The Pursuit of Love and Romance

Teaching the guys from Hong Kong how to be romantic

I was the first to arrive at Newcastle-upon-Tyne. My ramblings were over. From London, BritRail rushed me north with my battered hunter-green backpack with as many books as clothes and dirty underwear.

That color had faded in the Mediterranean sun. Had I faded, too, from weeks of traveling? Was I ready to study?

I settled into Lovaine Flats (Flat 10. Room 3). My fine custodian, both caretaker and mother, was Lorraine. I made her my specialty: Chicken Hawaiian over rice.

A few things were hard to find in Northern England. Like pineapple. The plates and silverware came from an expensive store in Eldon Square, like Macy’s. What did I know? Thirty years later, I still have them.

I explored Newcastle, bought food at Grainger Market, and discovered Newcastle Brown, called “The Dog.” When the Geordies say ‘walk the dog,’ they mean the pub.

I didn’t remain alone for long.

Dorms in Europe all have private rooms. It’s strange, they think, that we share rooms in America. “Wouldn’t that make ‘Fuck a Fresher Week’ really difficult?” Since I commuted to college and worked thirty hours a week at The Holiday Inn, this was my first “dorm.”

Our flat had six rooms. We shared a common area and kitchen. Two guys from Valencia, Spain. A guy from Mainland China. A Brit from Chester. Then the Hong Kong Guys.

One brought his wife or girlfriend along — Cherie. And that made my (HKG) friends crazy. They were lonely.

A large group of Americans were there, but I only knew one — Laura. I had been traveling with her in Europe. Many, now, already know that strange and sad saga.

The bloke from China had kitchenware straight from a WWI mess-kit. It was small but contained everything. This stainless-steel contraption seemed more like a bomb than something from Crate and Barrel.

For dinner one night, he cooked his specialties. Was this Chinese food? This was unlike anything I had ever tasted! I loved it. He seemed quite pleased.

They laughed watching me cook rice. “Too much water! Too much water!”

The HKG were pleased they could understand me and practice their English. Who could understand the Geordies? I couldn’t. Town is “Toon.” Down is “Dune.” And every syllable is pronounced upside-down and topsy-turvy.

Hailing from South Jersey, I made an excellent vocal coach.

The Lessons in Love

In less than a decade, The United Kingdom would turn over the capital of Asian Capitalism to China. That wouldn’t happen until July 1, 1997. This was during the reign of John Major, the Prime Minister, and a Tory.

The HKG were all engineers and computer wizards and worried about jobs after graduation. But most of their concerns revolved around women. Could I help them?

“You’ve come to the Right Man,” I told them, smiling.

“You can teach us English and how to get women?”

“I”m an English major.” That didn’t make sense to them because my English, especially since I was from The Land of Bruce Springsteen, was impeccable. Why study what you already know? I told them about my love of writing and literature, and that I planned on being a teacher, and one day, a professor.

“So you’re perfect,” Simon said. “You’re already a teacher!”

They used “Western” names like Simon and Peter and Paul. Was I also a disciple of Jesus or in a 60s folk group? Would they become my Dude Disciples?

They pronounced their real names numerous times. They laughed when I tried to imitate the sounds. More Newcastle Brown improved my ability.

The Hong Kong guys liked Winston, but he was older and he had his “woman” with him, and they hated his happiness of being able to study and get educated and also get “with a woman.”

The satisfaction on a man’s face after sex was something that was brand new to me, too. Hell, I was jealous of Winston! Having a name like that is tough, too, in England.

“Can you help us with that?”

“With that look that Winston has?”

“Yes!” Simon said.

“No harm in trying,” I said.

The Big Drink

The HKG would see me with Laura and many other girls. Did they think I was a major player in all things female? Many of the girls also found me funny. Not Laura, of course, but many others, including a few of their British roommates, like Beth from Bath and Alex from Sheffield.

“I’m so glad we’re friends, yes?” my friend Simon asked.

I smiled. We raised our pints. “To success,” I said. And we drank The Big Drink. Then another. I cherish those memories. It was just a great night. I was happy to be living on my own, with new friends, and finally, what I always wanted —

“A Man of the World, a Global Citizen, a Compatriot to All.”

The Hong Kong Guys were comfortable with us. I’ve never been somewhere where I look really out of place, and therefore, not welcomed. No, that’s wrong. The gaming rooms in Monte Carlo. I definitely “stood out” there.

But I was ready as their bridge to the language, new friends, to romance, and to women.

Did they know I actually never really had a girlfriend? Did they know I was still a virgin? Did they know all of my knowledge about women and sex came from “Madame Bovary” and “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” and “Playboy” magazine and the porn channels that were “hazy” on my dad’s cable TV in his apartment at 2 am in the morning?

Did I actually believe I could help them? Of course.

So, at The Royal Archer pub one night, they taught me basic Cantonese, and I brought copies of Byron and Keats and Shelley. I taught them new words. Helped them to pronounce new words. Showed them words that were rather archaic, and not used anymore, like “divers” for various, and “anon” and “alas,” unless wanting to seem pretentious.

