I don’t understand the sea.

One hour later, I stand in front of “Pachuka.” From the outside it looks like a large restaurant or a night club. Neon lights everywhere. There are two very big men in the black suits, stopping everybody in front of the door. Some fashionable looking Italian mans and high-heel womans get in, with the invitation tickets holding in their hands. There are several India womans dressed up like queens or princess, also get into the door. It must be a really posh place, I wonder. I am glad I come here. But right now I can’t remember that man’s name. Why Western names are so difficult remember? So I wander around the door with my rocksack on shoulders and try to recall that name back. Antonia? Anthony? Andrew? Alexander? Antonioni? Which one sounds more closer?

Encouraging myself enormously, I walk to the door man: “My friend asked me come here. He is inside.”

The door man answers in very rude and bad English: “Sorry. It is a private party.”

“Yes, I know. But my friend invites me to come, and he is just inside the party,” I insist.

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Antonia, Anthony, no, Andrew. Maybe Antonioni…You know I am a Chinese and I can’t pronounce your country’s name.” I am embarrassed myself.

“What does your friend do?”

“He is…he is the manager of the artists.” I just open my mouth randomly. I don’t know him at all, and I don’t think he is a manager of the artists.

One of the doormans takes it a little serious and goes inside to ask somebody. One minute later he comes out:

“Sorry, we can’t let you in.”

“But he invites me here. I should get inside!” I am pissed off.

“Sorry Signorina,” the door man says emotionlessly. “No invitation, no entry. Basta.”

A posh car arrives, and three people come out with strange costumes and shining shoes. The bounce men say Signori to them, and they walk straight into the door. The music is loudly coming out from the party, and laughings. Nobody wants to take me in or even look at me a second. Why I don’t look like one of the Asian artists? I wish I wear skirt, or some old-fashioned stupid traditional Chinese costumes.

I wander outside of the Pachuka like a wild night dog, no where to return. Then I see a very big and very long car arrives abruptly. Shit, it’s a Cadillac! Comes out eight. Yes, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight young womans. All blonde, with shining long golden hair. They wear the same miniskirt, and the same tight silver tops look just like bras. The silver miniskirts are so short people can see half of their bottoms. They are extremely slim, shapey, and all wear white high-heel long boots. They look like giraffes from the same giraffe mother. These sexy machines, leaded by a woman manager, their high-heels click the sandy ground: cha, cha, cha…They line up and one by one walking into the door. Two door mans fix their eyes on these girls body, like being deep frozen, can’t move. What are these sex machines doing in this “private party”? Lap dancing? None of them are Asians. Or they will just drink champagne with posh mans guests?

I must have stayed in front of door nearly an hour watching all those fascinating guests. Then I see a taxi coming. And a man comes out from the taxi. That is him, the man I met two hours ago! Why did he arrive so late? Are Italian mans all like that?

“Antonia!” I shout.

Perhaps right name because he doesn’t correct me, or maybe he didn’t understand I am actually shouting his name.

He walks to me and apologise:

“I am very sorry about this. My friends changed their mind. They wanted to go somewhere else instead. In fact, it was better than this party. Let me take you to the other place.” His English accent is almost inunderstandable.

“All right.”

I don’t want to tell him I wait here for so long. It would be not cool to let him know. So I follow him and get into his taxi.

Inside of taxi, so close, I can see his face clearly. He looks bit formal in his plain suit and black leather Made-in-Italy shoes. His hair is very few in the middle of his head. He seems sincerely but a little boring, if I can judge like that.

“So what you do?” I ask.

“I am an avocado,” he replies.

“Avocado?” I am surprised to hear. Is a fruit also a job? “Please explain me,” I ask.

“If you are going to be put into prison, you can hire me to help you in the court,” he says.

“Ah…is like a lawyer?”

“Yes! Yes! Avocado is lawyer.” He is pleased that I understand.

“What about you?” he asks.

“I am…just a tourist. Actually I am studying English.”

“In Venice?” His interests are aroused.

“No. No. Studying English in England,” I say.

“Oh, your English is good.”

“Thank you. But why you are to do with this Asian culture festival?”

“Because of my friend. He gives legal advice to this organisation so he said, ‘You must come along too.’”

“I see.”

Not another avocado!

The taxi stops in front of a disco. Behind the disco is really the open sea. Is like a big pond full of black ink. I feel dangerous, as I think it’s very easy to fall into that black pond.

It is a public disco, not “private party.” It is already 2:30, the endless night. The music is so loud. American disco, it is too much for me. Lots of teenagers dancing inside. I want to leave immediately. But Antonia pull my arm into the dancing floor, and I see his friends are all there shaking their shoulders and tingling their heads. So we are dancing right in the middle of the floor, everyone tripping over my rocksack, and my head being hit heavily every single second by the crazy music. Oh, I can’t dance like that, this is not my culture. My movements must be really ugly. It is a battle between the violent music and my boney body. And Antonia, he looks OK. He seems enjoying the music. His dancing style is a bit serious, but I am sure it better than mine.

I am getting so bored. So bored in the crowds. I can just stand there and fall in sleep like a horse.

“Are you OK?” Antonia dances towards me. His dancing almost like a slow walking.

“I am bit tired. Actually I want to go,” I say.

“Really? Where you stay?”

“I don’t have a place to stay yet.”

“You don’t? So where you are going to go now?” Antonia is talkative in the extremely loud music.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, if you want, you can stay in my hotel. My room has two beds.”

“Really?”

“Yes, no problem.”

The taxi puts us in the middle of nowhere. Suburb, definitely suburb. There is a very simply looking hotel in front of us.

“Look, the sea is just over there.”

I look to where Antonia is pointing but there is only inky darkness.

“Do you see it?” he asks.

“Kind of,” I say.

He presses the door bell. I feel embarrassed. It is already half past four and if the hotel people know he brings a Chinese girl back, what they will think?

He presses the bell again.

“You know the man inside, his ears are not very good,” he explains.

“OK,” I comfort him.

Eventually there is a very old man opens the door. He even doesn’t bother to raise his eyes to look. He says, “Buona sera” and then straight back to his room to sleep.

Antonia’s room is in ground floor, just by main door of hotel. I am thinking tomorrow morning the reception will discover me easily and shame me.

He opens the room, and switches on the light. Then he shouts something like swear in Italian. He is scared.

“What is it?” I ask.

“There are some little animals here,” he shouts.

“Where?” I can’t see anything.

“Here! Look the floor!” He points. There are some ants, big ants. They are moving around.

“Oh, just some ants.” I comfort him again and start put my feets on the ants, crush them with my shoes.