By Tyler Currie
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UWM Special to
The Washington Post .N><yQ-j3' Sunday, July 27, 2008; Page P02
eEZlVHM;O ,HO/Q6;N She is pretty, the young woman sitting on a bench in People's Square, a popular park in the center of Shanghai. Our eyes meet and she waves.
Q@.9wEAJ AQNx% I've been in Shanghai for five days. I am here for work, alone and maybe too eager to find a friend.
?bYQZJ >& ^l2d?v8 The woman speaks good English and we begin chatting. Suddenly a man, her friend, appears.
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"You are from America?" he asks with enthusiasm.
X'Il:SK N{ z(|2{A# They both studied English in college and look to be in their mid-20s. The man says he's a newspaper reporter, and the woman wants to work in hotel management. I struggle with the pronunciation of her name -- Zhu Xiaobei -- so she scribbles it on a scrap of paper, along with a phone number.
e =Tc(Mwn OsSiBb,W79 "We're going to a famous teahouse for a traditional Chinese tea ceremony," Xiaobei says. "Come with us."
(Gk]<`d#N waq_ d. It sounds interesting. Plus, the man and woman are intelligent and engaging, and they seem harmless. I don't think twice before wandering off with a pair of strangers.
A kQFb2|ir T^H ) lC#R Several blocks away, we enter the "famous" teahouse. I'm not sure what I'd been expecting, but this isn't it. It's just a store in a garish shopping center. A pudgy hostess leads us to a dimly lit private room without windows. There's a short table at the center with stacks of cups and jars of tea. I do not see any other patrons.
.Fz6+m;Z o?hw2-mH Xiaobei sits to my left, pulling her chair close, and the ceremony begins. We sample six different teas and eat multi-flavored pumpkin seeds. The journalist translates our hostess's description of each tea.
U[ O!&:6 |/Q. "d The ceremony is enjoyable until the bill arrives. The man takes the first peek. "Oh, very expensive," he groans. I grab the tab. It's the equivalent of about $200, more than the monthly wage of an average Chinese worker.
/ykxVCvAt 3UtXxL&L` But I don't protest, loath to become the ugly American. I also have an impulse to impress Xiaobei. I pay the hostess.
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^ J2k'Ke97o We leave the tea shop, and Xiaobei says she's tired and wants to go home. "You promise to call me?" she asks.
p`.fYW:p L$?~TY Later that night in my hotel room, I get the feeling that something sinister has happened. Were my friends in cahoots with the teahouse?
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]J The next day I phone Xiaobei. She answers but cuts short the conversation, saying she'll call back soon. But she never does. I call again. This time she doesn't pick up.
3bL2fsn5 9oN'.H^ Angry, I Google the phrase "tea scam." The hit list is long and depressing. Numerous sites closely describe the events of my day: pretty girl, private room, inflated tab. Chinese police, I learn, have busted many scammers. But the popular swindle persists (mostly in Beijing and Shanghai), partly, it seems, because lots of tourists are too embarrassed to report that they've been fooled. I know the feeling.
o>rlrqr?_ Oy`\8*Uy__ A few days later, I'm back in People's Square, relaxing, when a young woman says hello. Her clothes are dirty. Her face is pale and downcast. I know where this is leading.
>33b@) 5Fm? ,^ "Would you like to see a Chinese tea ceremony?" she asks.
eS%6 h U b O*Pe [T5x' In a way, similar currents of opportunity have carried us to this moment. I'm in China to make money. She's hoping for the same. She looks pitiful, and it's hard to begrudge her for trying to make a buck, though I decline her invitation. We shake hands, and she seems relieved to say goodbye.
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Zqg"` Tyler Currie lives in Boulder, Colo.
x3F L/^S cZF;f{t http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/07/25/AR2008072501616.html?tid=informbox
