The Long Road Through China

By Quentin Super

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to live in China as an expat?

In the third installment of The Long Road series, author and journalist Quentin Super gives readers an insight into everyday life in China.

From meeting local women off dating apps to ridiculing the sanity and morals of his coworkers, Super returns with a vengeance, his concern for political correctness clearly not on display in this riveting work.

Yet once again, Super's exploits lead to personal enlightenment that will have readers laughing, cringing, and even questioning their own actions and beliefs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889605553

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The Long Road Through China

Quentin Super

Copyright © 2023 Quentin Super

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

Disclaimer: I have altered the names of every character except my own in order to protect their identities. When some people read this book, they will know who they are; and if—or more likely, when—they are offended by what I have written, I hope they don’t take it personally.

My goal in writing this book isn’t to demonize anyone. Rather, it’s to tell the truth while also providing entertainment.

ISBN 979-8-88960-566-9 (hc)

ISBN 979-8-88960-555-3 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Foreword

Hey, James. It's Q. I was wondering if you'd like to write the foreword to my new book.

It's funny looking back now at the Quentin I knew in Beijing.

The Quentin I know now is focused and professional, quick to analyze his own actions, the actions of others, and how those things affect society. He's a man of conviction and purpose. He wants to leave his mark on the world.

When I shook hands with the Quentin of five years ago, he couldn't have been more different: young, cocky, and his head on a swivel, ready to turn toward anything in a skirt. I remember a man quick to drink any Kool-Aid that let him think that he was the right way to be (James, I love modern feminism). I remember a man who thought he had it all figured out, and everyone else could get the fuck out of the way.

But then he wasn't a man; he was a boy, as was I. We were grown men in some biological sense, but our heads were so far up our asses it was surprising we found our way to work every day.

It's funny and a little tragic the way life changes us. I always think it would be easier if God made life a seamless transition from youth to wisdom, but that isn't how life works, and that's not how this story works. The lucky ones, I suppose, are raised right and never have to make mistakes to find out how to live a good life. For the rest of us, we have to make mistakes, and we have to suffer.

I think that's the way I remember this story in Beijing. There were good times of course, lots of them—getting a drink with Super and hashing out which one of us that cute girl looked at (it was me), Ubering back from a strip club while arguing whose stripper didn't look Japanese (it was his; Quentin's take in the story is fake news). Then there was partying at the club or having long conversations about the men we wanted to be, and the men we ought to be. But much of the experience during our time in East Asia was one of mistakes and suffering.

Quentin's mistakes were usually pretty easy to see; they boiled down to hooking up with too many women or giving his special someone anxiety whenever she wasn't around. To call this man a womanizer wouldn't be far from the mark, but how couldn't he be?

Quentin was the archetypal young man of our society. A self-described loser in high school who couldn't get a girl to save his life, Super apparently heard Tinder was a thing in college and made it his life's purpose to sleep with as many women as humanly possible. It was a respectable goal and not an uncommon one, and to his credit, he excelled in a way most men didn't. (But we all know a white guy in China has inflated numbers. It's like LeBron playing in the WNBA. I mean, come on, the dude is 6–5.)

Jokes aside, Quentin honestly did what the guidanceless young men of our society did. He looked out for number one, didn't think about the consequences of his actions, and used bedpost notches like baseball cards not only to show others his worth, but also to prove it to himself.

I, on the other hand, made different mistakes, and having a foil like Quentin in the room next to me made them glaringly obvious. Where Quentin acted too recklessly, I didn't act at all. Where Quentin didn't think anything through, I overthought everything. And where Quentin didn't agonize over any of the decisions he made, I felt guilty at the mere thought of doing wrong.

This is one of the many reasons this book is about Quentin and not me. Quentin lived life in the world, whereas I lived it in my head. But while I was living in there, Quentin came by to draw me out of it.

I look back at a lot of this story and remember my being a disappointed dad at Super's many escapades, but looking back with a bit more self-awareness, I think I see now that Super was a disappointed dad at my lack of action. And I can appreciate that that disappointed dad drew me out of my shell and helped me become the man I am today.

Now this is not a book about two saints, but it also isn't a book about two devils. As I see it, this is a book about two young men and one young man in particular, Quentin Super, as he forged his own path toward an identity worth becoming, and perhaps the painful moments that made him realize it was time to turn back and forge a new path.

