Who Said "Half The Fun Is Getting There"?
I made it! I finished one year of studies, barely fighting through Mandarin burn-out the last several weeks. This showed in slightly lower final exam scores, but I got my certificate and a much anticipated summer break. It was definitely time to head back to the States and recharge my batteries.
If you’re ever in need of a mental and physical boost, spending 18 hours on a plane and going through a 12 hour time change is not a terribly bright way to start off. Getting a cabin at the lake would definitely be a little more effective. For that matter, getting yourself thrown in jail might prove to be a little more relaxing.
My first sign of trouble came at the check-in counter, when I was told that no upgrades were available, due to overbooking. I hadn’t wanted to spend the money, but had resigned myself to the fact that I would otherwise go insane, packed like a sardine for 12 hours in coach. At times like this, even the most pleasant people begin to seem obnoxious. Although I’m almost perfectly blameless, I’m sure they think the same of me.
This was soon resolved by what I still consider to be a minor miracle. Apparently the employment qualifications for China Air do not stress mathematical skills. It seems that they convinced just enough people to voluntarily give up their seats in exchange for travel vouchers to result in one empty seat on our 747, right next to me. My mood instantly improved. This was going to be a good flight after all. You would think that, with my track record, I would learn not to get so optimistic.
After a pretty decent roast duck dinner, the circus started. I’ve often read about “Little Emperor Syndrome”, which explains how millions of families constrained by China’s one-child policy produce spoiled little brats. Not only is practically every child an only child, but an only grand-child. Two parents and four grandparents doting on a kid can turn out a real monster. I had only seen this result once, and it wasn’t pretty. “Oh, that’s a shame! I don’t know how your son could have tripped like that!”
I’m guessing that the person who first described this phenomenon had a flight like mine. Although there was no dessert with the dinner, every kid on the plane suddenly seemed to develop a day-after-Halloween sugar high. Now, the time honored treatment would be to have the kids run around outside until they wore themselves out. Flying at 35,000 feet made this impractical, although no less desirable. Due to some unexplainable instinct, what I saw was practically every parent on the plane simultaneously turn their kid loose in the aisles.
I was treated to more than eight hours of Chinese kids doing their NASCAR impression: run fast, turn left. I even saw a couple of pileups (I didn’t do it – I swear!) Not even the occasional drink service could deter them. The multiple galleys of a 747 enabled them to simply run short laps until the entire track was open again. I never saw a checkered flag, but someone must have won at about 2am Beijing time. The race was finally over.
The only two kids I saw who were not budding track stars belonged to a Chinese family seated in front of me (I think they live in America, hence the two kids.) The eight year old son decided to work off his sugar high by repeatedly banging his seat back into my knees. I had noticed that although the parents were striving to make sure the kids spoke perfect English, they were also fluent in Mandarin. As soon as Junior glanced at me, I spoke quite firmly in Mandarin, saying “That’s not funny!” His eyes bugged out and I think he almost crapped his pants. The seat stopped moving.
In the mean time, drinks were offered and since, to my way of thinking, it was about midnight, I ordered a beer. I hadn’t realized that five minutes later I would be given eggs for breakfast. It was the beginning of my time disorientation.
Because I was only given an old-style ticket in Beijing, I had been forced to calculate out the itinerary times myself. I thought they looked fine, with a two hour layover. I was irritated to find that it was only one hour. Waiting to retrieve my bag, clearing customs, rechecking the bag and running to another terminal resulted in me barely making my connecting flight to Atlanta. My bag, however, decided to check out San Francisco for a couple of days before rejoining me.
After a couple of hours spent scrutinizing every bag in the terminal and standing in line to file a claim, I couldn’t think of a time when I had more sorely needed a stiff drink. The need grew as I realized that what I thought of as a $10 cab fare was actually $50 in America. I didn’t grumble as much as I might have, though. I was back home: The Pool Room. Or so I thought. The sign saying “Marietta Billiards Club” didn’t even register in my travel-numbed mind.
I walked straight up to the bar, glad to see Josh, the manager. I was even gladder to see him pour me a large Maker’s Mark, my drink of choice, sadly unavailable in China. He kindly let the bourbon knock me for a small loop before flooring me by telling me that the place had been sold to new owners and that all of the other employees were gone. Wow, you really can’t go home again!
