There are several great things about living in China. Food poisoning sure to jump start any diet plan. Lethal pet food and toothpaste. Smog and pollution to die for. What's not to love, right?
OK, I'm exaggerating. Despite a couple of bad food bouts, I'm certainly not shedding any pounds here. My teeth are about as clean as ever and, as far as I know, I haven't killed any four-legged creatures. And, call me Pollyanna, but I prefer to think of the smog as a sour old friend that kindly hides those annoying sunbeams when all I really want to do is lie on the couch, watch Law & Order reruns, and eat slurpy spoonfuls of Haagen Dazs Macadamia Nut Brittle ice cream.
There is one difficulty, however, that I simply couldn't manage on my own -- traffic. How to describe rush hour in Beijing? Hmmm. Think of all the cars in Chicago, New York and L.A. combined without a fussy need for separate lanes for traveling in opposite directions. Mix in about a million bicycles, motorbikes, buses, pedal carts and pedestrains. Throw in a policeman with a red flag nonchalantly waving at rule breakers, not so much to slow them down or, God forbid, give them a ticket, as to encourage them with a, "Hey, good job putting the pedal to the metal 30 seconds after the traffic light turned red." Or, "Awesome! I've never seen a hit and run like that. Double flag wave to you, girlfriend!"
That's why I'm thankful to have a driver. Yes, a driver. Someone who picks me up in the morning and takes me home at night. Someone who opens doors for me, puts my overstuffed briefcase in the trunk, and struggles to ensure the appropriate CD is ready to play my favorite tunes. Never mind that it's the soundtrack to "Hairspray" with lyrics that make him squint oddly as he glances at me in the rearview mirror. "It's art!," I tell him. "Turn it up."
Mr. Cui (pronounced "SWEE") is a God-send. He manuevers through traffic like a ballet dancer on speed, all the while oozing with the calm indifference of an English aristocrat. Recently, a bicyclist rammed into us head on only 50 yards from my home. I freaked. In contrast, Mr. Cui calmly got out of the car, ensured our treasured black Volkswagen Passat wasn't noticeably scratched, looked over the dazed but healthy cyclist, and sent him away with a dismissive wave of the hand.
Mr. Cui is more than just a driver. He's also my translator, bargainer, cultural advisor, and occasional lunch partner. Hell, he even pushes my cart at the grocery store, no matter how much I protest. At first I felt a bit embarrassed about having a chauffeur. Let's face it, I've always been much closer to trailer trash than Park Avenue. But after a few guilt-ridden weeks, I decided to embrace my good fortune. Inevitably, I "slip" and bring him into conversation with family and friends.
- "I don't know, let me see if my DRIVER knows where that restaurant is located."
- "Oh, appreciate the offer to share a taxi, but my DRIVER is on the way."
- "Why don't I have my DRIVER stop by the store and pick that up for you?"
- "Hold on, let me ask my DRIVER to turn down the radio."
This, of course, is simply to show my appreciation for Mr. Cui. I wouldn't dream of gloating.
We're a team, Mr. Cui and me. I used to close my eyes from the time I left my home until he safely dropped me at my destination. No longer. I wouldn't miss a moment of our obstacle course jaunts through the streets of the Chinese capital. Hell, if I had a red flag, I'd double wave him.
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