Hold on, men.

Somewhere within the thirty seconds I spent ripping off my sweat-soaked sailor outfit consisting of hat, shoes, socks and tap microphones, and subsequently swapping them with painted gold tap shoes, white socks, a sparkly pants jumpsuit, tuxedo dickie with sparkly gold bowtie already attached, a glittering gold vest and finally a multi-colored sequined jacket (a total of seventeen items being taken off or put on)…all while, onstage, ‘Billy’ puffed through his musical interlude preceded by seven minutes of hardcore ensemble dancing…I thought to myself; I am in China.

If I’d had any doubts, perhaps because of the amazing array of talent that surrounded me, the hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of wigs, costumes, and set pieces, gorgeous art deco scrims and drops, moveable marquees and ‘smart lights,’ not to mention the fact that all of these bits and pieces intertwine in putting together an American musical, I needed only take a look around to listen and see, once again; I am in China.

I need only take a look over my shoulder at the massive metal, wobbly staircase that I and 24 other dancers are about to conquer during the next two minutes of dancing and notice that the menacing platform is not secured by c-clamps or wheel breaks, not by metal pegs or rubber stoppers, but by eleven Chinese men squatting in line out of view of the audience (see picture above: photo taken by Chris Clay, our "Andy Lee" in the show), holding on to the set in what I have formerly dubbed as “Chinese pooping position,” praying for their lives that their combined strength can withstand the weight-shifting and foot-pounding of an ensemble full of tappers.

Or as I tear off yet another costume at my quick-change station, I need only acknowledge the Chinese man standing by my side, poised, hanger-in-hand, waiting for the next piece of clothing he can hang up for me or bowtie he can place around my neck. Or the man tuning the piano during our production meeting against the expressed wishes of our producer and stage manager who stand leaning over the orchestra pit barking for him to stop pounding on the keys…only to realize that he doesn’t speak any English.

Not to mention that I have the faint premonition of our first public performance when our over-rehearsed scenes and comic timing may fly out the window as we wait for what may seem like a lifetime for the audience to actually ‘get’ the joke we so staunchly believed to be funny. Perhaps I’ll be proven wrong, but even then I’m sure there will be a moment during every show when I look up from tying the laces on one of my seven pairs of show shoes and remember: I am in China.