(Flashback to) The Journey, Early Early, Part 2: The First (and perhaps only) Account of my Birthday Weekend

I know, I know, I haven’t updated for a little bit. However, let me say in my defense that I have improved my update rate by a full 100%, meaning that I have cut the time in between my posts in half. (Is the math right for that? Who cares, I ain’t no math major!) And besides, I know you all love me dearly, so it’s alright.

But at any rate, so much has happened since my last post, and of course, there’s all the things before then that I have not told you about. So, as per the author’s choice, I believe I’d like to start my series of flashbacks with the story of my elongated birthday weekend, happening from the 15th to the 17th of January (the actual date of my birth).

The first installment of the saga began on Friday night, in which my roommate Morgan took it upon herself to treat me to a great night out, with an emphasis on getting me absolutely and completely hammered. On both accounts she did a fabulous job, and it all occurred within the trendy, smooth locale of Le Café Paname. Of  course, before I can give any accurate account of the night itself, I must introduce the establishment where Morgan got me sloshed, hopefully giving an accurate impression of what it is.

In Roman times, a term called “genius loci” came into being, referring to the spirit or deity which is the essence of a place.
Though some may dismiss this concept as mere superstition, one must admit that certain places are entrenched with an undeniable feeling a persistent texture in the air which hints of memory, emotion, and significance lingering in the floor, the ceilings, the cracks in the walls, and the objects found there. Though having been there only a few times, it seems undeniable that Le Café Paname (or simply “Paname” for short) has this kind of essence about it, one which smacks of a welcome, trendy-while-not-being-pretentious, bohemian flavor oozing from the warm-color walls, liquor bottles, and hanging lights which attain fairy glow from waving smoke and lively conversation. However, in order that I may not romanticize it too much, I must add that my roommate has stated that it’s a good place to find creepy guys who like brushing up against women. But alas, no place is perfect, no kind of spirit strong enough to repel at least a little bit of skeeze.

Paname appeals mostly to the expat community in Chengdu, though it is expected that one find Chinese who come to soak the very un-Chinese atmosphere of the place. Though Paname isn’t technically a dance club, one may usually find people dancing on the small main floor, but the most common sight is seeing people talk in tight bundles, while bright drinks glow in their hands. And of course, when it is a Friday night, the walls seem to get farther away from each other as more people fill the space with their drinking, smoking, and talking.

It was on my first Friday night in Chengdu that I found such a place, guided by the hand of Morgan none-too-gently to the bar for my first drink. She led me to the bar, and asked me what I wanted my first drink to be. I remember her speaking earlier about a B-52, and decided to give it a go. It was creamy, delightfully strong, and rather exciting as I drank the recently blue-flamed spectacle and felt the warmth of it shoot through me. Success! One drink down, and several more yet to come.

As I was drinking my second drink, a Long Island Iced Tea, I met several people (most of which I cannot remember) who were either friends, colleagues or acquaintances of Morgan’s. There were entrepreneurs, English teachers, and even a worker for the Jiuzhaigou National Park. Everyone was inviting and friendly, and gave hearty cheer when Morgan exclaimed, “It’s my roommates birthday!”

“Happy Birthday!” everyone would cry unanimously. (Never mind the fact that it was technically the 16th in Chengdu, and more never mind the fact that it was actually still the 15th back at home on the West coast where I was born and raised. But alas, who minds the details when you’ve begun to forget what your lips feel like?)

And so the meeting, greeting, and boozing continued:
Oh, your name’s Kieran! Where are you from? Ireland, fascinating!
Finish the Long Island Iced Tea, on to the vodka shot.
Really? All three of you are teachers to kindergartners? That’s great!
Then on to the tequila.
Yes, I can speak a little bit of French! Je peux parler en Français!
Then another tequila shot.
And then there was a fifth drink, I swear there was, but I just can’t remember. I guess your brain does get fuzzy after five drinks, being introduced to several people, and strong tobacco smoke. And then, fuzziness gave way to slight nausea, which gave way to greater nausea, which gave way to a recognition as absolute and certain as I live and I am, which is:

I’m going to throw up.

Which I did, in the charming and quaint squat toilet of Paname. If you do not know what a squat toilet is, imagine a hole in the ground with a porcelain portrait, and there you have it. Of course, when this was all happening I did not stop to think of the condition of the floor where I knelt (all the better to vomit, my dear!). But, on rising up from it after flushing the toilet, while watching the my mouth projectile swirl down into the inner world of Chengdu’s sewer system, I noticed my hands were all wet and black, and then I noticed my pants were, too. It was as if there were bruises that had formed on my taupe-colored trousers, yet I couldn’t remember why they would’ve been bruised in the first place. Taking stock of this, and my impending second wave of nausea with a first wave of fatigue from a week in a place I’d never been before, in a culture I knew almost nothing of, I realized it might be a very good time to go back to the apartment.

So, I told this much to Morgan, and she told me stay still while she said goodbye to her friends, which I made sure to do. I also made sure then to say goodbye to Kickan, Adrien and Rita, three English teachers who were all very sweet and lovely to me (and who helped me with the first tequila shot).  So, after cherished goodbyes and Morgan’s “I’ll be back in a minute”s, she took me by the arm and guided me to the main area of Blue Caribbean Square to hail a cab. After only a minute or so, in which she expressed her satisfaction that I was basically piss-drunk, she put me in a cab and told the cab driver where to go.

As he drove I noticed the city lights and the cars passing by. The air seemed to have a thick quality to it, the night looming around and traveling in windfalls around the glowing lights of blue, white, purple and orange. Signs for tea houses, shao kao (烧烤, which is basically Sichuan BBQ with hot pepper powder added), and fashion boutiques whizzed by with traffic song, and while I observed all this I also noticed a contentment envelop me, even though I felt I was going to drop asleep at any given moment. It’s the kind of contentment you can only experience after a period of great transition (from one hemisphere to the next, from one stage of life to the next, from one possibility to the next) finally starts to settle in your skin, and you begin to grapple with the unsettling newness and familiarity of everything that has come to pass. You feel exhausted, and exhilarated at the same time.

And then you feel the urge to vomit again, and in broken, garbled Chinese, say, “Master worker, please, stop, here, please,” and as the cab driver pulls over you open the door and puke out of the car onto the street pavement. You spit the last drops of bile, cough, and spit again, and ask him to keep on going.

Then you do it once more, only four blocks away, which of course is only then a minute from your apartment.

It’d be wrong to say that the next two days were as interesting in the same way as that first night of drinking, but they certainly were fruitful. The Saturday of the 16th we went to see the Panda Research Center, as well as party with others once again at some bars and a club, and on the Sunday of the 17th, I went to the city limits with my roommate to try and see a basketball game between Germany and Croatia. However, I believe this is a good place to stop, and perhaps if I feel the need to talk about those days I shall.

ChengDo: Drinking so much that you have to puke.
ChengDon’t: Puking in a squat toilet open to public use. Even after five washes I can still see the stains on those damn pant knees!