That loud clicking noise just as the wheels of the plane touch the ground reminds me that I am not in Kansas anymore.* It is the sound of dozens of seatbelts being unhooked almost simultaneously with landing. As in America, the announcement has been made to keep your seat belt strapped until the plane reaches the gate. The only difference here in China is that for the most part people choose to ignore it. On the one hand, I admire the lack of deference to authority. On the other hand, if the plane suddenly stops I don’t want the fat guy sitting next to me to do a face plant into my lap.
Of course, there was the absurd pushing to get on the plane in the first place. I can understand it over here on a bus, when not only the possibility of a seat but of getting on the bus itself is in question. But on a plane everyone has a seat assignment; so why the hell are they pushing?
Well, at least they serve meals on domestic flights. But soon after unwrapping the foil from the dish I remember why I did not think it was that great a loss when they stopped serving food on domestic airlines in America. The stewardess says it is beef (“niu rou”) and rice, but I have never seen beef that looks pink. In fact, I don’t recall any food ever being quite this color. If you don’t know or haven’t been paying attention, China has had more than its share of food scandals lately. I won’t bore you with a rundown but here’s a link of the top ten, including melamine milk, glow in the dark pork, sewer oil and cadmium rice. I guess I’m not that hungry.
I arrive in Chengdu at midday, but it could be early morning or dusk. The city exudes a surreal feeling, a dark, ominous Bladerunner-like atmosphere. It doesn’t help that I just came from Tucson, and left seventy degrees and sunshine for forty degree dankness. My friend L. remarks that the skies all over China are getting darker, fewer blue skies, more pollution.
At L’s house, I recall why the two winters I spent in Chengdu were the coldest of my life, despite the fact that I grew up in Wisconsin. Not only do the locals not put the heat on in the winter, they leave the windows open. I’m sorry but you shouldn’t be able to see your breath once you are indoors. I know they say what does not kill you, makes you stronger. But I have always been a believer that what does not kill you can still do pretty serious damage. If I were a betting man, I would place my money on pneumonia.
I am writing this in the throes of jet lag. I have always found sunshine to be the best way to reset the biological clock and get over this bane of travel. Unfortunately, the sun seems about as accessible as Facebook over here. I am sure I will feel better tomorrow which, L. tells me without a trace of irony in her voice, is the first day of Chinese spring.
Next time: Why, despite how it sounds, I am actually glad to be here.
*In the classic movie The Wizard of Oz, the main character finds herself transported from her Midwestern hometown to a strange, exotic land, causing her to remark to her dog, “Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.” To be “not in Kansas anymore” is to find yourself suddenly a stranger in a strange land.
