Opera Company
S and I met through an internet dating site. A San Francisco resident, he was visiting his family who live in Beijing, which has been my home for the past few years. After several emails and phone conversations, we decided that we were interested enough to go on a date. S suggested a night at the opera, since he had tickets to a production of Puccini’s Turandot at “The Egg” – the city’s new titanium-clad National Center for the Performing Arts designed by Paul Andreu. I jumped at the idea. I love opera. And Turandot in Beijing… perfect! (Ed. note: Puccini set the bloody love story in the court of Beijing’s Forbidden City in “legendary times”)
We met at a convenient corner of Tiananmen Square to watch the sunset. We then strolled southwards along the square, weaving our way through vendors of cheap digital cameras, badly-soled shoes and even more badly-sequined T-shirts. As we walked, we attempted chitchat to get to know each other better. He was hungry but didn’t want to eat any cheap and nasty street food.
“Oh, and one more thing,” he said as he stopped midway through his stride. “My mother will be joining us at the opera this evening. She was the one who had the spare tickets. I hope you don’t mind.”
As if I had a choice? Apparently S was a Mama’s boy to the core. Mama was lovely. Bubbly. Short. A powerhouse. She did leave us alone to chat and have our space during the short interval. After curtain call, she announced, “Let’s go find some beef noodles. And you’re coming with us.” Again, as if I had a choice.
Her chauffeur-driven Mercedes S-class pulled up and we were off on a hunt for a 24-hour noodle shop in central Beijing. Mama and S sat in the back while I intimately acquainted myself with the chauffeur’s body odor. Clearly no man was going to get between S and Mama. We did exchange limited banter over duck noodles while Mama and Chauffeur compared notes on the elasticity of the noodles in various establishments in Beijing.
Somehow despite all this, S and I are still friends on Facebook.
