He Vomited, He Can Pay

Much has happened this week.

And nothing.

I walked behind a man with a sword on Thursday Morning. 

I was told that if you sit on the windowsill during Circle Time the children can only see your feet, and this is bad behavior. 

Super Husband and I played an integral part in coming in Fourth Place during Quiz Night at Lush in Wudaoko on Wednesday. 

Occidental was one of the answers, just in case you were wondering. 

We've found that La Bamba has passable Mexican food, having now sampled the Fajitas Mixtas, Enchiladas Mixtas, and a Burrito. Their refried beans are watery, and the rice is... crunchy... but they give you guacamole with the fajitas, so they're all right in my book. I must clarify here that while they say that they're a Mexican restaurant, I'd probably classify them a little closer to Tex-Mex. If only because they offer Nachos as part of the menu. 

And their tequila selection is abysmal. 

Not that we know anything about tequila.

Only that Jose Cuervo isn't All That.

On Friday night we met up with a rather international group (two Ecuadoreans, one Brazilian, an Ethiopian, one girl from Thailand, one from Botswana, and one guy from Eastern Europe, judging by his accent) at a place called Helen's, where you can get dinner, but after 9pm is mostly a drinks business. They have shisha, too, I believe. We were there to celebrate one of Super Husband's friends having just submitted her thesis. Don't ask me what on, because I don't know.

Tsingtao was had by almost all, and from Helen's we walked the block and a half to stand outside of La Bamba, where we, quite by coincidence, ran in to one of Super Husband's classmates from UofH. We'd been meaning to get in contact with her since we got to Beijing, but never quite had the chance. Rest assured, phone numbers have been exchanged.

From La Bamba we went into a club called Sensation, which was packed full of people. The two, or possibly three story building would have burst open and we all would have poured out onto the sidewalk had it been a cartoon. Due to the rather stifling atmosphere the group decided to relocate, and chose a club across the street called Global. 

Now, I am decidedly not a connoisseur of the club or bar scene, but Global seemed pretty nice. The music wasn't any good, at all, but sometimes that just can't be helped. And when most of the crowd is too drunk to care... well, who cares? But they have a number of couches in the ladies room, and anywhere that offers a place I can sit down when wearing three inch heels gets two thumbs up. 

I cut the night short, by party going standards, at 1:30 in the morning. 

My feet were still swollen on Saturday.

But I have to note that I learned some valuable information while parked on the comfy sofa in the ladies room: In Beijing, flip flops and chucks are acceptable clubbing footwear.

Now, this is a revelation. Not that I'd necessarily wear flip flops to a club, but it does rather mean that a pair of cute flats wouldn't be looked at askance, at all. Or wedges. 

I need to go shoe shopping.

On Saturday we met up with another of Super Husband's classmates, Tom from Ireland, and went to a pretty neat little place called The Culture Yard where we watched a film called Comrades, Almost A Love Story. It's a fairly long film, at just over two hours, but is worth it, I think. The Culture Yard screens movies on Saturday evenings, and offers language classes throughout the week. They have English, Mandarin, Spanish, and Portuguese. It's a bit costly, but if you take the language courses you get to see the movies for free.

Tom's girlfriend and her mother also joined us for the film, and dinner afterwards.

Dinner is where the real story begins.

After strolling for a while down a street lined with vendors, restaurants, and lanterns, we chose a restaurant that boasted a decent menu, complete with chuan'r and a nice selection of vegetables.

Little did we know they were also catering to a rather drunk young man, and two of his less young and only slightly less drunk friends. Our shredded potatoes and peanuts were presented to us amid his drunken, guttural moans. His friends tried to ply him with water, and this, it seems, was everyone's downfall.

I'm not sure if this is true for everyone, but in my experience tending to the drunk is a bit of an art form. You must know exactly how much water they can drink, and how quickly you can make them drink it before their system begins to reject everything.

What I'm implying here is that he vomited. All over the table. 

It was foul.

The drunkenness was bad enough, but there was absolutely no way that we were going to eat in a restaurant with a soused and vomiting patron. 

So we got up and left, carrying our various bottles of drink with us.

The waitress, however, had the nerve to demand that we pay for the entirety of the meal we had ordered, not just that which had been served to us previous to the second arrival of the other guy's meal.

Of course this could not stand, as the Native Beijinger, and mother of Tom's girlfriend quickly explained to the waitress. 

If I spoke fluent Mandarin I would have told them to make him pay for our meal, it's his fault we weren't going to be eating it, anyway. 

I probably would have worked out how to explain it myself, if she hadn't been there.

In the end we payed for the three beers and two waters that we left with, and the shredded potatoes. 

It was a lesson in what flies, though.

Even without the liquor laws in the U.S. I can't imagine that kind of thing being acceptable.

Sunday was more relaxed.

I sat with olive oil and honey in my hair under a plastic bag, for an hour. 

We had chuan'r and watched Grimm, New Girl, and The Colbert Report.

Hopefully I get paid tomorrow. 

Super Husband just leaned over and said "In Chinese, you don't have a dream, you make one."

And on that note:

Good Night