Note: This blog post also ran in the Society of Professional Journalism's "Journalism and the World" blog. Click here to see the original post.
Tonight I took two would-be freelance writers out to dinner at the local Russian restaurant. (The Flying Elephant, at 525 Guangdong Lu.)
There was a Russian band playing, and a party in full swing (the Russians do love a party). One of the writers, Wang Lili, a well-known local novelist, described as important -- starving, of course -- gave me a copy of her latest novel as a present. The other was a starving international relations student from South Africa.
On the pretext of demonstrating the publication for which they would, potentially, be working I took them both back to my apartment. Very average, by US standards -- tiny kitchen, lots of traffic noise, swarming with cats and a dog. But huge by Chinese standards. And I showed off pictures of my house back in Massachusetts.
Only the Chinese writer was impressed.
Now my plan is that they both go back to their friends and talk up the single rich American woman, and maybe introduce me to some other starving writers, who are not potential employees and thus would be available for dating.
The last time I was overseas, back when I was last single, I myself was a starving young writer. Economic disparities were not an issue. In Russia, I drank only Soviet-brand champagne on special occasions, and ate canned eggplant paste on black bread as my dietary staple. I borrowed money from friends as frequently as I was in a position to lend it, and generally avoided pricy bars and restaurants.
In fact, I remember planning to take an Australian TV editor out to dinner, on a date, to a Spanish restaurant for paella - only to find out that the prices were about ten times what I had expected them to be and turning back at the door in humiliation.
I still don't spend too much time in five-star restaurants, but now it's from reverse snobbery rather than lack of funds.
Some foreign journalists in town take full advantage of the economics. One copy editor I know makes between 400 and 500 RMB an hour -- the rough spending power equivalent of $400 to $500. The guy, who's in his forties, tells me that he works only a few hours a week and spends the rest of his time dating.
On the one hand, you think, "must be nice." But then, you think again. And it's just sad.
***
When a starving writer gets a sudden bit of good fortune, there's often a tendency to show off and to share. "Look -- I got a job with an expense account! Dinner's on me!" Or, "My editors put me up in a nice hotel for the duration of the conference. They had the best shampoos. Here, have a tiny little bottle or two!"
In the US, I'm solidly middle-class, with a house that needs a new septic system, a tenant that never pays rent, an overhanging mortgage, and old student loans still haunting me. My idea of a fancy night out is the Olive Garden.
In China, I sometimes feel like I'm a millionaire -- but I'm not used to it. I know that really, I'm a starving writer who's experiencing a bit of temporary good fortune.
So there's a tendency to show off too much, and to buy too many dinners for people.
I don't know if other foreign journalists abroad feel the same way -- that they're impostors in a way, pretending to be rich and successful when, really, at heart, they're very average.
And whether this adds a layer of .. I don't know, fakery? falseness? something .. to their interactions with normal people.
I tell people that I'm not really rich, and can feel how stupid that sounds, coming from someone living in a giant apartment in downtown Shanghai.
Eventually, wages will equilize. I'm certainly not rich in Japan or South Korea -- it took those countries just a generation to catch up.
Meanwhile though, it feels as though I'm the ugly American.
I've met real rich people, who've been with money for all their lives, and they're used to it and have no hangups about it, they don't overcompensate one way or the other.
Me, I now know why those nouveau-riche people act as stupid as they do. It's because you're literally not yourself. The outside and the inside don't match and everything you do or say is forced and phony. Do you give your friends money because you care about them, or to show off how rich and generous you are? How often can you pick up the tab at a bar or restaurant?
Some foreigners in Shanghai deal with this issue by socializing only with other foreigners. It's easy enough to do. You can go for months in Shanghai and never have to say more than two words in Chinese ("Bill, please!")
Even journalists sometimes fall into this trap, dealing with locals only in the context of formal interviews or -- for added distancing -- through interpreters. By staying in a bubble you never have to fact this issue of divided self-image.
But it can't be very good for the reporting.
Signing off in Shanghai,
Maria
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