Sunday, January 10, 2010

These Bullets are Harmless

Jan 10, 2010

It's Monday and there's not too much on the agenda.
I digress...

At this point in time, the weather is still shitty and there is not much anything better to do then to invoke literary inspiration, let it marinate for an hour or two over lunch, and then regurgitate it immediately while it is still steaming fresh. I'm now 95 pages into a beautiful book, and I can't wait to get further. This is my plan for the remainder of the afternoon.

"Blonde Lotus" by Cecilie Berg is basically a woman's account of her own emergence into the Chinese culture; first, by fucking her way in, taking freebies and any type of Cantonese speaking male. Then, finagling her way through hotel night stays and weekend retreats whichever way she could get them. Luring men in and waking before dawn, getting up and out before they ever noticed. She lived like this for a few months, recounting every blunt rolled, man fucked, and house raided. Then, by actually engaging in the culture, studying, and moving onto more respectable endeavors, she learned and developed her ways towards becoming a Chinese scholar. And, got rid of the one night stands.
God, I love this book. Not only does is the woman gritty and remorseless, but she is also extremely honest about what she was after. Not saying that being a touristy slut is the way to get to the top, but there are certainly a number of risks you take and lack of responsibility that comes when you are a visitor in someone else's world.

The more and more I liquidate my own emotions and experiences into words, the more the apparent and interesting humility of a traveler becomes.

Ultimately, I am not reading this book as a guide to Chinese sluttery, but rather as a testament of the wild nature of traveling, and all the kinds of wonderful adventures that are possible. I suppose I'm taking the more nature-oriented route... Instead of hotel stays and intoxicated encounters, I've found myself spending hours on top of tropical mountains and green hilltops, having an affair with Hong Kong's warm sunshine.

I wrapped myself in a blanket next to the oil heater in the living quarters, getting deeper and deeper into the read. At around 9:30pm, Peter rushed in with a somber look on his face. He had a rough night tonight. On the way up the hill to the house, he said he cried. I hope I can be of some friendly support to him, even though I don't know what being heartbroken feels like. I've only known him for about a week at this point so I doubt my 22 years of experience on this earth can give him the right kind of advice. I made some pasta with broccoli instead. The dinner was a little tense, as I just kept on reminding him that we were going to have fun together regardless. He was desperate, sad, and apologetic for not being a better host, puking his emotions out all over the meal, and not barely touching his plate.

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