wordonism

The list keeps growing.

Each week, more names are softly etched into the living memorial residing in the fibrous russet bark that covers the mammoth trunk of the magnificent Sequoiadendron giganteum. The giant, ancient tree has stood guard for centuries at that very fork in the road that separates these two neighbouring nations.

As stoic sentinel, it weathers the fiercest of storms, the ravages of fire and drought, and greets every visitor who enters this curious town with a deep sense of foreboding and awe. Rising dozens of meters into the sky, it pierces the marshmallow softness of the joyful cumulonimbus clouds that often gather at it’s peak to dance and play. The townsfolk claim it, not unjustly, to be a direct channel to the heavens above.

No one is certain how long it has stood there or whether it is truly still alive. It’s intricate root system dives deep into the fertile soil, to depths unknown, only to rise up in in a variety of twist and turns, leaving a confusing, meandering maze of wonder and amazement, somehow managing to avoid the clear, trodden path of the neighbouring town while abutting the smooth dirt road in a matted lattice that curls and twists in a confusing mass upon itself and its being.

The names of the disappeared.

Every night, in the fading light of day, the obedient townsfolk gather, aWake in the Field in front of the behemoth that they affectionately call Big Tree, as their mayor, his mop of listless, unkempt hair flopping on his furrowed brow – his red, rheumy eyes defiant – solemnly takes out his gilded ceremonial knife from its magnificently jewelled scabbard, gifted to him from sources unknown.

He turns his back on them, and slowly immortalizes those who have recently passed, knowing the part he has played.

And every day, as he raises his left arm to begin his sombre task, the distinctive mark of the elder becomes clearly visible in the setting sun as his sleeve, felled by undeniable gravity, exposes the deep circular scarring on his upper arm glinting with a protective sheen. His deft, meticulous movements steady and precise, his neuromuscular control intact – that blade his very own lancet to prick the living bark to death.

Pushed forward, then retracted. A living journal.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

In the eerie silence, the sound and the fury of the ceremonial knife slicing away at the robust bark, peeling away the viable, protective covering, exposing underneath a tender, vulnerable core, is a stark reminder of the dangers endemic to this nation. And the rising risk to those all around.

This living, breathing memorial, possessing that which it’s memorialized no longer do, grows by the day.

New names added at a dizzying pace.

Few make that choice. For most, the choice, made for them. Those in the recent past, a ritualistic sacrifice for the town’s contemporary founder, the self proclaimed mayor, who by virtue of his past station as a former physician along with the technological advancements at his disposal, spread his message far and wide, beckoning many to his new settlement, his revived nation, to his new first world order.

The deadly conspiracy.

The townsfolk are certain that danger exists out there against them. It’s what they’re told. A compelling narrative that preys on their fears, both real and imagined. They’re certain it came from abroad.

In their minds, they’re the defenders against an insurmountable conspiracy, a conspiracy of consensus. One designed by all other nations and towns – their very own neighbours – aiming to usurp their personal freedoms and enslave them to the wills and whims of those in power.

Against their neighbours they built their walls and defenses. Impenetrable. Buttressed by the support of those just like them. Reinforced and solidified, tempered over time like finely forged steel, unlikely to crumple under pressure, no matter how immense, how intense, brittleness burned out long ago. Doubled up. And doubled down.

The only way in, for acceptance, is to walk down that path, their path, past the memorial tree standing guard at that fork in the road between those two opposing nations.

A long lost past.

It was always this way between these two nations, but as things are alike, they are different. This town had faded to obscurity, populations much like fortunes, dwindling, until a resurgence a couple decades ago when it was rediscovered, as it always is and always has been for centuries. Silky words woo a new generation, a bolder generation, armed with the ability to unleash it’s miasma on the world at large, again, in ever growing surges.

Initially, in small pockets. Then slowly expanding like a vicious, tenacious fog rising up over the crested hills and valleys of the nearby towns and villages, impacts felt by those least able to protect themselves, wrapping the vulnerable tightly in it’s cloak of misery and needleless suffering.