He did it without guidance, or perhaps he was guided by the juvenile ideas of masculinity in our society, and so he strayed from the straight and narrow now and again. But then for those unlucky ones such as we were, born into the twenty-first century with the continued destruction of old social and moral norms and the rise of a pervasive social media–fueled narcissism, wisdom comes only through mistakes. And while it's a bit guilt-inducing looking back at them now, goddamn, was it a fun ride on the way down.

I can only hope the women who routinely came into our apartment with Super felt the same. I often tried to ask, but I could never get past ni hao.

For all of us, life is a narrative. It's a story. Super may have written it out based on his own reflections and perspective on his life, but behind these words are real people who felt real things, who suffered real pain and felt real happiness. And along the way, I imagine that Super and I were both seeking an answer to the questions we all ask, even if we never consciously ask them: What is the meaning of this life I'm living here? What ought I do with it? Who do I need to be and what do I need to do to be the ideal person we all strive to become?

This is a story we all live, and we all naturally make many mistakes. We hurt others, and we hurt ourselves trying to become something that in hindsight was never worth being to begin with. We ourselves are responsible for this in some sense, but more fundamentally, we are not. We are reflections of society, our families, and the ideals that circulate in them. And I think the genius of this book, perhaps unconsciously, is that it shows us that the society we are surrounded by compels talented men to become something that isn't worth being.

Casey Nordbak

Chapter 1

I can't tell the story of China without first sharing what precipitated my arrival in the People's Republic.

I had just finished a grandiose cycling tour across half of the United States, one that involved an immense amount of debauchery, a few bike-related mechanical issues, and the consumption of enough Grey Goose to keep the French entity profitable for the next decade.

Following that adventure, I contemplated what to do next as I sat in my parents' living room one evening, staring blankly at my computer screen and wondering if a longing for the unconventional still burned in my soul.

I found myself aimlessly scrolling through Facebook as Wheel of Fortune played in the background. Suddenly, an intriguing ad popped up.

Do you want to live in China? read the text in big white letters.

My mind instantly shifted to the Great Wall and the Tiananmen Square protests of years ago, and how my Tinder game might fare abroad.

Yes, I do want to live in China, I said to myself, then clicked on the shiny blue ad.

I was taken to a small web page that required me to fill in some basic information, like birth date, education level, and how much teaching experience I had. After inputting the information, I was then redirected to another page that said a representative from the company would soon be in touch.

The next night, while staring at the same computer screen, and with Pat Sajak urging a schoolteacher from Delaware to pick a vowel, my phone rang. It was a Beijing number.

Holy hell, I said, my heart racing as I stood up to walk into a back room and silently take the call.

Hello, I answered carefully, expecting someone on the other end to reply in a tongue I had never heard before.

Is this Quentin? asked a chipper female voice.

This…is, I said hesitantly.

Hi. I am Jane from EF. You filled out an application with us recently, right?

Yes, I did. Last night actually.

That's great. The reason for my call tonight is I would like to know if you want to interview for a position as an ESL teacher with our company.

Uh, yes. Yes, I would, I said nervously.

That's excellent. Based on your résumé, we think you would make a great candidate, so what I'm going to do is ask you a few brief questions, and then if that goes well, I'll pass your information along to my supervisor.

That sounds good, I told Jane.

Over the course of the next few minutes, I told her a bit about myself, of course making sure I came off as the type of young man who could lead the Chinese youth toward English fluency.

This all seems good, she said at the end of our short conversation. I'm definitely going to pass your profile along to my team lead, and she will get in touch with you sometime in the next few days.

Days later, Jane's superior reached out, and the opportunity to reinvent myself arrived.

Have you ever taught young children before? the interviewer initially asked.

At the time, the only interaction I had with diminutive, spittle-laden chumps came a few months prior when I was working with a mentally challenged sixth-grader named Fred. Fred was an importunate little human, constantly kicking me in the flabby part of my right leg, lambasting me when I urged him to do basic arithmetic, but then altogether adoring me when his mood shifted, and he no longer saw me as the devil reincarnated.

Of course, I didn't tell the person conducting the interview anything about the emotional gymnastics Fred put me through. Instead, I portrayed Fred as a young man in need of a strong masculine presence, showcasing how my arrival in his classroom was beneficial to his long-term outlook in life.

