Slings and arrows...with some pictures from PKU mixed in

Well, it had to happen. When we finally arranged a meeting with Sebastian Li, Joe's assistant who is supposed to look after us but who is mysteriously absent most of the time, to nail down some facts about performance dates and space and designers for the show, it all started unraveling. Sebastian had neglected to book the theatre in Centennial Hall on campus that was to be our venue, and now it was all booked up for the weekend we were promised performances. Sebastian, who bills himself the "production manager" but seems to have no idea that in America, this lapse would be grounds for instant dismissal, is a sympathetic young-ish man with long hair and a constantly beatific smile, who seems to actually hear requests you make and is quick to make you any promise ("no problem"), but is challenged quite substantially on the follow-through front. He takes this disclosure of the theatre's unavailability as if it were some kind of natural event independent of his volition, and helpfully suggests that we perhaps try a venue at another university, where we don't have to sell tickets to cover the rent. This last is said as if selling the tickets is David's and my business; I can already picture myself with a vendor's tray in front of the South Gate of campus hawking discounted tickets to "Einstein's Dreams." Sebastian is also unsure whether there is any budget for the show, and we generally don't get the idea that it has high priority for him compared to whatever else is going on in his busy life. David and I take all of this with a remarkable degree of equanimity, reader, as if we were masters of a Zen-like fatalism and self-restraint. In truth, we are simply surrendering slowly to this down-the-rabbithole feeling because we've become accustomed to how it all works here (or doesn't), and know that howling and gnashing of teeth will get us nowhere. It's as if it would be slightly impertinent to point out that both of us have cleared our schedules, made a few sacrifices, and traveled thousands of miles here to make this happen. At one point, I say to David, "maybe this will be a staged reading yet...", and David acknowledges it with a chuckle. Are we somehow atoning for all the productions we have done that have gone so well?
Meanwhile, we spend more time in classes and on class assignments than on rehearsals, because it is so difficult to get students together until 9pm. The rehearsals we do manage are actually good fun, though fitful, but we don't quite know yet if the actors retain anything at all. (Small triumph over bureaucracy: in need of a silk sheet, which is a key prop for the show, but finding nothing else handy, we take one of the ubiquitous propaganda banners down in the classroom where we were rehearsing. David now carries it around in his backpack.)
On Monday afternoon, I see a white-haired older gent climbing the stairs to my floor and, recognizing him for a professorial type, introduce myself. He is Tom Rendall, a retired English professor from Nova Scotia who with his wife Barbara lives on my floor. They invite me to their apartment, and I learn that he's taught for 5 years at Beida, after 4 years in Macau, so he knows his way around the institution. They are most gracious, and on Tuesday, Tom takes us over to the English department to introduce us to the secretary, Sophie, and inquire about getting us faculty ID cards as well as a mailbox. Then he shepherds us to the office of the Dean of modern languages, Dr. Chang, whom we meet and who may be able to help us with our space conundrum. We feel a little less out in the wilderness after these encounters. Since it's David's birthday, we decide to finally venture out the East Gate in the direction of Wudaokou ("the Wu"), which is the restaurant and bar area close to Beida and Tsinghua University. The Rendalls have recommended an Indian restaurant, the Ganges, to us, and we find it after some searching and have a delightful meal there, with actual cocktails.
When we return to campus at 7:30 to begin rehearsals, our stage manager calls with the news that she's been shut out of the classroom building where we're supposed to be by an officious dragon who claims she knows nothing about any rehearsals.
David and I look at each other, take a deep Zen breath, and repair to my apartment where we break out the scotch and watch an episode of Rome on my computer.