Graduates in Wonderland Read online

  I am meeting a lot of other expats, but all we have in common is the fact that we are expats in China. So far, the best conversations I have are with taxi drivers. I love these guys! I love practicing my Mandarin with them. After they establish that I am an American, here is how every single conversation goes:

  Cabdriver: (gives me a good, long look) You know, you look a little Chinese to me.

  Me: My dad’s Chinese.

  Cabdriver: YOUR DAD IS CHINESE?!

  Me: Yes.

  Cabdriver: And your mother is...?

  Me: American.

  Cabdriver: So you’re a “mixed-­blood.” (In Mandarin, this is an acceptable thing to say.)

  Me: Yes!

  Cabdriver: tue fjklsio akdj woeur adsla wieur aldj ckxlz

  (In this e-mail, this looks like Czech or something, but it’s actually supposed to be Mandarin that is too advanced for me to understand.)

  Me: Yes...?

  Pause

  And then I get out, and I’m like, “It was so good to meet you!” and they’re like “DON’T OPEN THE DOOR ON THAT CYCLIST!” and also, “Go slowly”—­their way of saying, “Take care.” I love speaking this exotic language. I feel like a completely different person when I step back and listen to myself.

  Speaking of half-­bloods, have I told you that I’ve been reading the final Harry Potter book? During my first week here, I was desperate and it was the only English book I could find. However, I made the mistake of first buying a fake one off the street. It was called Harry Potter and Leopard Walk-­Up to Dragon. It was essentially bad translations of the Lord of the Rings, with Harry Potter characters inserted. I’ll try to send one to you. Here’s how it begins: “Harry doesn’t know how long it will take to wash the sticky cream cake off his face. For a civilised young man it is disgusting to have dirt on any part of his body.” He sounds a little OCD to me in this version.

  Fucking gold. Read it and weep, J. K. Rowling.

  Love,

  Jess

  P.S. What do you think happened when Harry Potter had sex for the first time? Like, what magical thing happened? I’m thinking when he’s done, he has a full beard or something.

  Let me know your thoughts, ASAP.

  SEPTEMBER 28

  Rachel to Jess

  It’s hard to imagine a world in which you and Astrid are competing for the same guy—­you’ve never liked (or been able to tolerate) the same guy before. You always like guys who have approximately 3 percent body fat and are two inches taller than you, while Astrid likes beefy Eastern Europeans.

  Also, I can’t imagine you performing improv or voicing a cartoon. I think you are definitely becoming more extroverted in Beijing. I wonder what New York is doing to me....I keep thinking that New York is what’s wrong with me, but my therapist says that this is not helpful (yes, therapist). I can’t control what happens to me, only what I feel about it.

  So, this means that I took your advice and my dad’s advice, as well as the advice of a kindly tourist on the C train, and finally called a therapist. Actually, if you want to know the truth, I called three therapists. The first one was the analyst, and the way I understand it is that you tell him what’s wrong with you. So basically, you are also my analyst by this definition. You majored in psychology, so this makes perfect sense. Anyway, he was so nice on the phone—­so, so nice. Until this:

  Him: I do have a Saturday-­morning slot available.

  Me: Fantastic, I’ll take it. Oh, and quickly—­if I can ask, what’s your fee?

  Him: The first consultation is $750 and after that, we can discuss whether you’re eligible for reduced fees.

  Me: Uh. What’s the lowest possible rate?

  Him: $500 an hour.

  Me: Thanks so much! You know, I’m so busy these days...

  Click.

  No insurance.

  I finally found another guy through Mount Sinai and he is, like, our age. He told me that I could call him Eric.

  I told him that this made me uncomfortable. Now I call him Dr. Eric.

  Dr. Eric told a lot of stories about bullies. He said that the surgery interns used to bully the psychiatry interns, namely him. This just made me feel bad for him, and also like maybe my therapist was a loser. He told me to write down on a piece of paper “This is not about me,” and to look at the paper every time Vince said something threatening. I started crying at this point, and he showed me that he also had a paper like this, which he keeps in his wallet. That just made me cry harder. It was so SAD.

