When you travel, what you see is who you are. What enters you depends on how much you are willing to allow in. How safe you need to be. What you are willing to part with. What you are willing to condone. Still, you are always left with more than you came with.
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Here is a travel tip useful in every city in the world: if you don’t want to be ripped off, walk a few blocks away from the train station or bus station, and then hail a taxi. In my train stupor I forgot this and the waiting predatory taxi driver wanted to charge me 100 RMB for a 16 RMB cab ride. I just looked at him and laughed. When I opened the door, he pantomimed that just for me he would do it for the bargain price of 50 RMB. Exactly two blocks away I flagged down a taxi and showed him the address, written in Chinese. When I asked him how much it would cost, he looked at me as if I were an imbecile and gruffly pointed to the meter. And away we went; cab fare to the hotel: 14 RMB. At the front desk, I waited while the clerk gave directions to an English-speaking chap, then conveyed that I had a room reservation made by my friends, Paul and Claire. Suddenly, the man was back. He had come with Paul and Claire and knew that I was expected. And just like that, I had found my people. It was still very early so we decided to go get breakfast. His name was Pat, and also like Paul and Claire he was from the United Kingdom, and they all taught English in the same city in China. As we were searching for breakfast in the Tibetan Quarter we stumbled upon a bizarre scene. There, right on the streets of Chengdu, an ultra-modern city in most respects, a man and woman were murdering a chicken with a meat cleaver, draining blood and guts down onto the curb and into the gutter. While I was taking photos, they calmly whacked another chicken, which, although headless, flapped its wings furiously in protest. While I was waiting for my own trip to begin I watched the city empty out. Traffic unsnarled. Strange apparitions usually hidden behind the veil of commerce revealed themselves. Shops I liked to patronize retreated behind roll-down accordion metal doors. Firework stores appeared overnight and the sound of their wares exploded constantly, making it seem as if we all were under attack. Under attack by the Year of the Snake. The city buses that travel major roads during rush hour are usually so crowded they would evoke a sardine’s pity were half full. Red lanterns were strung everywhere. Relatives, returning to visit my neighbors, were unused to me, and stared and pointed—laowai.
I asked a friend what she thought of the empty city and her only comment was that there was less spit on the sidewalk. And so there was. The journey began with a caution: If you are traveling during the Spring Festival (AKA Chinese New Year) you had better get your tickets early. With twelve days left before my scheduled departure, I thought—piece of cake. Yet, at the ticket office, it was another story. On the day I wanted to leave, all trains were booked. The ticket seller, dressed smartly in a railroad worker’s uniform, blue shirt, red tie, dark blue pants and military-style jacket, spoke no English but conveyed that message clearly.
“What about the next day,” I said in English. She looked at me like a dog looks at TV until I pulled out my phone and pointed to the calendar. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, shaking her head no-no-no-no-and-no, wait a minute . . . pause, squinting her eyes at the computer screen, yes! One last bed in the hard sleeper car, the top berth. On Chinese trains, there are basically three types of tickets: a regular seat, which are arranged as two, separated by the aisle, then three more; the so called ‘hard sleeper’, which consists of bays of 6 bunks, 3 per side; and last, the more expensive ‘soft sleeper.’ I wanted a ‘soft sleeper’ there and back, but it was not to be. |
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