Today I followed the advice I often give my students: get out of your house and write where you live...coffee shops, laundromats, bars, restaurants, parks, gyms, shopping malls, and cars. Instead of hunkering down in my office where I feel conjoined at the fingertips with my computer, I gathered up my notebooks, journal, books I’m reading, favorite pens, printed drafts, and whatnot, and I headed out to Starbucks. Those of you who know me well are probably thinking, I bet she took that laptop with her, but ha ha! You’re wrong. Despite all urges to do otherwise, I shut that baby down and left it at home.

Shanghai Starbucks, you may or may not be happy to discover, are everywhere. In fact, today I had to decide between two that sit just a block apart. I chose the more spacious one. (Space is a hot commodity here in Shanghai.) And yes, the Starbucks here are exactly as they are in the States--purple stuffed chairs, low veneered tables, tall-grande-mammoth-and so on, Tazo tea (though you’ve only got two choices: English breakfast or Earl Grey), poor attempts at pastries, nonfat milk in a silver/black jug on which you always have to unscrew the lid in order to pour only to find that it is inevitably in need of a refill. The color schemes are the same. The artwork is the same. The signs are the same (except for the fact that they are also printed in Chinese).

So I ordered a cup of hot tea (it’s only 95 degrees here...what’s a little more heat?) and a dried-out excuse for a low-fat blueberry muffin. Then I sat down in a purple stuffed chair near the window, and the show began...

Picture this: A big, bald Montreal Canuck in a way-too-tight black t-shirt with a toothy smile and lots of bravado walks in the door with a swingy-haired girl and a Chinese guy who looks like he’s already been through the wringer with this pair. Within three minutes, this is what I know: The Canuck needs an apartment, and he needs it fast. Like many business folks, he’s moving operations here as soon as possible. He also, it seems, needs a villa. “With lots of space and a garden,” he says loudly, “but no furniture and no artwork.” He explains, for all of us to hear, that he’ll be shipping his very expensive artwork from England, you see, where he spends a great deal of time.

“But first,” he tells the Chinese guy, “you must look us in the eyes and tell us we are nice people.” The Chinese guy looks bewildered. (So do I.) “You must,” says the Canuck. “If you look me in the eye and tell me I’m a nice guy, I know you won’t screw me.”

“I’m not going to screw you,” the Chinese guy says. Clearly he means it.

But that’s not good enough. The Canuck rattles his giant head back and forth. I imagine a small stone brain rolling to and fro in his cavernous skull.

There’s a long pause, but the Chinese guy finally figures it out and after glancing tentatively in my direction says, “You’re a nice guy.”

“No,” bellows the Canuck, “both of us.” He swings an arm around his friend. She smiles.

“Oh,” says the Chinese guy, “of course. You are both very nice people.”

Ah, that worked! The Canuck leans back and smiles.

“Good,” he says, “now you must also know that I have a very good Chinese friend. A woman. And if she comes here and sees my apartment or my villa and says, ‘Oh, you pay too much,’ the next thing she will do is come to you and chop your head off.”

I don’t think he meant that literally, but I’m not quite sure. Neither was the Chinese guy. But he nodded anyway and said, “No, no, I won’t screw you.”

And though it continued on from there, I chose at this point to tune them out and shift my head to writing mode.