  Lately I just pick up on everyone’s emotions, no matter what they are, and respond to them a million times more intensely than I normally would/is appropriate. I know I’ve always felt things a bit too much (Notebook, ugh) but all the same, this is ridiculous.

  Meanwhile, I have a shiny new prescription for Xanax, so I am fully qualified to be a dissatisfied 1960s housewife.

  Dr. Eric costs $250 an hour, so I still had to find somebody else—­somebody cheaper. Which was good. I was cognizant of the fact that he makes me feel existentially sad.

  So many feelings.

  I told him I couldn’t afford him anymore, and so he went through his BlackBerry and arrived at the name and number of Claudia (no last name), another therapist. So I arrived at Claudia’s brownstone office in the Village, and sat in the waiting area. When she came out, she called out, “Rachel?” in a thick German accent, and when I stood up, Claudia looked from me to her clipboard and back again before inviting me into her office.

  I followed her in and saw a chalkboard...a bucket of blocks...a rag doll...

  Turns out Dr. Eric referred me to a child therapist.

  After she explained this to me, Claudia asked me if I wanted to continue with her for a trial counseling session, and I did. We spent the whole time doing a basic questionnaire, in which she asked a lot of questions about my family and my past experiences. She didn’t want to talk about Vince at all. I was like, okay, neither do I, but he’s really the problem here.

  All she said was, “Is he?”

  Ugh.

  I feel like I know exactly what she is trying to do, but I also kind of like her. Her office has a bunch of artwork and plants, and the kid stuff is kind of comforting. She makes me mint tea. Also, I like knowing that I am the most emotionally mature of her patients (probably). But I do have to write her a check at the end of each session ($150—­am I going down the scale of therapists? Pretty soon it’s just going to be me, a twenty-­dollar bill, and a cheap prostitute). Paying a confidant is so unsettling.

  And now, after very healthily comparing my therapist to a prostitute, I am closing the office for the evening and going to a gallery opening in Chelsea, because Claudia is making me do one thing every day that “scares me.” She said that my weekly trips to the Film Forum don’t count. I’ve also been trying to think about things in New York that I like (which makes me think that she is brainwashed, but maybe will help lure you back here?). So far I have this:

  Fall finally came to New York today after holding out for way too long. When I woke up, everything smelled like fall and the leaves were starting to change and it was chilly—­and I love it. From work, right now, I can see Central Park and it looks like broccoli because I’m so high up and the light is so dramatic. The tops of the trees are all streaked with sunlight.

  I haven’t told Rosabelle too much about Claudia. I mentioned the Xanax and she’s calling them my crazy pills, so I kind of hate her right now. I’m contemplating hiding her favorite baking tray. Then we’ll see who’s crazy.

  I love you!

  Rach

  P.S. I think when Harry Potter has sex for the first time, sparks fly from his penis.

  OCTOBER 5

  Jess to Rachel

  I would have pursued another degree in psychology if I had known that meant hanging out with you all day. The real
ity actually seemed to be hanging out with rats. I still remember the mandatory rat lab I took at Brown and how our professor told me I couldn’t name our rat because...well, because I’d see soon enough. (He died, Rachel. Fifle’s DEAD. Fievel? Fyfull? He died and nobody even bothered to learn how to spell his name!) Sorry. You’re fragile.

  If it makes you feel better, I don’t actually know what I’m doing with my life at all. My Mandarin isn’t good enough to land me a fancy job. People keep saying there’s so much opportunity in China...but for what? On principle, I don’t want to teach English. It’s a slippery slope. You agree to teach English and then suddenly you’re forty-­five, with a fanny pack and Teva sandals, still teaching English, except inexplicably you have become a white male and you have a hot Chinese girlfriend and everyone else thinks you’re a creep.

  But, I feel a strange connection with China. Astrid keeps telling me it’s because these are your people and I think she’s kind of right. I find myself thinking about that a lot here, even when I have trouble communicating with them.