There was, purported to be, a genuine African Princess who worked at another pub downtown. The Royal Archer was in Jesmond, but really close to the Polytechnic. She must have been six feet tall. She was absolutely stunning. They were all in love with her, and no one, besides an African prince, equally handsome, and well-off, would have a chance with her.

It is ironic, of course, because I only practiced Romantic theory. I knew to love the way John Keats knew love: achingly, furtively, and monastically. Only twenty-one, I was what Shakespeare called in one sonnet an “untutored youth.” I was the medical student of love before the actual practice of love.

My study of love included the gamut of Ovid and Petrarch and Leander and Shakespeare and Byron, but I never had an actual girlfriend. Once, transforming myself from Led Zeppelin-wearing t-shirt dude to an 8th grade young Republican in a jacket and tie, I once asked a girl to dance, and she said “No, I don’t think so.”

That killed me.

I taught them in the pub and in the flat and at the Student Union the greats of British literature. We studied and memorized from Byron “She walks in beauty like the night/ Of cloudless climes and starry skies.” Or from Keats, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” Or from Shakespeare, “For thy sweet love/ remember’d such wealth brings/ That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”

And from Robert Herrick, “To the Virgins, to Make Much of Times” Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,/ Old Time is still a-flying.

And, of course, Andrew Marvel’s “To His Coy Mistress:” Thy beauty shall no more be found; /Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound/ My echoing song; then worms shall try/ That long-preserved virginity.”

They would sometimes have the guts, the nerves, the courage, the stupidity, after several Big Drinks, to try these lines on women. But the women just laughed. I even took them downtown with a large crowd of friends on cold, Friday nights to the “Bigg Market” where the locals would hang out and drink and dance at the discos and pubs in tight miniskirts in the freezing weather. Its sexist term was “Pig Market.”

Meanwhile, my friendship with The Hong Kong Guys grew. Winston and his wife or girlfriend Cherie even hung out with us. I kept trying to learn their language. A few of my letters back home still have in my odd attempt to write in Cantonese.

I invited the Hong Kong Guys to my Thanksgiving Day Feast, where I was arranging a huge meal for the Internationals and the Americans on campus, cooking in four different flats. I had hotel and restaurant experience, working at the Holiday Inn since sixteen, and so I knew how to act.

How many of the world-citizens got to enjoy a traditional Thanksgiving Dinner with all the trimmings? The Spanish guys came. Isabel and Irma, from Malaga, arrived too. The French guys brought wine. The Russians, vodka. And I charged everyone five pounds to cover the cost of the food.

The Polytechnic lent us a big room. We brought the party to The Royal Archer, and Jaz and Pany were there, the Pakistani guys, and then some shady “After Hours” club.

Sadly, this was 1990. Today, I would still be in contact with many of those people. We take for granted now the world of communication and Twitter and Facebook and Instagram and Smartphones. I have so few pictures.

Despite many valid attempts and chances, neither the Hong Kong Guys nor Walter Bowne found love in England.

There were many chances, and looking back, I knew many were interested, but I was blind and clueless. But I did find love there: a love of new music, like The Charlatans, UK, a love of meeting new people, and a never-ending love of making connections, to people and places and food.

Many months after the “love lessons,” my friend Simon sent me a letter with the pictures: one contained a profile shot of me with a two-pint gaze, a rather smug raise of a blonde eyebrow, a red turtle neck, long before Steve Jobs made the turtle neck popular, and a brown sports jacket.

The other picture showed us are sitting around a dark table at the Royal Archer Pub. Pint glasses of various brown hues await on the tables. My pint was the darkest, the darker the better, a habit acquired while a student abroad that has stayed with me.

I wonder how my boys are doing now? We’re all now in our fifties, and whenever I hear about Hong Kong in the news, and the crackdown on democracy and the demonstrations, I think of them warmly and wonder.

Are you guys okay? Is Winston still with Cherie? Did you find love? Are you guys still living? Are you able to read Medium in Hong Kong?

Why didn’t I write back, immediately, Simon? Did I take friendship for granted? Was I just occupied with my own chores and pursuits? Didn’t I realize it’s people who matter?

Our countries may bicker and fight, as countries do, like the Trojans and the Greeks, and the French and the English, but we were brothers in England.

Stupid people use flags as battle armor and wrap their fears and ignorance in flags and banners and chants and rallies, but Citizens of the World engage with others and eat and laugh and engage in Big Drink — whether it’s stout, wine, vodka, saki, seltzer with lime, or water with ten lemon chasers.

P.S. I would love to thank Robert Snow, wherever he is, after all these years, for being the greatest Ambassador to Britain, a Yank could ask for. I need to track down Simon, too.

Can it be that hard to track down someone in Hong Kong?

If you are interested to read more of my stories, read the following, published in The Masterpiece.