In most parts of the world, weary travelers only have to find a hotel, choose a room, agree on a price, and settle in. In China, it’s not that simple. A little known fact is that hotels often turn away foreigners, without explanation, or at least one you can understand, and in my case the shy desk clerk called someone, and a woman with a shellacked helmet of hair came barreling out, stamped her foot and said, “No stay here.” With martial stiffness, she pointed out the door, and away, and up the street. I said, “Umm, what?” She went to the door, and again, pointed up the street. “But, umm, you see—” “No stay here, no stay here.” I blinked, looked around. What could I do except bow and say, “Won’t stay here, no no no, no like-ee here,” and walked out the door and into the hot evening. Some people say hotels have to have a permit for foreigners to stay, others say it’s because they are running an illegal operation (casino, card room, etc.) and don’t want the attention a foreigner can bring, still others are convinced it’s xenophobic panic, while others claim it’s because foreigners smell bad. Me, I think I smell pretty good. I wandered around thinking I should have learned a lot more than how to order a cold beer in Chinese, when a man rushed up to me and said, “Halloo, halloo,” smiling and pointing and waving, as if to say—come along, come along. He was leading me towards the doors of a hotel. I grinned and followed and when we were in the lobby, I successfully mimed sleep, after which it all got complicated. I was quoted three different prices, which, by the way, were reasonable, but then completely stumped them all by trying to explain that I wanted to see a room first. They called in more people. Pretty soon, it appeared to me as if every member of the family was present in the lobby, along with all the workers of the adjoining business, who, each in turn would boldly advance on me saying, “Sleep” and I nodded, but when I repeated my request to see a room, their face froze and they looked from one to another, till the next brave soul tried, failed, retreated. After each one, I would again pick up my bag and head for the door, only to be stopped in my tracks by a vigorous chorus of “NO-NO-NO-NO.” This went on for some time. Then another desert angel appeared. He said, “Hello, what can I do for you?” And I swear, it felt as if everyone in the lobby wanted to burst into a clapping cheer like they do at the end of all the Hollywood movies made in the last three decades, but, being Chinese, they refrained. His name was Martin and he solved all my immediate problems. Arranged to show me the rooms, got me a price that was lower than what I was quoted, told me he would guide me to a great place for dinner, all the while advising me about local prices. He had gone to college in Arizona and his English was very, very good. After I cleaned the road dust off me, I met him outside the hotel and he introduced me to his brother and his friend and we made a short walk to a long plaza lined with restaurants, both indoors and outside, sheltered by bright green sun umbrellas. These three were a merry band and we sat outside as the sun went down and the moon came up, eating the most amazing food, drinking beer, swapping mostly true tales and measuring the distance separating our two cultures. Martin’s brother, whose English was limited, kept saying the things that mattered most, like, “beautiful food, beautiful life,” while encouraging me to try new things like barbecued sheep stomach and lamb kidneys, which I happily did. At one point, I snapped a photo of the trio, and before I put the camera away, I turned, framed and snapped one of my favorite photos. I can speak volumes about this pic but I will suppress the urge. After dinner, they took me on a walk by a manmade lake fringed with a green eco zone and a monolithic dolphin statue, lit up in vibrating, changing, colored lights, and we talked and laughed and ate ice cream, all with the ease of long time friends. I live for moments like this. And China is full of them.
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