Travelling solo in a city of 16 million makes one vulnerable.
Being a relatively tall woman with dyed blonde hair, I feel conspicuous among the black-haired Chinese citizens rushing past me on the wide sidewalk. Toting my camera and keeping a finger on the pertinent page in my guidebook, I pause to admire the imposing Forbidden City on Tiananmen Square. My travelling companion Marnie is busy with IBM colleagues at the opening of a new Beijing facility, so I’m on my own this afternoon.
Come to China with Me
In September 2006 Marnie worked for IBM in Raleigh, North Carolina, and I was footloose – having retired in June. She was dating my divorced brother-in-law and invited me to join her on a business trip to China. She would travel to Toronto in mid-October, and we’d fly to Beijing together and stay for ten days.
“How much will it cost?” I asked.
“All you need to cover is your own airfare,” she answered. “IBM is paying my airfare and hotel room with two queen beds. You can share with me, and I’ll feed you. All you need to pay is your own way on any excursions we do like the Great Wall.”
The idea of flying all the way from Toronto to Beijing – non-stop – was somewhat nerve wracking. How can they possibly carry enough fuel to fly 14 hours? In any event, I accepted her invitation: she flew Business Class; I flew Economy. To absolve the guilt she felt being showered with treats, she’d sneak back to my cramped seat and tuck chocolates and interesting cheeses into my seat pocket as I slept.
The first unfamiliar Chinese procedure I witness occurs while in line to show my passport to Customs. Someone loudly blows a whistle; uniformed personnel march stiffly toward each Customs desk and salute the official whose shift was ending. Like changing the guard at Buckingham Palace without the bearskin hats. Then they carry on checking entrants.
Our hotel resembles a Toronto Holiday Inn located north of Highway 401, as it’s far away from the nearest subway station to downtown. From our room we view the Bird’s Nest stadium being
built for the 2008 Olympic Games.
After breakfast, Marnie begins IBM meetings and as I get into a taxi an English-speaking doorman tells its driver to take me to the nearest subway station. Being unable to read or speak any Cantonese or Mandarin, I carry the hotel’s business card so I can eventually return. Easy to picture my getting permanently lost in a city of 16 million. Being 2006 I had no cellphone with Google Maps – only the Lonely Planet Beijing to keep me on track.
Venturing Forth Alone
Once at the subway, I discover directions for buying tickets and choosing a train are written in English too. With growing confidence, I join the throngs of travellers. My first tourist stop is the Drum Tower, built in 1273, and the nearby Bell Tower, rebuilt in the 18th century. Both provide terrific views of the ancient city.
Having been warned by a Canadian friend to bring my own toilet paper, I’m equipped as I enter the public washroom near the Towers. It’s not surprising to have to place my feet on two ceramic pads and squat over a hole. However, I am surprised to discover that only one of six stalls has a door that closes for privacy. Sinks to wash one’s hands are also inadequate by Western standards.
Another surprise is the nonchalant behaviour of police standing near pedestrian crosswalks. They do nothing to assist large crowds crossing multi-lane boulevards on a green light. Traffic barely slows, so you’re taking your life in your hands while the police look the other way.
Tomorrow Marnie will join me on a guided tour of the Forbidden City, so today I’m just strolling nearby, drinking in the famous façade. A pair of twenty-something Chinese students approach and start speaking to me in English, asking me where I’m from.
“We are so excited to meet you! We really like a chance to practice our English,” she says.
“And it’s a treat for me to speak to someone local,” I answer. “My friend is in business meetings,
so I’ve been wandering around in silence all day.”
We chat for a few minutes, and then the young man says, “We are on our way to have some tea. Please come and join us.”
Picturing tea in a paper cup, à la Starbucks, I say, “Sure. That would be fun.”
Before I know it, I’m following these two young strangers as they head to an unknown destination – turning multiple corners, traversing multiple alleyways, finally arriving at an attractive wooden door. I follow them up the stairs. Well, I guess we’re going to a genuine tearoom, not a Starbucks! I think. How interesting. I’ll have lots to tell Marnie.
Private Tea Ceremony
We are ushered into a private dining room with a low table, and its costumed hostess invites us to sit on thick foam rubber cushions instead of chairs. My heart begins to pound as I realize I’ve been duped into an experience far fancier and more expensive than “a cup of tea.” How stupid of me to just join these kids! Picking up dumb tourists is clearly their job and I was sucked in by their friendliness.
The only thing I can do is settle down and appreciate this Chinese tea ceremony in this overly
decorated room. The hostess sets out ceramic bowls and plates, then produces fancy containers of several different teas. The students tell me their English names and ask me to choose one. This ritual of selecting and then drinking small bowls, repeats about four times.
Almond cookies and other sweets accompany each new round of tea. I have to admit the flavour of each clear tea I taste is exquisite. Somehow Earl Grey and Orange Pekoe seem plebian in comparison. After about an hour of drinking and chatting, they ask me to choose my three favourite flavours and I’m presented with a fancy golden box containing my choices. Nothing is labelled.
Then I’m presented with the bill, equivalent to about $250 Canadian! I say nothing and produce my credit card. Still smiling and nodding, I grab my box of tea and get up to leave. The students sense how anxious I am to get back to my hotel and guide me towards the subway station.
I tell Marnie about my tea experience, but carefully omit the ridiculous expense. I don’t even tell my husband when I get home. Seeing those teas in my pantry only produces a ghastly feeling in the pit of my stomach, so I dispose of them within a year. It takes me about five years to be able to tell anyone about my naïve behaviour.
When you think about it, I could have been abducted or worse.