From one chamber of believers to the to the next, using it’s capricious tentacles to procure small purchase, it expands exponentially against logic, defying science. It seeps into fragile, fenestrated minds, growing larger with the passage of time, in bits and bytes, transmitted at the speed of light, crawling deeper out of lore and into pervasive reality. Echoing.

As we know, a lie wrapped deliciously around a grain of truth, with the sound of promise, is a fruit that yields the sweetest flesh to those seeking it.

The fog lifting.

Many of the older townsfolk trace their roots to the neighbouring nation of V’aaxi, finding themselves unlike those who live there, not in practice but in principle, fleeing to seemingly safer pastures apart from the herd, in their new land.

Many still feel the biting scorn and ridicule from their former comrades cutting into them – having survived those searing barbs and insults only served to inoculate them against further diseased thinking from those sheepish, mercurial minds. Fleeing the toxicity.

But now, surrounded by those who are liberated by the gospel, their minds are free and clear. Uninjured. They too will spread it. Their Truth. It is their unifying purpose. Together they are stronger. United they will swell their ranks. Inflame them.

And there they stand on that quiet evening in the growing dusk, amongst their first world brethren and sistren, arm in arm. The setting sun casts their shadows in long, dark columns behind them, in solidarity with their fallen. The disappeared. As one by one, the names of their young and very young, taken too soon, are etched by the mayor into the red pocked flesh of the ancient Sequoia tree.

The weathered sign, on the opposite side of the massive trunk, absorbs the last of the dying rays of sunshine, welcoming newcomers, those wanting to see the light sooner, to the nation of N’tivax.

Photo by Yaroslav Кorshikov on Unsplash

Do you ever come upon those moments in life where you suddenly realize that Hollywood has had a much bigger impact on who you are?

I just had such a moment recently.

While filling the kettle with freshly drawn cold water to make my afternoon tea, I clumsily splashed the body of my t-shirt, leaving, as we’re all familiar with, that uncomfortable wet spot. This would not do. I couldn’t have this visible to judging eyes that surround us all.

To remediate the problem, I decided to use ingenuity – a hair dryer for a purpose other than drying hair. Simply brilliant MacGyvering, I could hear the angels cheer from above.

To the naysayers and the non-believers, I want to say, it worked. Within minutes of the high powered air stream doing its thing, I was dry. The wet spot, no longer wet. Blown out of existence.

But standing there in front of the bathroom mirror, my shirt now bone dry, another thought crossed my mind…

I have hair, full of potential.

And in my hand was a hair dryer, also full of potential.

Should I?

And I did.

And in moments, I was lost in what was reflected back to me in that mirror mirror on the wall.

Prince Charming, albeit ethnic, with locks of stringy coal tendrils flowing behind me, dancing in the warm winds of potential tapped.

Photo by Atlas Green on Unsplash

“Not today, please.”

The words tumble quietly out of the mouth of the disheveled man seated awkwardly on an elegant wooden bench. The dense, heavy ebony is adorned with intricate carvings of the globe. Each of the continents clearly delineated, the ornate relief work seemingly hand carved into the hard flesh of the Diospyros ebenum. The bench sits alone in a long, barren hallway that seemingly has no beginning and no end, extending as far as the eye can see.

He is perched uncomfortably on the edge of the polished surface, his hands braced firmly against his knees, as if holding every ounce of his being up against the crushing force of gravity below him, fighting the urge to float away and disappear into nothingness above.

His entreaty, fading to a soft whisper, is barely audible in the ambient noise of existence and the gentle whirring of the large, glowing orb suspended overhead. Its soft, warm light bathing half the bench, leaving the other half in darkeness.

There’s no memory of how he got there or how long he’s been sitting on the smooth surface. He has a vague recollection of coming through a door to his right. It was was marked one way, but his memory is foggy. He feels as though he has walked for years. It could very well have only been days. He can’t tell. It doesn’t matter. He shivers, but he isn’t cold. In this stark, sterile hallway, he feels alone. Lost.

