Baiju, for those not in China, is the local spirit. Slightly stronger than vodka or whiskey, it has a pungent taste and aroma similar to Italian grappa. It goes down with a shudder and lands with a thud in the gut.

Three of my students–Power, Leo, and the aptly-named Sober–invited me to dinner last night for a home-cooked meal in their dorm. By the time I left we were all intoxicated, and I was swaying as I walked home. I don’t know if it’s ethical to be drinking with my students (they’re graduates, and about a year younger than me) but it doesn’t feel entirely out of place here.

We ate chicken and scrambled eggs, fruit salad and celery, and finally a soup of stewed fish and stringy lamb. “This soup is called delicious,” said Leo, our cook for the evening. He drew the characters for fish and mutton. Combined, he said they form a new character: delicious.

The soup turned out to be my least favorite part of the meal. The mutton was rubbery and clumped with fat; the fish still had bones and little flavor. I ate most of the chicken and had an impressive pile of bones next to my bowl.

We began the meal with a toast. I drank baiju from a coffee-on-the-go type mug. Power used a little orange plastic bowl. Leo and Sober had water jugs and beer.

Drinking is always done with a toast here, and among men it’s an ongoing competition. I couldn’t just sip my drink to wash down whatever I just ate. As soon as I touched my cup, Power would raise his bowl and the others would follow suit.

The baiju hit my stomach before my head. On the third toast, I took a large swig, maybe two shots worth, and felt the aggressive spirit work it’s way to my stomach, kicking the whole way down and turning somersaults after it landed.

I didn’t feel tipsy in the slightest (the stuff doesn’t seem to inebriate immediately) but something lurched in my midsection and my mouth salivated the way it does just before vomiting. I ate a few pieces of fruit to calm my stomach, but I was done with the baiju, and Power happily drank what was left in my mug.

Beer brought out one-upmanship in the Chinese. We began simply toasting, but as the food thinned and the alcohol took its effect, Power turned the toasts into “Bottoms up!”

I played along, teaching him the Italian version–bebi la tutta–and downing the Harbin lager at an equal pace. We went on like this until close to 10 p.m., all of us knowing we had classes at 8 o’clock the next morning.

I was swaying when I left, and Power followed me down the six flights of stairs. He meant to help, I think, but in my drunkenness I was making a game of rushing to each landing, letting gravity work in place of my leg muscles.

The sun was mercifully hidden behind a gray overcast the next morning. I hate being hung-over on a clear day; it feels like such a waste. I jogged to class with a vague lesson plan in my head. I wanted to do something more fun than last week’s lecture on American history, and I’d settled last-minute on 20 Questions and a spelling bee.

It turned out to be one of my best classes yet. The games got students participating, and no one complained that it was boring. I barely had to do anything. I explained both games in advance, then let the students run them.

I left class with a clear head and told the students to enjoy next week off for National Day with no homework.

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