A "Thanksgiving" like no other.

I count myself lucky as one of the few Americans abroad to celebrate Thanksgiving with a glorified day off.

However, HMC wasn't about to just count that as their thanks. Rather, when President Li found out that we already had plans for Thursday afternoon, he felt embarrassed. The digitaries of HMC wanted to personally thank us for our hard work in China. We were soon notified by several emails and a face-to-face chat that we would be having a Thanksgiving feast with Mr. Li and the rest of the gang. The President had created an opening in his busy schedule, just for us.

I was intrigued. What would a Chinese Thanksgiving feast entail? Would the cooks attempt to Americanize their classic Chinese fare?

Perplexed, I sat down to a table of thousand-year-old eggs, green matter and muck. My table, which consisted exclusively of foreign teachers, ate little to none. I like Chinese food, don't get me wrong. I eat it everyday, but these choices were not among my favorites. Instead, we feasted on the Tsingtao beer that was getting passed out like water bottles.

Yet, or perhaps because of the empty stomaches and full beers, the atmosphere was light-hearted and joyous. It was (almost) Thanksgiving and we were free, for a least a few days.

However, I should have known, all Chinese banquets, whether originally American-inspired or not, end with a surprise---the baijiu surprise.

Thanksgiving was no exception.

I looked at Gill, "Oh no, not again."

Gao Wen, our waiban and boss, had a curious bottle of spirits in her hand. It could be only one thing. The Chinese call it a white wine, but by most countries' standards, that's a bold lie. By now, however, I was a China veteran and knew how to deflect. At a table of cheers, I strategized. Take a nip, never down the entire goblet, especially if no one is watching.

I felt a wiggle pulse through my body as I sniffed the potent crystal clear jiu. I still remembered the baijiu burps that remained long after my first banquet with HMC.

As Gao Wen refilled everyone's glasses for round two, Gill and I swished some Sprite in for a slightly enhanced taste. We knew it was questionable and perhaps even traceable with its newly clouded appearance, but it was certainly worth a shot, I reasoned.

Maybe I added too much or more likely, President Li could smell my fear, because as he made his guided way to me for his individual baijiu rounds, he took one look at me and said what I can only imagine to be, I don't think so. I protested to no avail. This, however, only attracted the entire room's attention. As he sniffed it for clarification, Mr. Li knew, this was no baijiu.

"NO!" I tried to wail.

I wouldn't go down without a fight. I detest the white spirit, just as a some Christians abhor alcohol of any form. I persuaded him to take a sip. Then, without a pause, President Li threw the liquor mix directly into my soup bowl and refilled the wine glass. This time it was more than half-full. He nudged me and I knew, I had to drink all of it.

"Happy--you must drink more alcohol--Thanksgiving Day!" he cheered.

I couldn't stop laughing at the hilarity of it all. Seriously, I couldn't. As I tried to force the baijiu down my throat like a big pill, I felt everyone's eyes on me and then the sting of the baijiu smell and taste. Then, moments later, another taste, that of the few contents within my stomach coming back up. My throat burned as I tried to chock it all down. Blllllahhhhh....it felt terrible and my face burned with laughter and contortion. Confused eyes bore down on me and I knew what they were thinking. Ew...I'm pretty sure she's not only laughing anymore. Actually, I know this because Gill told me that's what she was thinking.

As I attempted to sit down, my body gave an uncontrolled wiggle and finally I chocked down the last shallow of baijiu barf.

Never again.