The man looks up, pleading with his tired, sunken eyes. The sombre semi-circular moons that frame his lower eyelids darken further, coated by the downward shadows cast by his eyebrow ridges. His irises, expanded with the contraction of his pupils, catch a glint of the brightly flickering orb-light from above, briefly regaining some of their former lustre, a dark chocolate brown bordering on black. Just like the ebony bench. Within, small flecks of gold dance with life then quickly fade to nothing, the rippling echoes of a stone thrown into a pool of water until stillness returns.

“When, then?”

Her voice, while pleasant and friendly, is firm and clear. Unlike his statement, her question has no tremble or shake. Her reply is strong and practiced, as though she’s been through this negotiation before, in many forms, over many lifetimes. Always the same. A hint of amusement is palpable on her as she tilts her head ever so slightly to the right, her piercing grey eyes leveled directly on his, never breaking with his gaze. The beginning of a smile attempts to break onto her face.

“I’m not ready, yet.”

He sits up straighter. Upright. His voice rises along with his body, as though he’s mustered the last dredges of energy from his reserves to push those few words out. With conviction. A last ditch effort. But there isn’t enough energy, the well is empty, and his voice drops again on the last word. Falling. Softening. Failing him.

He’s no longer slouched over, having pushed his shoulders back and his head up for the initial drive. His eyes don’t leave hers, but they’ve changed again, weighted by a profound sadness, or perhaps realization of his current situation.

“When will you be ready?”

As her smile came to be, it was extinguished. A ghost. Did it ever really exist? Was it ever really alive? He can’t be sure.

Her script is polished and practiced. As though she knows what will come next, the carefully orchestrated sequence of asks and entreaties. This was not her first rodeo. She has been doing this for an eternity. For life.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not an easy question to answer, is it?”

He doesn’t expect an answer but sometimes Life surprises us.

“I don’t suppose so. I’ve been doing this for a long time and no one ever seems to be ready. They always say they have something left to do, you see. But you can’t stop it, it doesn’t work that way. It won’t matter how much more time I give you, there will always be something left undone, something left unsaid. There will always be unfinished business.“

He considers her words carefully, knowing she’s right. She’s always right. She has all the answers. She knows all the questions. She always has. He thinks back on his unfinished business, reflecting on all the things that he has left to do. Things undone. Words unsaid. The missed opportunities and untouched experiences. He will never get the chance again. He knows it’s over. The crushing weight of reality pushes down on him, pushes against him, from within. It’s overwhelming. The air suddenly heavy, thick. He struggles to breathe.

“I’m not ready.”

He says the words again, modified from the previous to be more definitive this time, for his benefit rather than for hers. His eyes are glistening now, and he feels the burning within them. The tears. He swore there wouldn’t be any. That was his promise all those years ago. He tries to fight them off. It doesn’t work. They come anyway. They always find a way. Slowly at first as he speeds up his blinking, trying in vain to ward the inevitable. His eyes widening as his jaw sets, the muscles contracting visibly. He is no match for them. No one ever is. They grow, gathering at the edge of his lower eyelids, threatening to spill out.  

 “I know. There aren’t many who are.”

This time her voice is softer, kinder. Empathetic. Maybe it was the unmistakable sheen in his eyes. She is tempted to reach out and place her hand on his shoulder, which has slumped again. To comfort him as he sits on the bench. But she doesn’t move. Her aloofness often considered cold and uncaring. It’s not her place. It never has been. It’s how Life has always been.

Her eyes, much like his, with flecks dancing in the flickering light of that hallway that has no beginning and no end, look at him earnestly. Her face is calm, conveying infinite knowledge and wisdom. She understands that this is how it is. This is how it must be.

“It’s time.”

The gathered moisture in his eyes hits a critical mass and breaches the banks of his eyelids. She watches as the tears cascade down his cheeks freely. Each one silently following the one before it, ultimately breaking off and forging its own path. Creating its own life when ending that of its predecessor. Reflexively, she reaches out, and using the tip of her thumbs, gently wipes them away, her fingers cradling his jaw. A wet trail glistens on the crest of his cheekbones, highlighting the defined arch.

