The Shanghai Shuffle

  The apartment in Shanghai, like most things in Shanghai, was less an apartment and more an assertion. Three hundred square feet of determined modernity, overlooking a street where the noise wasn't so much a sound as a physical presence. Sion LaZar, late of Dallas, earlier of twenty-one other countries, currently 33 and increasingly perplexed, stared at his reflection in a window that offered only more Shanghai.

"You know," he muttered to the glass, "I used to think 'expat life' meant exotic cocktails and insightful cultural exchanges. Turns out it's mostly about explaining why 'comfortable' isn't the same as 'convenient' to a landlord who only understands the latter."

His phone buzzed. It was Miriam, the perpetually optimistic Israeli attaché from the consulate, who viewed every bureaucratic hurdle as merely an opportunity for "creative problem-solving." Which, in China, usually meant more problems.

"Arthur, darling! Ready for your big journalistic debut?" Miriam’s voice, even through the tinny speaker, sounded like a brass band tuning up.

"Debut?" Arthur sighed, adjusting the collar of a shirt that felt suddenly too tight. "I sent one email to a website called 'That's Shanghai.' It's hardly the Pulitzer committee."

"Details, details! I've already told Director Chen you're a renowned foreign correspondent with deep ties to the Middle East. Your Israeli heritage, you know. Very... multicultural."

Sion winced. His "deep ties" amounted to ordering falafel in basic Hebrew and knowing the difference between a kibbutz and a moshav. "Miriam, I taught English. For ten years. My deepest tie is to irregular verbs."

"Nonsense! Your piece on the 'Hidden Charms of Pudong Mall Food Courts' was a revelation! It showed insight! Grit! A profound understanding of the human condition as it relates to cut-rate dumplings!"

"It was 800 words on the availability of real cheese," Sion corrected, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "And I got paid in store credit."

"A minor detail! The point is, you’re published! And Director Chen is very impressed. He thinks your unique perspective will be invaluable for our 'Cultural Exchange through Culinary Appreciation' initiative. He wants you to interview the head chef at the Great Eastern Prosperity Seafood Palace. Tomorrow. Six o'clock sharp. Dress business formal."

Sion stared at the phone. "The Great Eastern Prosperity Seafood Palace? That place has live lobsters as doormen. And 'business formal' in this humidity feels like a personal affront."

"Sion, think of the exposure! The networking! You could be the next—"

"Next victim of food poisoning, more likely."

Miriam, however, was already moving on, a human locomotive of positive thinking. "Excellent! I've arranged for a translator – very bright young man, just graduated. He'll meet you downstairs. Oh, and Sion? Director Chen specifically requested you inquire about the spiritual significance of their jellyfish salad."

The line went dead.

Sion slowly lowered the phone. He looked at his reflection again, then at the perpetual bustle outside. The hum of electric scooters, the distant echo of a construction crane, the faint smell of jasmine and exhaust fumes. He closed his eyes.

"Spiritual significance of jellyfish salad," he murmured, a faint, bitter smile playing on his lips. "Yes. I suppose that's exactly the kind of journalism I was meant for."

He walked to his small kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a lukewarm bottle of sparkling water. The city had him, alright. And it wasn't letting go.