We’re having dinner at a rooftop Italian restaurant in a prosperous village in the shadow of Yueliangshan—Moon Mountain—about a half hour by taxi from the Ancient Village Artist Retreat. I’m burned out on beer fish, so I figure why not ravioli and red wine for a change? This was one of the first villages in the area to start farmers’ restaurants and take advantage of the tourist trade. Now a lot of the farmers have made some money, which they show off by adding upper stories to their skinny cement homes, a third and then a fourth or fifth that no one actually lives in. Andy sips the wine. Wrinkles his forehead. “Do you like it?” my mom asks him, a little anxiously. “I …” He turns to me. “Ni zenme shuo, ‘wo buxiguan’?” How do you say …? “You’re not used to it,” I tell him. “Yes. I am not used to it.” He takes another sip. “But I think I can learn to like.” He and my mom smile at each other. He lifts his wineglass. My mom blushes and raises hers.
