Len has the pensive look of the cellist Yo-Yo Ma. He never spoke much, and had an air of elegant despair about him. Although he may have seemed stone-faced and emotionless, his eyes betrayed the passion and intensity with which he lived his life. When he did speak, the whole world listened.

Perhaps I never truly understood Len. He told me that he wasn't a healthy person. He wasn't a man who could give women happiness. "If you are smart, you'll keep your distance from me."

In the States, I had taken advantage of being far away from my parents and my rigid culture. I was like a free bird until I met Len, the man who taught me about pain, cruelty, madness, and suffering.

When I was a child, a Buddhist master who passed through my house told my mother that I had some affinity for Buddhism. They call it huigen,wisdom roots. He could see the halo behind my head. Because I had a round, smiling face, all of the adults called me Little Buddha. It's strange that the little me could sometimes see many things. I had premonitions about my primary school language teacher's suicide, my math teacher's lung cancer, and the disappearance of the retarded boy from down the street. I even predicted my parents' separation. They divorced when I was eleven years old – I was so calm people found it incomprehensible. I wonder when I lost the ability to see things as a child. The Little Buddha with wisdom roots couldn't resist the intensity of Len's ardent but melancholy gaze.

There is this Buddhist asceticism: "Free from human desires and passions; physical existence is vanity." I discover that as I grow older, I'm further and further away from being "free from human desires and passions." Why did I succumb to obsession, violating the greatest taboo in Buddhist doctrine? Why did love so confuse my heart and mind? Beibei says I'm a qingzhong, the seed of emotions. I don't object to it. After all, my parents pursued their forbidden love out of their mutual irresistible attraction. I'm a product of passion.

Here, in this entertaining, ever-changing China, all those memories of Len and the times we shared seem so far away – as far away as America itself. I sometimes find myself going days, or even weeks, without thinking about Len at all. When I do think about him, it is as if he is a burglar who has somehow snuck past the security of my busy mind and is robbing me of the peace I came to China to find.

I, the young female journalist, seem to have it all here: good pay, a nice job, a busy social life. But I still get bored easily, and I constantly look for excitement. Seek pleasure, avoid pain: perhaps I'm becoming a hedonist like Beibei. Even if a hedonist's life has no meaning, at least it is comfortable. Comfort, home, for me are vital.

ERGUOTOU: Fiery Chinese corn liquor.

QINGZHONG: The seed of emotions; refers to awful romantic partners.

HUIGEN: Wisdom roots, affinity with Buddhism.

As my friends and I are talking about Jeremy Irons, the doorbell rings. Here comes a Chinese man, a stranger.

"Is this where the Jeremy Irons fan club is meeting?" he asks, hesitating.

"Yes. Are you a fan as well?" I ask.

"Yes. My name is John," the man says. He is a bit nervous.

"Yes. Come on in. Let's watch Damage together." I let him in.

John has reasons to be nervous. All the other fan members at my house are women.

After watching the movie, everybody wants to know about him. He tells his story.

Like me, John is also a haigui, an overseas returnee. With a master's degree in sociology, he was selling life insurance in Silicon Valley for three years, making fifty grand per year – not very impressive by Silicon Valley standards.

Although he is a good-looking Chinese man, John couldn't find a girlfriend in the States. The fact is, two-thirds of the Chinese girls in the States prefer to date locals, mainly white Americans. The ones who do stick around the Chinese community become hot property, with endless streams of highly educated male admirers queuing up for their attention. Even those who are not very attractive can still afford to be choosy.

Seeing John in his mid-thirties and living a celibate life, his friend Mike set him up on a blind date in San Francisco. The lucky lady was a Chinese woman from China named Jane. She was studying nursing in a local community college. She was recently divorced and average-looking.

They met in the Borders bookstore near Union Square. As agreed, Jane carried a Gucci shopping bag as her sign. In the Borders coffee shop, they greeted each other briefly and John went to buy two cups of mocha for them. As soon as they sat down, the girl said, "Hi. I have to say I don't have much time. Your friend didn't tell me your annual income. Can you tell me now?"

It seemed Jane had certainly adapted to the fast-paced American way of life. To her surprising opening question, John replied, "I make fifty thousand dollars per year. But it does not include the bonus…"

She cut him off with her next question: "Do you have a house?"

"I'm renting an apartment in San Mateo at the moment. I'm saving money for…"

"Sorry, John. I only go out with men who have the three Ps," Jane said impatiently. She stood up and left without even touching the mocha John had bought for her.

John felt humiliated. He tried to find out what the three Ps stood for, but got different answers from different friends. Some told him they were Ph.D., permanent residency, and property. Others said they were passport (American), Porsche, and Ph.D. His best friend, Mike, comforted him: "Who cares what three Ps stand for? If Jane thinks she is so great, why doesn't she go for the Prince, the President, and the Prime Minister?!"

Just like my experience, John's heartbreaking meeting with the inhuman and arrogant Jane prompted his final decision to go back to China.

After returning, he got job offers in Shanghai, Beijing, and Shenzhen. He accepted a job in Beijing as sales manager in an electronics company. Although he makes only a third of the money he did in the United States, he is suddenly a member of society's upper class. The entire world welcomes him. He joins a dating club and becomes the most popular bachelor.

The dating club' s owner approaches John one day to offer him a deal. "Please promise me you won't get yourself a girlfriend for the moment. As long as you are available and your document is with us, girls will register and come to us."

"What do I get out of it?"

"You can have half of our profit," says the owner.

John agrees. His job is to interview these single women and turn them down. As long as he is doing it, the money arrives in his bank account every month. The women he has turned down are all better-looking than the Plain Jane that spurned him in Silicon Valley. He turns down each of the women with the same excuse: "I only like a girl that has the three Ps."

Many of the women are intellectual. They all discuss with their friends what the three Ps are and come up with all kinds of ideas. There are two popular theories, one in Chinese and one in English. The Chinese one goes pigu, pifu, piqi – nice butt, soft skin, and sweet temperament. The English one goes: pretty, pure, and pleasing. Only John himself knows that the three P's have no meaning. In a way, he is punishing all women for what Plain Jane did to his self-Estéem.

When women become too easy to obtain, they be come less attractive. Plus, John has an agreement with the dating club that he will not date a girl. His interest in women fades as he interviews more and more eager, available single women. Finally, he starts to get involved with men, most of whom are foreign expatriates in Beijing. "Chinese women mean nothing to me now. Like them, I prefer the imports," he claims.