I do think I had a profound impact on Fred, I told the interviewer, which was a complete lie, because as I uttered those words, I imagined Fred spreading glue on a wall and later throwing eggs at his neighbor's garage door.

By the end of the interview, the woman interviewing me was so impressed with my responses that she wondered why I had not already gone into teaching.

No money in that line of work, I wanted to tell her, but I still didn't know how much the job paid, so it made sense to stow away the brazen humor.

Last question, Quentin: Why do you want to go to China? she asked.

Um, I began, repressing my immediate thoughts of beautiful Chinese women. I think the architecture would be really interesting, and the Great Wall also seems like a unique place to visit.

So cool. A lot of people feel the same way, the interviewer said, which made me wonder if a lot of other Americans also lied to gain entrance into China.

A few weeks later, I received another phone call. I couldn't answer because my hands were too busy being scalded by the dishes I was washing in the kitchen of a Mongolian restaurant, but whoever called left a voice mail detailing that EF wanted to hire me and begin the onboarding process of bringing me over to Beijing.

The next morning, the first-degree burns on my hands had healed. I called my mom, giddy with excitement.

Ni hao, I said when she answered the phone.

Huh? she said back. Who is this?

I just said hello in Chinese. This is your son Quentin by the way.

Quent? Oh my. Why would you say such a thing?

Because I just got hired to be an English teacher in China.

You? she questioned, the genuine surprise transmitting through the airwaves enough to make me cringe.

Yes, me, I responded.

My mom didn't know what to make of my announcement. A few days later, neither did my father, who had a few choice words regarding my impending departure.

China is a communist country, Quent, he said, as if that information would quell my ambitions.

I'm not the first American to go to China, Dad. I mean, they just hosted the Olympics like a decade ago, so it must be a somewhat normal place.

That place is not normal, he asserted.

He was already convinced of China's illegitimacy, and that impression appeared irreversible.

Well, I'm still going to go, I told him.

He didn't reply.

I hear that in China they throw people in prison for jaywalking, my friend said when I told him I was leaving our divine country. Plus, I hear that the women have sideways vaginas.

That can't be true, I told my wayward friend.

I guess you'll find out for yourself, my friend sneered.

Yeah, I guess I will, I proudly proclaimed.

Chapter 2

It was July 2017 when I was first extended a job offer by EF, but I didn't touch down at Beijing Capital International Airport until February 27, 2018. This was because getting cleared to enter China was a laborious affair riddled with obstacles.

For the record, crossing the ocean and walking into the People's Republic was not like going to Mexico, where brandishing a dark-blue passport automatically granted an American access to favorable currency exchange rates.

Instead, getting into China was more like trying to explain unflattering truths to a rabid feminist who indulged in too much liberal propaganda to be convinced that a life devoted to anything other than dismantling the patriarchy and punishing white men for the sins of their forefathers existed.

Without taking you through the entire laundry list of requirements for being granted access into China, just know that to receive a Chinese work visa, I had to send my college diploma to an embassy in Chicago, scour a local court database to find documentation that proved I wasn't a felon, and aggressively exercise patience as the office of international affairs in China processed my paperwork.

To earn money as I eagerly waited for China to let me in, I spent several months washing dishes at the aforementioned Mongolian restaurant, rummaging through the gauntlet of Tinder in western Wisconsin, renting dilapidated Airbnbs in Minneapolis to escape the stigma of living with my parents, giving false hope to a number of young women who wanted to settle down and build a life with me, and then irritating nearly every established adult who came within earshot as I unapologetically broadcast my ignorance toward life itself.

To say I was a walking nightmare would be an understatement, but luckily for all those whom I miffed, I was now China's problem.

And that's where the real story begins.

Chapter 3

It was my last night in Minnesota, and since it was February, snow was violently swirling around the Twin Cities, which meant myriad cars were losing their traction and sliding into the nearest ditch.

My dad and I were standing at the back door of my parents' home.

Got everything? he asked.

Yes.

I waved goodbye to my mom one last time and walked into the garage. My dad and I drove to my uncle's house in Minneapolis so that my uncle could drive me to the airport the next morning at 4:00 a.m.

