Mr. Payne nods. "I see. That's why their boss didn't bother to come out. Can you explain another thing? At another magazine, instead of asking me about business, their publisher kept asking me about my own life. Why is that?"

"May I know what questions he asked?" Lulu asks Mr. Payne in reply.

"Whether I live in an apartment or a single house, what type of car I drive, even how much money I make. Stuff like that, very personal. Very annoying," Mr. Payne answers.

"May I know your answers?" Lulu and I both excitedly blurt out at the same time.

"I didn't tell him about my salary. But I told him that I live in an apartment in Manhattan but have a country home in upstate New York. Before I came to China, I was told that personal relationships are the key in business deals. So I invited him to visit my country home. I said I'd drive my pickup truck to meet him at the airport. I thought he'd like the idea because George Bush drove his own truck to pick up the former President Jiang Zeming near his ranch in Texas. But the publisher didn't accept my invitation. I don't know why he was so un-appreciative." Mr. Payne shrugs with some regret.

Lulu and I look at each other. Lulu says, "Let me help you analyze this. I think this man doesn't know very much about the outside world. He asked you personal questions in order to get a sense of your status in the United States. In China, most people don't have any clue how expensive apartments in Manhattan are. They think if your company is big and you're important, you should live in a single house or a mansion."

"But I do have a big house in the country."

I say, "'Country' might be a good word in the States when used the right way, as country club, or country estate, but in China, it has the connotation of poverty because it's where poor peasants live. Wealthy people live in the cities, not in the countryside."

"Pickup trucks are not fashionable in China," Lulu adds. "They are considered vehicles for cargo, not for passengers."

"No wonder they weren't pleased. I didn't know that the Chinese were so class-conscious. What should I tell them about me and my company to make them want to do business with us?"

"You must stress that your parent company is listed in the Fortune 500," says Lulu.

I add, "Yes. The Fortune 500 is big here." Lulu adds. "You should also say that your annual salary is what an average Chinese would make in one hundred years."

"That sounds so capitalistic!"

"You need to impress your partners with your power and success. We Chinese buy it," Lulu explains and I feel we are like two of his volunteer China consultants.

"Finally, don't forget to say that you disagree with the Falun Gong cultists and the Taiwan separatists!" Lulu adds.

"Are you saying that I also need to make a political statement? I need to be both a big capitalist and a big communist to get a business deal here?" Mr. Payne asks with noticeable contempt.

Without waiting for Lulu and me to reply, he says, "But why should I do business with those stupid guys who have no clue about the United States? They just managed to lose a big deal."

Lulu and I look at each other, then at the same time we say, "Pick us as your China reps!"

Getting married is expensive, especially in northern China. Let's look at a couple in a small village in Liaoning Province that I interviewed. The annual income of an average household is less than 4,000 yuan, but a wedding will cost the groom's family at least 20,000 yuan.

The parents of the groom are expected to have a house built for the newlyweds, arrange a banquet with more than ten tables, and buy basic electronic appliances such as a TV and a refrigerator.

When asked why a wedding has to be such a costly affair, a young villager, Little Rock, says to me: "In villages, the boys outnumber the girls. A girl, no matter how ugly she is, can always find herself a husband. The boy faces a different story: if you don't make enough money, you can't get married.

"People from villages are too poor to have an extravagant wedding, but they go into debt to make the wedding as fine as possible," he adds. "You should go to my cousin's wedding in the township. He started off as a poor peasant too, but now he has a business in Shenzhen and tons of money. Here, you can have my invitation."

I look at the gaudy invitation, which is embossed with gold lettering. "Why did you give this to me? You're his cousin – you should go yourself!"

Little Rock says: "I don't plan to go because I don't have any fancy clothes. You should check it out. Perhaps there is an article for you in it."

He's right. Just the other day, I was invited to attend the opening of Vera Wang's wedding gown store in Beijing. The subject of the sumptuous wedding business could be a good article.

The next day, with the scented invitation in my hand, I hire a car to go to the wedding venue, a restaurant downtown. A traffic policeman flags us down ten streets away from the restaurant. I cannot proceed as all the roads ahead are sealed off. "Why can't we get in? I'm attending a wedding here," I say.

"Attending Mr. Chen's wedding?" asks the policeman.

"Yes," I say.

"Why do you have a Toyota van? Don't you know that only cars like a Mercedes-Benz are allowed to be driving in the procession to the wedding?" says the policeman.

I hear passing sirens wailing. I look around and see a motorcade flying by. A white, Lincoln stretch-limousine is adorned with roses mounted on the hood and silver wedding bells dangle from the back. Following are many Mercedes-Benzes, old and new, in different colors.

It seems all the Benzes in town are there, and likely some from out of town, just for the occasion. Before coming to this small city, I learned the township had a high population of laid-off workers who live below the poverty line. Now, I am stunned at the sheer size of the Mercedes-Benz motorcade.

"Fifty Mercedes just passed. I counted." My driver says.

I think of director Ang Lee's comment in his movie, Wedding Banquet, that noisy weddings result from thousands of years of sexual repression in China. Perhaps a similar analogy is that such an ostentatious display of money and an exaggerated expression of wealth reflect the deep-rooted anger coming from hundreds of years of poverty.

While I am pondering this, a luxurious Bentley approaches and comes to a stop. I watch the policeman deny the Bentley's entrance into the motorcade.

"What type of car is it?" the policeman asks the driver.

"A Bentley," the driver replies with pride.

The policeman waves the driver away in contempt. "This motorcade is only for luxury cars. Don't you see that even a Japanese-made Toyota is not allowed?" He points at my car and me. Apparently, Bentley is too new in the Chinese market to let a small town policeman know about its existence and importance.

I follow the Bentley away from the motorcade, not quite believing what I have just witnessed. Somehow, missing this wedding doesn't seem quite so bad now because my Toyota has just received the same treatment as a new Bentley.