What I love about traveling to foreign countries is that the fun, colorful money and coins don’t feel real. It’s like playing an interactive game of Monopoly. When you go shopping, it’s not like you are actually spending real money. In fact, foreign money is the opposite of American money. You see, American dollars are all one color and incredibly no-nonsense-looking, which discourages you from doing any serious spending at all. That’s why I only ever use my American Express card, which is made out of shiny red plastic. Money should look friendly and fun, otherwise there could be serious repercussions for the economy.
My uncle Dai must be excessively generous with his company car. My parents are comfortable suburbanites, but they’d never send a chauffeur to pick me up at the airport. If they couldn’t make it, they’d just tell me to hop on public transit.
Eventually, we stop in front of a hotel. Not just any hotel, but the Shangri-La. I gasp involuntarily. It’s the same chain, almost exactly like the one from my Paris trip planning! The Shangri-La is a four-star hotel with luxury suites and several penthouses for rent. The only reason that I know all this is I actually spent a ton of time imagining what it would be like to spend a romantic vacation in one of their deluxe honeymoon rooms.
Why would my uncle want to meet me here?
Maybe Mr. Chen needs to pick up another passenger? This is possibly an elite ride-share, which actually makes sense. But as I wait for another passenger to climb in, Mr. Chen opens the back door. It turns out we’re actually stopping in front of the Shangri-La. Maybe Mr. Chen needs to use the bathroom? But he takes my luggage, and I’m ushered inside the lobby and greeted enthusiastically by many hotel staff, and then someone else efficiently wheels my bag into the elevator.
Everyone is looking very excited to see me. As if I’m a famous celebrity or well-loved toy poodle. I can’t actually tell what category they think I belong to.
What is going on?!!! Why aren’t we stopping at a conference floor? Does my uncle work in hospitality?
A horrible thought passes through my mind. Is this a case of actual mistaken identity? I just know it is when I’m led into a penthouse on the sixty-sixth floor.
I inhale.
I blink.
The suite is immaculate, with beige lacelike wallpaper and gold leafy embroidery everywhere. It’s like I’ve wandered into the living room of Versailles or a Disney movie. Imagine a crash pad of a medium-deal celebrity or a really old person who has spent their entire life aspiring to be French royalty.
Impressed, I can’t help but let out a tiny squeal when I see the focal point of the room is a ginormous Beauty and the Beast chandelier. It’s made of millions of sweeping pink and white Swarovski-looking crystals, like cherry blossoms on an origami glass tree. The chandelier is literally the size of my parents’ wrecked Mercedes-Benz.
I suddenly understand what my AP English Literature teacher meant by symbolism. The chandelier is hanging above me, just like a shimmery metaphor of my life, practically within arm’s reach!
There’s even a spiraling glass staircase that reminds me of a sculpture of Cinderella’s shoe, which leads outside to a rooftop terrace. I feel like I’m inside a movie. I race up the stairs, almost slipping, and push open the balcony doors. The sun in Beijing is bright and light and the sky is glittery with dense fog. I cough and sneeze for at least six minutes. My allergies are flaring up.
Despite my watering nose and eyes, I force myself to survey the view, but everything looks so surreal from the sixty-sixth floor: the whizzing cars, the ant-size people. It’s like I’m watching tiny people inside a snow globe. Giddy, I’m already wondering how many people I could fit on this roof for a housewarming party.
I prance back inside. But I don’t know which room is mine, so I decide to leave my bag in the middle of the living room. I need to go relax by the pool ASAP, followed by a hot steam in the sauna and a full-body massage. If my new residence is in a hotel, does that mean room service is free?
But first, I really have to snoop.
I may never have this amazing opportunity again.
The first bedroom isn’t locked and it looks like it belongs to royalty. I find myself running, as if magnetized, to a walk-in closet that is practically the same size as my bedroom at home. I need to see what’s inside. Suddenly, I’ve been transported to Nordstrom department store. My own miniature boutique. Are these racks of expensive clothes and boxed-up shoes and handbags for me?
I just knew that all my good deeds would pay off.
Before I can begin fully checking my (hopefully) new closet, I notice a whole pyramid of humongous trophies and gold medals in a display case and framed certificates on the walls. At first I think it is just part of the home decor, but the whole room is covered with shiny awards. All the trophies have titles and names on them. Number 2 in Creative Dog Grooming Contest, Shenzhen and Number 1 in Colorful Animal Cutting Champion, Shanghai and Number 10 in Jungle Animal Competition, Netherlands. What is all this???!
Mostly, I’m fascinated by the shiny poster-photos of a thin, giraffelike girl posing in one couture dress after another, standing proudly beside various matching pooches in costumes. But what’s stranger and cooler and more exciting is that all the chow chows, golden retrievers, and poodles have these wild, fabulous haircuts. Some of the pooches look like stuffed animals of pandas, gorillas, or lions. A border collie even looks identical to Lady Gaga.
I have never seen anything like this. In another glossy photo, the same girl is dressed as the yellow-hoop-skirted Belle, and a Newfoundland is the shaggy Beast from the cartoon Disney movie. Then in another, the girl is strutting on the stage as Ariel from The Little Mermaid, and a terrier is dyed and styled as Sebastian the red crab. It’s like a beauty pageant starring dogs with their humans as giant accessories. What event is this? And how do I participate?
Why didn’t my parents ever enroll me in matching animal and beauty queen pageants?
I simply must find out who this bedroom belongs to.
At first, I think that I’m just going to take a peek in the closet. I tell myself that a little oohing and aahing isn’t going to hurt anyone. In fact, looking and making loud appreciative sounds could be considered multiple compliments at once. My dad and I make these sounds all the time, resembling background singers, especially when my mom buys a $4.99 roast chicken from Costco and pretends that she baked it.
I gasp. Then I ooooooh and aahhhhhh for the longest time.
Amidst a rack of boutique dresses, there’s a gorgeous sequined ball gown with what look like gold ostrich feathers and a pink beaded tulle skirt, perfect for when I meet my real parents. The dress honestly looks like something out of a runway in Teen Vogue magazine. My mouth drops open, and it takes a while for me to be able to close it again. If no one is home and not a single person actually ever finds out, it’s okay to swathe it on my body for two minutes, right? All I have to do is unzip and jump in like I’m diving into a pool of tulle and silk. It’s just like having a quick romantic rendezvous with Peter whenever my parents left the room.
I hesitate for the brief moment that it takes to send a tweet to my 300+ followers. Self-control has never been my strong point. Like a horrible itch inside the brain that I need to desperately scratch, I have never been able to refuse my impulses. I have never been able to say no to several helpings of dessert, an overpriced handbag, or even an annoying favor asked by an acquaintance. Ignoring my nagging inner voice, I find the strappiest, most sparkly pair of matching open-toed heels and a diamond-studded clutch.