One year ago, in the aftermath of a wonderful diner in Beijing South, one of the female Chinese
guests brougth up the problem of "profiling".
At first she laughed a lot while putting in her case. Maybe caused by one cup of whine too much. But soon she looked serious. She described hercontinuous failure- according to her- of writing a convincing profile in her Chinese datingsite.
I remember we just finished a gorgeous meal of dumplings, custom made by a dozen
dumplingspecialists. 3 of them preparing the ingredients: assembling, cutting to size.
5 filling them according to order: at our table of 6, we ordered 5 different dumplings: spinach with pork, mushrooms and vegetables, beef, fish and crushed beans, and some order nobody could trace, because Tonio, also present, just pointed a finger at a picture in the menu and did not care to ask about the content.
The dumpling workers laboured orderly behind a glass wall, looking impeccably, dressed in white coats, head and mouth caps- as if they were doctors.
8 sitting at a table.
3 standing and carefully sliding the portions into boiling water. One of them checked the written order with the content and kept a keen eye on the way the colleagues put the ready dumplings according to plan on a plate.
Solemnely he handed the completely fresh food to the waiters.
We were six.
And soon after we finished the meal a sweet exchange started about "where we came from" and " how we live". The Chinese girl I am talking about came from Hebei. 32. A ravishing beauty. But single. Called Fhang.
'Single,' she said,' I am single and I hate it.'
She pointed at her belly.
'I want to marry. The clock is ticking.'
Maybe cause of the afterdinerdip none of the single men present, regarded did an invitation.
Harrie, a huge dutchman, in his late seventies and single:' What you are yepping, you are the most beautiful girl I have seen today.'
A little bit rude, but Fhang showed him her white teeth. Stretched her back,
and doing so not only showed her elegant upperbody but succeeded in the mean time directing
the attention of the crowd on her raven hair.
'It must be my profile. The Chnlove counselors already advised me so.'
Of course she had a beauty operation on het eyes for rmb 3800 , five years ago. And did we know many girls of 20 already went for a body operation.
"Body operation."
She had looked downwards so we didnt need more info. She certainly did not need that
kind of intervention.
'It is the profile. I am sure.'
She is a teacher and she had paid 3 months salary to Chnlove.com but many admirors did not follow up.
She started to explain, but I must admit, she not succeeded in keeping my attention. Dumplings. Beer. Boredom: just look at the site so you know.
Of course I stayed polite, nodded in approval- a kind of behavior I easily adopt when in China.
But at home, in that period Slipperslane, I started to admire her courage, by putting her
fotographs and profile- good or bad- on a site, together with 5000 Chinese sisters, most of them also with ticking clocks. And of course she was dissatisfied. She paid the agency 18000 rmb for a life long contract untill she married. She was already a member for 23 months.
And besides. Moreover. This question came into my mind: how would my profile look like, if I had to advertise it on Chnlove.com? I was curiuous and I wrote it down in that lonely afterparty hour, also to free myself from the develish Acrobat.
This night, cleaning my flat, my new flat pompously called "Eternal happines" I could not fail to find it. It was written on the back of a postcard, showing Mao, but I never send it, cause at that time I'd never seen a postman here in B, and fostered the idea that all communication in China
just went virtual.
Anyway there it was. My profile, consisting mostly of a description of my ideal partner:
Entrepreneuring, writing novels, sailing, tennis.
She is gentle, Chinese, independent but loyal, proud and not too obedient: a partner.
She cares. Fierce and soft. Honest. As I am above 60 and very young at heart she can both follow me and laugh at me, she is free. If she wants a child its ok, I will also look after him or her.
I want to have a feeling of safety and a home. She corrects me and controls me as I am not good at caring myself. I am very loyal. She is not scared to say goodbye to old lovers, the same aplies to me. She accepts i also will spend some time in Holland and if she wants she will join me. Or we can have houses together in China and Holland together. She will feel equal to me. To me she is. Is she wants to work its very alright to me. I personally work like a horse. For a photo and a description of my life see myblog: blog.sina.com.cn/dayangschouten.
Now reading it back I certainly am a bit proud. This profile is reasonable honest. I keep it.
I want to have a feeling of safety and a home."
Illuminating sentence.
It is nearly 6 in the morning and I am reading and rereading it. Safety. Home. Why write it
down as a more than normal specification?
Yes, of course, it reminds me of my Argentinia and the main question that stays waiting for an answer.
I have got time. I got out at 5 and will stay awake. Sky classical. Undisturbed reception. Mozart.
Sitting behind my PC in the study of Eternal Happines.
The first stay in november I fled it: the
cold in my heart, the cold in the house. (I described in a earlier Blog, while complaining about
the unfriendly Policy of The Ministry of Central heatin in Beijing). But now it is really a beautiful
kind and warm home.
In one hour I will be ready to go the SchoutenChina office. Today a couple of new colleagues
will be hired. Then the staff will be ok: appr. 14 people, led by Chris Jiang the CEO. This weekend all of us, the Board and the staff will move to a hotel for a strategic meeting. This
night I will meet Jan Hein and the friends of his Yourzine China.
But..
But why do I stress " home" " safe" "warm" maybe more than other people? I tell you, I do not know if it is the truth, but it seems plausible to me.
I was born in the war. My father was away, hiding and fighting the Germans in the illegal army.
My mother was the only parent. She must have been very brave and very very scared and alone. In the Hague (Voorburg) with two very young childrend, my brother Hans and I. I do not remember much. Have only this very vivid memory. By accident English bombers bombed
down a district called Bezuidenhout, just a view 300 meters or so from our house.
We are standing in the litle hall. My mother is crying. She is praying. 35 years old.
"Mama. why are you crying?'
She hugged us. Could not stop crying. Neither could we.
An incident, but thinking it over she must be very scared, anxious, not only that moment or
during the hunger winter, but all those years. Continuously.
Did I inherit some extra basic anxiety? Can a parent infect a child with her anxiety? And is this
the core of my attraction to Zad Moultaka, the Lebanese Warchild Composer, just like my friend Marcel once suggested?
And how warm or save after the war was the home where I lived? Cold. Unsafe. I wont tell more. I gave the complete story once to Anne and a couple of days ago to another person I trust. No I wont go on. My parents gave me everything: my moments of desperation, my extravagant need for softness, my strong body, my education, my succes. Ach How sweet if I could say that to them. But dead. Alas.
And there is Schouten&Nelissen, Thema, ISBW, ISES, SchoutenChina and my many other
endeveours, all together making us a leading European Institute on personal and organizational development.
How could a softy like me achieve all this and still contribute?
I do not know. Or, to imitate the silly waiter in Faulty Towers: I know nuzzing, I am from
Barzelona.
A couple of weeks ago I t
