Apologies to My Censor by Mitch Moxley Read Free Book Online

Bavarian village, nestling on the Yellow Sea.”
    As far as I could tell, the only thing Bavarian
left in Qingdao was the rain and the German guy who stole our cab during a
torrential downpour our second night in town. Every number listed in the Rough Guide was incorrect (seven digits instead of
eight) and the hotel it recommended, and where we stayed, smelled of bad
seafood, as did much of Qingdao itself. Our room, at one hundred dollars a
night, overlooked the city’s busiest intersection, which meant that as of 7 a.m.
we were greeted with the whistles, honks, and hollering of a thousand
umbrella-wielding Chinese tourists marching up and down the boardwalk.
    Our first night in Qingdao, after a day spent
walking around town in the rain, we went to Tsingtao Beer Street. (Qingdao is
known for its beer and is famous for the popular brand Tsingtao.) The beer
festival was kicking off the next day, so visiting a street of beer seemed
appropriate. Beer Street was packed, lined with indistinguishable seafood
restaurants. There were some suspicious smells, but the food was good: tiny
clams, garlic shrimp, grilled fish, all washed down with fresh beer brewed
across the street.
    The atmosphere, however, was not as appetizing.
When I went to the washroom, the floor was covered with urine, and though it was
a one-man bathroom, two drunken men invited themselves in and peed in the drain
while I used the Western-style toilet. One of them gave me a thumbs-up. Later,
as we ate dinner, a man beside us placed his index finger on his left nostril
and blew a wad of snot on the ground, his nose inches from our bowl of
shellfish. Meanwhile, an old lady in an apron emerged from the kitchen, sat in a
chair, and picked her nose as we ate our shrimp.
    At this point, we were still giving Qingdao the
benefit of the doubt, assuming there was more to the city than met the eye.
After a good night’s rest, George and I figured, we would discover the city’s
true charm. But Qingdao had other ideas. As soon as we decided to leave Beer
Street, the rains came. It poured from 10 p.m. until past 2 a.m., flooding the
streets. It was clear we were in for a long weekend.
    The next day the rains continued and we were slow
moving. After lunch we took a bus to the Beer Festival, where we sat at a table
drinking bottles of German beer as a waitress tried to sell us chicken feet and
duck liver. Around us were several hundred drunk Chinese huddled at picnic
tables under a large circus tent. Onstage, a performer in a black tank top and
ripped jeans, with a beer gut and Elvis hair, swung his hips and punched the air
to the tune of horrendous pop music played at what was surely a dangerous
decibel.
    At around 7 p.m. we decided the Beer Festival was
beyond salvaging and headed back downtown. After the aforementioned German stole
our cab, we eventually made it to our destination and decided to unwind with a
pizza and a massage. We headed to a four-star hotel near ours and ate a pizza
with toppings that included sausage, lettuce, and corn.
    Then we went downstairs to the “spa.” I should have
known something was amiss when two young women took George and me to separate
rooms, at which point my masseuse, whose thong was exposed at the back of her
jeans, began to massage nothing but my lower abdomen and inner thigh, moving
slowly inward.
    â€œYou want?” she said, eyebrows raised.
    I shook my head. “Bu yao, xie xie.” No, thanks.
    I covered my eyes with my hands and tried to will
away what was happening in my pants.
    She typed the number 1,200—about $150—on her phone
and showed it to me. “Okay?”
    â€œNo, thanks.”
    She pouted and typed 600. “Okay?”
    â€œNo, thank you. Just massage.”
    George was having a similar problem. “Mitch, what’s
happening over there?!” he cried from the other room.
    â€œShe’s trying to jerk me off!” I hollered.
    â€œMe, too!”
    George