Yangtze River Serenade

What he lacked in teeth, he tried to make up for in charm. With my back to the wall, I tried to avoid the man starring me down.

My quarters on the passenger boat were small, but supposedly private, floating down the Yangtze River in central China from Shanghai. Private, except for the security guards that shined flash lights in the windows during their nightly rounds.

The man with no teeth was willing to compromise his Chinese humility by making his way to my room in the evenings, pointing to the thin bamboo bed.

"You, me," point, point.

He offered me a cigarette. I just looked at it. I don't smoke. Very allergic.

Helping himself to a chair placed so conveniently outside of my room, he began his serenade.

I didn't know the words. I couldn't ask him. My Chinese was minimal at best.

I closed my door. He sat for two long hours, singing, poking his head up to my window, cigarettes outstretched on his palm. I refused his offer and tried to stay focused on my card game. I played solitaire-and wanted it to stay that way.

I had two more nights to go, then one morning my Chinese guide came to me and said, "He's a bad man."

I never saw him again.

"What's the reprimand for serenading a foreigner?" I thought. I decided to keep that question strictly in my thoughts.

After docking at port, I realized that my serenading friend was actually preparing me for all the starring, the singing, the noise-and more starring. Three days on a boat led to three years in the inner city for me, where hopefuls continued the serenade.

I always refused their cigarettes.