One more point about the water. I drink a lot of tea now but (here’s the funny part) I was never a tea drinker until I came to China. You can’t avoid the stuff over here. To this day a sip of coffee has not passed my lips. I had a narrow escape at the Helsinki McDonald’s in Finland. Here’s the story: I was given a small cup with a $29.52 Happy Meal. I opened the lid and ugh—COFFEE! I gave the damn cup to a drunk. I got no Red Alert on that one and I was so tired at the time I almost drank it. I wasn’t in my right mind.

I like to travel. One day I may pass through Seattle, where thugs like to tie you up, blindfold and handcuff you, and then force coffee down your throat with a funnel: espresso, French roast, Starbucks breakfast blend, and so on. You need to hire a bodyguard in Seattle or in all of Washington State for that matter. They can put a gun to my head, but I won’t drink coffee. One mere cup and you’re an addict for life! Not for all the tea in China would I voluntarily drink coffee. That volatile liquid is like rocket fuel.

“All the tea in China” is a worn-out expression sliding out of the American lexicon. It’s remembered only by Depression-era seniors and their baby-boomer offspring (like my very own father), who were brainwashed with this phrase, who have heard their parents opine time and time again. Twenty times a day they hit you with “Not for all the tea in China will I do this or that.” It’s hyperbole, meaningless cackle.

It’s not just water in China that presents perilous health hazards; food is dangerous as well. I’ve seen what happens to careless eaters over here. People possess accurate information about suspect foods but they eat it anyway and thus learn the hard way. You’re in the country for three months for instance and you drop your guard, you think you’re acclimated to the national germ array. But let me tell you the deal: eat tainted food and it’s three days of puking into a squat toilet. Oh ho! Not so immune after all, huh?

The Chinese squat toilet is a horrible affair where greenbottle flies the size of bumblebees fly blind with their Saran Wrap wings, seduced and entranced by the magical aroma that calls to them like the Sirens of the Cyclades Islands. They furiously circulate the stall, knocking their heavy bodies against the wall—whap, whap. Whap. Whap, whap, and whap. It takes three days for them to get tired but eventually they succumb to exhaustion. As I said, my dad loves to hear such accounts of unspeakable, but nonlethal, horror.