Nanning Saturday
Breakfast is soup in a noodle shop: “old friend noodles” come in a sour and lightly spicy broth with strips of tender beef, pickled chilies and green beans, preserved lime rind. We sit at the eight-up table in the center. A troupe of lion dancers in their fluffy gold pom-pom pants files in after practice to order their own bowls.
We’re completely taken care of here. Our host, a high school friend of Jia’s mom, tells us when to get up, what to eat, which train we will take. She doesn’t let us pay for anything. We follow her through the street to whatever is next, get in the car when it appears, summoned by a phone call to her husband or son.
After breakfast, we’re driven to the back of a gym. Our host isn’t sure where to enter. “Is the air volleyball through here?” She asks a little boy playing in the doorway. He shakes his head, wide-eyed talking to a stranger, so we just follow the shouts of gameplay. Upstairs, a group of Jia’s mom’s high school classmates, now fifty-something, are playing: volleyball on a hard court, with a light, bouncy ball.
It’s great to watch: the group is sweating, shouting, bouncing on the balls of their feet. A woman in pink calls and points at her teammates. A younger guy runs up to spike. Each point is cheered by the scoring team, and somebody keeps track by flipping counting flags at the side of the court.
When the match ends, everyone comes over to greet Jia. Her mother was number one in their class, so they all admire her greatly. Do we want to play?
Jia begs off. I play for a game, in sandals and skirt. I’m terrible. I don’t know how to play volleyball. But I can mostly read my position from social cues, and everybody thinks it’s very funny. They give me a do-over when my serve fails to clear the net.
Saturday on the street is cheerful, and the humidity is down today. Two men sit on a lamppost podium next to their scooters, singing along to karaoke on a laptop they’ve set up in the bushes by the sidewalk. A few meters further on, a dozen professionals squat around a game of cards, shouting with the slap of the cards.
Vacation days are rare in China- you get five a year after a couple of years, ten and fifteen after many more. So our host is making the most of today. We drive beside a lovely riverside bike path (“too hot to ride this time of day”), tour a museum and learn about brass drums and textiles, lunch with another big family group, go out to another big family dinner.
“Lei bu lei?” “Leng bu leng?” “E bu e?” Are you tired? Are you cold? Are you hungry? We spend all day protesting that we are fine, not cold, completely full. We actually are tired, but don’t want to disappoint. So we’re falling asleep in the backseat of the car when we arrive at the night market.
It’s a young person’s scene: outdoor mall alive with strolling couples. Our hosts are twice the average age, have been active and eating all day. We trail behind them through the crowds- easy enough for me, as I’m taller than everybody. I haven’t seen anybody obviously non-Chinese on this trip so far, and I feel like a blond giant.
Promoters in doorways call out and clap clappers. Every store has a different blast of music. Store names are written in fashionable English letters. A guy handing out flyers grabs my hand, saying “hello!”. Our host sees and slaps him.
She notices Jia and I are tired, even in the overstimulation. So we walk just long enough to take in the scene, then turn around to go home. Jia and I fall asleep in the backseat: another completely full day.
