The restaurant was not as well-lit as he’d anticipated, or at least not well-lit in the way he’d assumed from the road.
He was seated at a table beside the portable air conditioner and handed a menu but it was all in Chinese, and so he picked something arbitrarily and waited. Instead there was only withering disinterest. He expected to be received with shock, hushed tones. Once the transaction was assured Mitchell ascended the stairwell to the restaurant, where several large families sat at round tables sharing broad plates. This took an excruciating amount of pantomime. One such second floor looked particularly well-lit and bustling and so Mitchell pulled over and tried to engage the shopkeep to charge his scooter. The road was lined with boxy structures: ground floors empty bodegas, second floors well-lit restaurants. Mitchell realized that he couldn’t make it back even if he wanted to, that he wouldn’t find the restaurant in complete darkness, that this was the inherent problem with looking for things on maps. The scooter whined, grinding to 10 km/hr the battery was nearly dead. The terrain grew rocky and uneven, marred by filthy Caterpillars and upturned earth. He followed his map off the highway and onto a dirt road. The scooters could only get up to 30 km/hr Mitchell’s was hardly reaching 20 km/hr. He’d spent the evening looking for an Italian place that was considered Yangshuo’s best restaurant, riding around on an electric-powered scooter to no avail. “They’re strangers.” Mitchell laughed too loudly at this. “No,” the guy said absentmindedly, waving a hand. A staffer came to his side, gesturing to Mitchell and the Brits. He stood softly panting, hands on his hips. He wore glasses and a black shirt, and had short curly hair that looked damp with sweat. One of their group, who appeared to be the leader, stopped at Mitchell’s table. They were dark shapes, but Mitchell could see their communal haggardness, the late-night mania that came with long-distance travel – the reason for the commotion. They placed their gear beside Mitchell’s table, at the door of the guesthouse, as staff rushed to help. There was a flat circular bag, which Mitchell surmised were cymbals, and an amplifier – they were a band. The group was unloading hefty gear, packaged in black nylon and steel cases, carrying their belongings down the path as eyes followed. All heads turned to watch: mostly Dutch families finishing dessert, and two old Brits enjoying a nightcap, and Mitchell. The commotion was four westerners, who arrived via an unmarked van in the driveway.
He’d decided beforehand to smoke while traveling, because it matched his aesthetic, and wasn’t considered improper abroad like it was back home. He was smoking a cheap cigarette, though he himself did not smoke. Mitchell was sitting on the terrace when there came a commotion from the entryway.