men
Men (and women) also don’t go away without medicine. Sometimes that medicine is “ignore” or truth (e.g., “No, I do not want to be your girlfriend.”).

So, I have learned that medicine–be it a [smelly] homemade Chinese herbal remedy or a dose of truth–can do lengths, and there are certain circumstances when they are welcome saviors to dire situations.

She screamed at me, and later told me that her legs were shaking for me, because she knows that something like that could actually happen. Last year, I did something similar, when I told her that I joined the Army and would be deployed to Iraq after I graduate. I know, it’s cruel. I’ll think of something less nerve racking next year, even though she told me she wouldn’t fall for anything next year. We’ll see.

But my mom made a good point the following day: that things like this are possible. It was a stark reminder to indeed watch out for what I say and write.

Once we entered the door we were a little sketched out. Men started trying to explain to us the different types of treatment. We finally decided on the 100 kuai (about $15 USD) 2-hour treatment. We went to our respective rooms to change.

The second I entered the ladies changing room, there was a half naked woman eating porridge and watching me. I have no idea why she was just sitting there half naked eating. Another lady asked if I wanted to shower before my massage. It seemed that if I chose to shower, I would have to do it while they watched me. I chose not to, and despite trying to find a corner to change, they watched me. Why? I have no clue.

I walked out and started to wait for Jon but the masseuses quickly rushed me into one of the massage rooms. There were about six beds separated by a half wall. In the room I was in, there were a few heavyset men smoking cigarettes and talking loudly. I was not very comfortable. The masseuse started to talk to me.

My masseuse asked me, “Are you Korean?”
“No, I am not.” I answered.
“Are you sure?”
“Look lady, I know what I am and I am not Korean.”
“Oh…well you look like a Korean. What are you then?”
“I’m American.”
“American? You don’t look American.”*

Once Jon came we started our massages. Highlights include her sticking her fingers into my ears, her putting her fingers close to my crotch, her climbing onto the massage table with me and massaging me wit her legs, her sitting on my ass and “massaging” my back (more like rocking back and forth on my ass), and ending with her lying on top of my back. I asked her if mostly men came in, and she replied, “Yes.” And as these incredibly unprofessional massaging techniques occurred, I realised that they were for the benefit of the male clients.

After the massage, I quickly changed back into my clothes. As I waited for Jon, I noticed that there was a board with 70 female masseuses’ head shots that men could choose from (there was only one male masseuse, and he only worked with feet). Jon later reported that the male changing room was more like a spa. There was a jacuzzi, Chinese chess, *two* floors, and many showers. My changing room was the size of a dorm room with a tiny shower.

Well, we learned our lesson. Our backs still ached, we were 100 kuai poorer, but we now know never to return to that place again.

*To the Chinese, being an American means you’re white, with deep-set eyes and a pointy nose.

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Some point during the week, I realised that I was also getting bumps on my body. I, being the psychosomatic nutcase that I am, self-diagnosed myself as having bedbugs. Once I did so, I started itching all over and noticing more red bumps show up. If that wasn’t enough, late Thursday evening, an American cockroach (you know, the huge, 2-inch long ones with wings, the one that can run up to 3.3 mph) crawled, ran, and flapped its horrible, horrible wings in my apartment and proceeded to give me a panic/anxiety attack. We probably made eye-to-antennae contact a few times when I shouted in dread whenever it moved.

How could I ever imagine sleeping with that (and potentially thousands more lurking in the building) crawling all over the place? I was going to make a run for it. The insect took a temporary leave behind some boxes on the far wall of the kitchen. I bolted into the bedroom to gather my essentials when it zooms back into my room. I am cornered into the bathroom.

Cue war cry and hysterical spraying of Raid Ant and Cockroach spray.

I was immobilized for forty or so minutes in the bathroom. Scared that any moment, it would pop up right by my toes. I finally convinced myself to grab everything, not look back, and get out.

And so began my three days as a homeless person.

It was about 2:30, 3 a.m. in the morning. I call 311, NYC’s local assistance line.
Me: Do you have any numbers of places I can stay tonight?
311 Operator: What? You mean like a homeless shelter?
Me: I’m not homeless….I meant a hotel.

I stayed at three different places on three different nights. First, I intruded on a friend of a friend’s apartment. I was relieved to know that I did not have bedbugs. This, unfortunately, did not solve the cockroach problem. The following day I didn’t go near my apartment. I booked lunches, dinners, apartment viewings, and arranged to sleep at another friend’s place.

Unfortunately again, I barely slept last night because one of her roommates found bed bugs. This time it was legit. Shit, I thought, where am I going to go at 4 a.m. in the morning? There was no way I was going to lie down on the couch in the common room. I tried calling hostels; I tried walking back and forth for as long as I could to pass the time; I contemplated sleeping at a 24-hour Starbucks or a train station; I also thought I could ride the subway back and forth until morning. Around 5:30 a.m., I passed out for twenty to thirty minutes on the kitchen table, where flies from the neighboring trash pile landed on my body.

I caved. I laid down for a few minutes, but then the flies started to land on my body again. It was about 6:30 a.m. I got up. Soon after, I noticed two white/reddish welts on my body. The fucking bedbugs! I left the apartment immediately.

It was a long, long, looonnng morning and afternoon. I could be standing and I’d start nodding off. But, wait, it ends well: I found a wonderful place in Astoria, Queens that I can immediately move into.

It was hard to stay positive throughout this entire process. Many times I broke down and cried, wishing that I could be home or with a friend. I was grateful for the emotional support I received from friends, but it was hard to fight this battle physically alone. I’m trying to put it all behind me, but there won’t be a moment in these coming weeks when I don’t mistake a black dot on the ground or a piece of dark lint on my shirt for a cockroach.

That’s because some Cantonese family is fighting outside my window and has been yelling for the past twenty minutes at each other. Many times in those past twenty minutes I wanted to shout what little Cantonese I knew at them and end it with a, “Shut up!”

It’s times like this I wish I had inquired about the “culture” of this area, as well as: a) physical dimensions of the apartment, b) the condition of the A/C unit, c) the presence of insects, and d) whether or not pigeons were breeding and nursing their young outside my window, before I decided to move in to this apartment. I guess this is a lesson for next time!

Even as a remote ordinary citizen far from the grueling reality of war and endless fear, I could easily be brought to tears/anger by the words and images from documentaries, news, speeches, books, this Iraq war timeline. And what I see is not even the half of it. Not even close.

When I can, I will do what I can to help. And I hope the rest of my generation does, too.