  Even so, I still don’t know what I’m going to do here. Sometimes I wonder if I should be in New York with you like most of our graduating class. I still haven’t given up on my aspirations of being a reporter, but New York has the most concentrated number of journalists and aspiring journalists than any other place in the world. Someone sneezes and within seconds, someone has already covered it. It feels like there isn’t any room for another one.

  Also, it feels strange telling this to you, but I was always so terrified of moving to New York after graduation and just becoming a small cog in a wheel for the rest of my life. But don’t think about that too much, okay?

  Maybe you’d like to hear that I shower over a toilet. Perhaps I glossed over that in my other e-mails. It seems totally normal to me now. It’s strange how quickly one adapts.

  More importantly, things finally came to a head with the Maxwell and Astrid situation. I’ve taken to avoiding them when they’re together, but our problems go so much deeper than our mutual ad­oration of Maxwell. When Maxwell’s not around, Astrid and I go everywhere together. Every single person I’ve met, Astrid has also met. No one has met just me as me. I’m always in addition to her.

  Last night we had a huge fight in a small alley while Maxwell waited in a bar for us. I wanted to go home to catch some much-­needed sleep, but she demanded that I come with them to another bar. She told me that sometimes conversation falls flat between her and Maxwell and that I balance it out. I told her she was selfish and that I wasn’t going to play the supporting role in her life forever. It was one of the most honest moments of my life. Somehow, and I really don’t know how, we made up after this, but there’s palpable tension. It feels like I’m stuck in a bad marriage. How do you break up with your best friend? You can’t. Do you ever feel this way about Rosabelle or is it just me?

  I’m also pretty sure we scared off the elderly Chinese people who live on that street. They wear their pajamas around town once the sun has set, but when they heard the first screech of an angry Norwegian, they scattered.

  I’m planning to fly to Shanghai to crash on Jon’s couch for a week to escape the tension. He’s teaching there, and I’d love to see his face. Apparently, he’s catnip to all the gay men in Shanghai as well as to every guy at Brown.

  Missing you. Are you feeling better?

  Love,

  Jess

  OCTOBER 10

  Rachel to Jess

  I think that what you’re going through with Astrid is totally normal, especially when you’ve been living together so long. Does Maxwell even know that he’s being fought over? And say hi to Jon for me.

  Meanwhile, I may have solved my work problems!

  1.Take a Xanax.

  2.Arrive at work before Vince and make sure everything is perfect before he comes.

  3.Hide from Vince, in the bathroom if necessary, until he has left.

  4. Take care of everything else from the day.

  Perfect solution.

  Claudia says I need to get out more. And so I’ve been trying to go out at least one night a week. She might be onto something, because last week I met someone. Or remet someone.

  I ran into Bill Broadwick at a gallery opening. I think you met him just once or twice—­he was in my fiction class in college. He wrote really dense, obtuse prose that was so brilliant no one understood it. He also has piercing green eyes and a deep voice. I hadn’t seen him since graduation and was actually in the middle of taking off my work shoes and slipping on my high heels when he caught me, one shoe on, one shoe off. It’s not the most graceful of poses, but he did offer his arm to help me keep my balance. Someday in the future he’s going to make some Cinderella joke when he’s down on one knee. I didn’t just write that. Ignore that. That never happened.

  We wandered around the gallery together, me mostly following behind him, because I prefer to view paintings with his wavy blond hair obfuscating most of the artwork. We eventually got separated when more people arrived, but I want to see him again. It was strange to be in New York together and not sitting in a classroom. I almost felt grown-­up, but the whole shoe-­changing scene canceled the feeling out. As I was leaving, he caught me on the way out to say good-­bye. I wanted to make a joke to lighten the mood, because my heart was racing, but instead I managed to just smile demurely and nod. He left saying he’d call me later in the week.

  Meanwhile, I feel like almost every guy I meet here plays in some terrible band, reads Rilke, drinks Brooklyn microbrews, and has a bad beard. Yet I still manage to convince myself I really like them! Lack of good options does this to you. Maybe I’m projecting and I’m trying to get them to solve my problems for me. It would definitely fit in with the passivity that’s taken over my life so far...as in, I still haven’t quit my job.

