Ahhh, Shanghai. The city hums with life, a symphony of car horns, endless construction, and street sweepers blaring their cheerful yet robotic message on an endless loop. Shanghai is a paradox. Chaotic yet harmonious, captivating and infuriating in equal measure, but after only a few years, it feels like home. This city holds my triumphs and heartbreaks: career successes, fleeting romances, neon-lit nights stretching into dawn, and memories blurred by too many drinks. It’s all here, tangled in the glow of signs and the haze of smog.
Today, I’m visiting a new customer just outside Suzhou. The sky is an unusual shade of blue, and the humidity is mercifully taking a day off. On the train, calmness reigns. An Ayi watches over her children as they sit quietly, their faces lit by the glow of screens. The train glides from stop to stop with practiced efficiency, its rhythmic clatter a metronome for my thoughts.
When I step onto the platform, the air feels heavier, industrial, metallic. I flick my lighter and inhale the sharp bite of a Double Happiness cigarette. Leaning against a beam, I watch commuters surge toward the stairs, sprinting as if their lives depended on being first. In China, speed is survival, but I’ve learned that sometimes, it’s better to let the rush pass. Beside me, a man clears his throat so violently I glance over, half-expecting blood.
“Where are you from?” he asks, Mandarin crisp and direct.
“America.”
“Trump! I like Trump. He knows how to make money!” His grin widens before he spits a projectile that arcs across the platform, landing with a wet smack on the tracks. I suppress a smirk. If spitting were a sport, China would take gold.
The factory is exactly what I expect: dimly lit, the air thick with grease and cigarette smoke that clings to my clothes. The boss greets me with an over-polished smile and a handshake that lingers a moment too long. His tailored suit and smooth English mark him as someone who knows how to impress.
“Lunch?” he asks.
“Sure,” I reply automatically, the word slipping out before I can weigh my options. My stomach knots with regret. I feel it the second the word leaves my mouth, but maybe a part of me craves this. Chasing the fading high of my honeymoon phase back when everything felt like an adventure.
The restaurant is as predictable as it is gaudy. A private room with red wallpaper, a polished round table with a lazy susan at its center, and replicas of jade and gold sculptures lining the walls. Fourteen unfamiliar faces stare at me like I’m an exhibit at the zoo. Beer is poured into stemmed glasses; a prelude, not a pause. Questions come fast, half-compliments and half-barbs.
“Shanghai people are snobby, don’t you think?”
“What do you think of China?”
“Are all Americans fat?”
“Where did you learn to use chopsticks?”
I nod, smile, and deflect, their laughter drowning out the clink of glasses.
The atmosphere shifts. Before I can register it, waitresses flank me in an ambush. On one side, a wine glass filled with cigarettes; on the other, a bottle of baijiu. The first shot is poured into a tiny stemmed glass, its oily tang burning my nostrils. One down. Then another. And another. Every face turns toward me with a toast, and each glass drained feels like a small defeat.
By the time the sixth bottle is emptied, we’ve migrated to the KTV downstairs. The dimly lit room hums with flashing lights and distorted pop songs. Vietnamese hostesses drift between us, pouring beers and giggling at the drunken theatrics. One man belts out karaoke in broken English while another slams his fists in time with the beat, trying to outshine the rest. A bottle of Maotai is produced, and an argument erupts over who will pay. The shouting lasts longer than the liquor.
I seize the moment, slipping out during the chaos. The hallway hums faintly, its fluorescent lights casting a cold, clinical glow. An Irish exit is my only salvation.
Outside, the sun has vanished, replaced by an orange sky that glows like embers. The air sticks to my skin, a sticky blend of sweat and smoke. My didi driver barely conceals his grimace, cracking the window to escape the stench radiating off me.
In the train car, an Ayi glances at me, then at the empty seat beside me, and opts to stand. A child clutches her hand, staring at me with wide-eyed curiosity. I close my eyes, trying to drown out the sound of children’s shouts and the chatter of passengers discussing me as if I’m not there. They assume I don’t understand. Sometimes, I wish I didn’t.
Before heading upstairs to my apartment, I stop at Family Mart. A pack of Zhongnanhai fives and a liter of Nongfu Spring make their way to the counter. The cool water soothes my throat, raw from cigarettes and endless toasts. The unopened pack of cigarettes lands beside me as I collapse onto my couch.
“Never again,” I mutter. Outside my window, the city hums, softly mocking me. It knows, and I know, that vows like these never last long in Shanghai.