Mere Selves

Two foreign gentlemen sit outside a bar named after a French wine along Yanjiang Dadao – sun shining, heat dizzying, people coming and going along the promenade. They are perched like kings. They shield themselves from any feeling of discomfort in a foreign land through sheer bullish ignorance. They nod to each other and guffaw as another teen in summer dress passes.

The men are smiling confidently – super-confidently. One has recently come south from Beijing having secured a big deal which will ensure lots and lots of money for whatever company it is possesses him. He calls the waitress over. He eyes her above the rims of his Gucci shades. ‘Another round here, sweetheart.’ When she returns with their expensive German beers, the other gentleman, a man positioned high in a major soft drinks company, comments on her manner of customer service, offers some advice with regards how things are done in the west, then says, ‘You’re lovely. What time do you get off?’ The waitress blushes even though she can’t understand a word. Her English is good, but theirs is unconcerned with it not being her native language, so she only hears rapid-fire vernacular, and recognizes very little.

Later they bring her to an establishment normally frequented by westerners. She leaves following a sudden drunken declaration of love from the soft drinks man. The two foreign gentlemen remain however, spending and spending, and beating their chests to the disgust of locals, mere selves in a land long underwhelmed by the notion of self.