My primary goal became the avoidance of spending money at all costs. This manifested in a huge increase in my rice-related knowledge – as suddenly leftover rice became an ingredient for confections and further meals alike rather than garbage can fodder – and a continued shrinking/refining process of my body as a whole. It didn’t end with rice, either: skim milk was forged from higher test varieties via dilution, the day-old rack at the Taiwanese ‘hot bread shop’ became my new mistress, and the less beautiful produce at the already cut-rate Chinese Sunday street market became the reason to walk the 5 kilometer round trip. In was thus, in good health but ill spirits, that I watched the first of the spring rains leak in through my ill-sealed windows, and awaited sunnier times.
It wasn’t all doom, gloom, and cancerous-looking tomatoes, however. Merry times were often had amongst the dozen or so residents of the semi-decaying mountaintop fastness. As expensive as food can be, the wine – in particular – can be quite reasonably priced; any bargains encountered by one on a shopping trip would usually be shared in advance of a weekend night’s Dionysian worship. On one memorable occasion a five dollar bottle (roughly half the price of the cheapest non-fortified/hobo wine one typically buys from whence I came) was gleamingly advertised by a returning American roommate. This being somewhat astounding from a cheap alcohol standpoint my Scottish counterpart and I set off on a quest, like dipsomaniacal homing pigeons, for the mythical bottle.
It is worth noting that this was a duo comprised of two nearly penniless young men by this point famed in the house for penny-wisdom. When we were met, subsequently, by a large empty rack at the distant discount foods store with a garish five dollar tag under it, it quickly became a kind of game to determine the next cheapest potent potable possible. For almost twenty minutes we fenced back and forth the virtues of cider (he had never heard of Dicken’s brand, oddly enough), beer (discounted, but discounted again as neither wanted to carry the case of bottles back), and admitting economically sensible defeat (not really an option), before settling on the somewhat dubious prospect of boxed wine. Then it became a soul-searching quandary on the relative demerits of inexpensive red vs. equally inexpensive white wine, before a spirited dissertation on which region was likely to offer the least offensive vintage. Settling finally on a cube that proudly proclaimed provenance in Spain (central Spain, if you please!), we returned to an interestingly coloured, if “grapesy” experience.
Of course I couldn’t keep up this economic self-flagellation for very long: much less so in the face of constant international sporting events being held in town. The Rugby World Cup was in full swing at this time, which led to a delicate plan being hatched. For some time I had put my flirtatious bet on an endearing Kiwi gal who worked at the bank on rent-paying day. Having garnered the knowledge of her love of the national game, along with two tickets to the upcoming in-town match between Canada and the mighty All Blacks, I set upon acquiring myself a date (other than the back-up of my frugal Scottish sommelier).
An unusually hot spring day met me as I went to the bank, tickets (and rent) in hand. Upon arrival, however, I found that I was missing a crucial bit of account information that would allow me to pay the said rent. Back, then, across kilometers of town and steep, sun-bathed mountainside to collect the information, and thence again to the bank: all in the short time before I knew she was to be off for the weekend and thus beyond my inquisitorial reach. Finally I returned with minutes to spare before closing (and a subsequent question regarding my not having paid rent that week by my slumlord), and posed my question after having handed over my weekly stipend and some small talk.
The answer was no – as she was out of town that weekend visiting friends – with an accompanying subtext of no – as experience has taught me to realise with some ease. Somewhat crestfallen at the failure of my economic brashness, I nonetheless sat with mild self-deprecation and a smile while awaiting my crucial receipt. Time, as is its wont, passed; I found a new breed of cold anxiety sweat introducing itself to the hotter mountain-bred variety on my spine as the wait stretched out an unusual minute, and then another. The announcement that her computer had seized up in some intractable way strained my affability, though by no means prevented some suitable chat as the moment stretched like not enough spandex. Her neighbour teller seemingly saved the day as she quickly re-ran the transaction on her machine, though by this point the talk had turned to the upcoming playoff matches of the World Cup tournament. As the neighbour asked me cheerily if I was going to see any games this weekend (having been out of earshot for my earlier shoot-down) I managed an equally cheery affirmative, all the while hearing manic “GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE”-style exclamations echo through my brain’s desire circuits. The spandex seemed taut to breaking.
I found myself laughing – perhaps in an attempt not to begin sobbing or self-combusting – as the transaction’s success was finally announced via a happy hum from the receipt printer. As is natural with unexpected mirth the neighbour teller asked what, in fact, was so funny. The only answer that presented itself was an amiably stammered “m..my life” as I collected my glorious slip of paper and fled the bank, back in the direction of the land of the cheap.
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