Put your suitcases in the spare bedroom, my dad instructed before we walked inside.

Hey, Quentin, good to see you, my uncle said cheerfully as my dad and I wiped the slush off our shoes.

Following a brief conversation revolving around local sports teams and the wildly liberal policies enacted by the governor of Minnesota, my dad anxiously shuffled his feet around the living room, making it clear that he was becoming more uncomfortable with my inevitable departure.

Okay, so I'm going to get going then, he announced, ready to burst out the door and find emotional relief. I have to work in the morning.

Thanks for driving me.

We shook hands, but we didn't hug.

Aren't you going to hug your son? my uncle jeered.

You're a man now, Quent. You don't need a hug, my dad said, his mouth half-open as he laughed awkwardly.

You're probably right, I told him, finding having to hug my father uncomfortable—not because I didn't love him, but because displays of physical affection weren't common in the Super household.

Stay safe, my dad mentioned, another reminder that he thought my teaching English in China was equivalent to scuba diving in a bay full of piranhas.

Then, without theatrics, my dad left, leaving me and my uncle in the living room to watch TV before one of us started snoring.

As time passed, my eyes wouldn't slip shut, nerves and the uncertainty of tomorrow funneling too much adrenaline into my bloodstream.

Try to get some sleep, my uncle said before traipsing off to bed, leaving his door open just like he always did when I was a small child and would spend the night at his house after going to college hockey games.

My mind still racing, I put down my phone and then took one last look at the inclement weather outside the window.

Winters in Minnesota were always miserable, but there was a certain charm that came with that because you knew that eventually the weather was going to run its course and that summer would come. You also knew that soon life would become more enjoyable because young women would start exposing more of their skin, and even a string bean like myself would be able to wear a T-shirt and not end up with a runny nose.

The digital clock next to the TV read 11:04 p.m. I was tired, but with so many thoughts passing through my brain, my eyes had trouble slipping shut, so I walked into the spare bedroom and did what I could to not look at my phone.

In and out of sleep all night, I squirmed around the bed like a child with restless leg syndrome until the alarm on my phone began blaring; and suddenly, I felt exhausted. Still, needing to get moving before paranoia regarding missing my flight crept in, I slipped out of bed and carefully walked over to my uncle's room to pry him from the depths of the REM cycle.

Get up, Uncle Bill, I said calmly, shaking his protruding belly just hard enough to interrupt his dreams.

We drove to the airport in relative silence, but the more coffee my uncle consumed, the more opinionated he became.

Wanna know what I think about you going to China? he asked.

Sure.

I think that if you aren't getting laid, you are going to come back very soon, he predicted.

Maybe, I said, but I had already purchased an upgrade on Tinder that allowed me to see what kind of women were currently residing in Beijing, and that alone inspired confidence that involuntary celibacy would not be a staple in my time overseas.

I actually did a lot of reading online about the culture. Apparently, Chinese women are interested in foreign men, I told my uncle.

Can't believe everything you read on those types of websites, my uncle said, as if he knew which specific landing pages I had visited.

Soon, we pulled up to Terminal 1 at the Minneapolis–St. Paul International Airport. I opened the front door, taking in one last breath of the numbing Minnesota air.

Until next time, I told Uncle Bill, pulling my two suitcases from the trunk.

Be safe, he advised, then drove off.

I wasn't taking a direct flight to Beijing, but the early flight to Seattle was on time and as the plane ascended it felt good to get out of Minnesota, but I knew I wasn't going to start feeling that riveting mix of excitement and angst until I got out of the country.

Until that point, the only country I had visited outside of the United States was Canada, and I didn't even know if that place counted, because Canada was basically the United States, only with jolly accents and free but allegedly abysmal health care.

After walking through the Seattle airport for ten minutes, I was already on edge and ready to board the next plane. Inexplicably, I began worrying that my next flight would get bumped up eight hours, so I ran to the information desk and asked how to get to my gate.

I just told the guy in front of you, the woman manning the booth said.

I already knew that because I overheard their conversation, but I still wanted to ask for peace of mind.

By the way, that gentleman who was in front of you could use some help, because he doesn't speak great English. Perhaps you could help him along since you guys are going to the same terminal, the woman politely suggested.

I didn't want to help a random Middle Eastern guy navigate the airport,