  Rosabelle has so far interviewed at: Dior, Chanel, and now is going for Vogue. Who knows. I bet thirty years ago she would have gotten all of those jobs, but these days they’re like the Holy Grail. I eat her baking chocolate. She yells at me. It’s like college, but without you and Astrid.

  I remember when the four of us were inseparable senior year. How is it that you took half of our group to China? Come back, you guys! We’ve got really good cupcakes over here (another New York pro I’ve come up with). Also, remember how much we liked lying in Sheep Meadow in Central Park? What else...We also have a canal in Brooklyn that will literally strip the flesh from your hands!

  Claudia is still my best friend next to Rosabelle. Today I told her about how hard it is to meet anybody and that most of the time, I just don’t have the energy to make an effort. I know in your mind, therapists are Austrian men with beards, but you are mistaken: Claudia is a German woman with a slight mustache. She is probably about forty, with a black mane and lots of frumpy clothes. You must now imagine this woman scolding me: “Your future husband does not know where you live! He does not have your address!”

  I go to too much therapy.

  Love,

  Lady-­in-­Waiting

  OCTOBER 17

  Jess to Rachel

  I remember Bill Broadwick. He had all the makings of a great guy, but he seemed a bit robotic to me. Like the male version of a Stepford wife. I won’t say that in my wedding speech, though, so don’t worry.

  It’s colder now, so I’ve seen the first real glimmer of blue sky since I’ve been here, because usually it is a gray, smoggy haze. I’ve been to Shanghai to visit Jon since I last wrote—­I flew down there for four days and he came back with me for three. He left yesterday and now I really miss him.

  Jon took me around Shanghai, which is glitzier than Beijing, with fancier high-­rises and more fashionistas walking the streets. We ate dinner in the French Concession, which you would have loved because it has leafy streets and ’30s architecture and French people. Everywhere we went, skinny Chinese guys batted their eyelashes
at Jon, because apparently the curly haired, blue-­eyed look is very sought after in the gay community here, and he is totally living it up.

  It was strange meeting the people in Jon’s teaching program—­those would have been my friends if I had taught English with him in Shanghai like I’d originally planned, and it’s rare to get to see your alternate life up close. I still think I prefer Beijing, which has a big art scene and live music venues and a soul. Overall, Shanghai has more bankers and bubble-­tea stands. Jon thinks it’s better than Beijing, but he’s wrong, just like he was wrong when he thought I was a lesbian freshman year.

  Anyway, I don’t know what’s wrong with the men in your life. Are we entirely sure they are straight? I ask because Jon and I went to a lot of gay clubs together in Shanghai. Why did Astrid, Rosabelle, you, and I ever think this was fun? It is not fun. The guys there just kind of wonder if you are lost.

  Jon thinks he’ll only be in China for one year, but I’m still open to staying longer. I’m back in Beijing and realizing that my only skill now seems to be speaking English. Even if you have zero other skills, a native English speaker with a pulse can find work teaching English or even just speaking it. And so producers from the cartoon job called me up to see if I could do some English-­language voice recording. I’m paid the equivalent of $70 per hour to tape an English lesson for kids. I’m currently recording the Christmas lesson. I wish I were making this up, but I’m really not—­I had to pretend to be Santa.

  When I met the producers at the recording studio, they handed me enormous headphones and led me into a booth. For a moment I felt like I was about to record a pop album. The experience was unnerving because the mic amplified everything—­I could hear myself swallow through the headphones.

  And then the dream ended. I had to put on the only voice I can do (angry old man) and talk about Christmas trees and snowflakes. The producers’ only complaint was that I didn’t sound happy enough. Do you know what it’s like to have three Chinese women yell at you, “BE HAPPIER!”? I want to shout back, “I’M A JEW! WE AREN’T HAPPY AND WE DON’T HAVE SANTA CLAUS!”