He doesn’t seem to notice. Lost in the moment. Numbed by Life.

Wordlessly, he stands from the beautifully carved bench, smoothing out his wrinkled clothing. Her hands return to her sides. He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there since she spoke those words. It feels like a lifetime.

Looking around, he notices that the hallway isn’t actually barren, that the walls aren’t empty. There are incredible images etched into every surface, all illuminated by the glowing orb up above. Vast mountain ranges and raging rivers teeming with life. Animals of every kind and description. Plants and insects. The flora and fauna of the world. And all those familiar faces. He was so caught up with Life that he missed out on the beauty that surrounded his as he sat on that bench.

“It’s time.”

She repeats herself more firmly this time, leaving no room for doubt.

He starts and gives her a thin smile, his lips pulled taut. She hears a soft sigh escape as his shoulders rise and fall. With one last loving look at her, that sadness clouding his eyes, he turns on his heels and walks down the never-ending hallway, in the opposite direction from where he came in.

She’s right. It was time. He knew it. It was inevitable. He was resigned to it, like everyone eventually is. It had come. His time. Life had the final say.

He walks with purpose, head held high, shoulders set. He doesn’t look back. It’s too late for that now. She watches him go as he leaves her.

She turns and walks in the other direction. For the first time, like every time, she realizes that maybe she’s the one leaving.

She steps the wrong way through the one way door.

The tears come back. Trailing down her face.

Trailing down his. As he wails into the bright white light.

Unfinished business.

Photo by Kat J on Unsplash

In my pursuit of science, I believe I’ve discovered where raisins come from…

Through my own recent experience, I have no doubt that they come from the unreachable, deepest, darkest recesses found only under rarely moved refrigerators.

I come to this conclusion, not randomly but through my own experience and scientific mind. I dropped a plump, juicy grape, and it immediately rolled under the fridge, never to be seen again.

Mind you, it was dropped nowhere near the fridge, but made its way there. A silent but purposeful meandering along some unseen path, drawn to some unknown beacon, much like Mothra is drawn to a flame.

Following its nature.

I can only conclude that once this globule of goodness desiccates, it will be harvested in the middle of the night by erstwhile garden gnomes, and be re-purposed for nefarious means.

Like pretending to be a chocolate chip.

Photo by Nacho Domínguez Argenta on Unsplash

This is part 5 of the start of my epic journey to China.

If you haven’t familiarized yourself with Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, or Part 4 those are probably good places to start. If you click on each on the links above, you’ll be taken directly to the respective pages.

It’ll fill you in on the back story, but as with many things in life, it’s your choice. Knowledge can be power, and overwhelming.

The Next Day

It’s now January 4th, 2018 and day two of my Beijing airport adventure continues. I was able to fall asleep fitfully here and there, waking up every few minutes to change positions on the hard, resin bench that was my bed for the night.

Now you may be wondering why I didn’t get a hotel or push for accommodations. If you’d been through what I’d just been through to get my luggage, the odds of coming out on top to find a place for the night would have been less likely.

If I were any place where I could communicate with the airline staff outside of a few basic words, I absolutely would have made them to accommodate me, forced them to find me a place to rest my weary head.

At that point it was late, I was tired, and the outcome almost certainly wouldn’t have been any different.

Life Lesson

There are times when we learn to pick our battles. And times to just let it go. This was a time to let it go.

So I accepted my fate and hunkered down with the other lost souls of Beijing International Airport. I woke up from my last nap around 3 am, bright eyed and bushy tailed. Or at least as bright eyed and bushy tailed as one could expect anyone to be after sleeping on what amounted to rigid slabs of hard material, for 10 to 15 minutes at a time at most.

As an aside, the red neck pillow proved its worth did come in handy.

A well-informed gentleman at the information counter the night prior had let me know that there were indeed earlier flights to my destination, departing at 7:30 am. He couldn’t tell me anymore than that but said the agents from my airline would be on duty at 4 am.

So guess where I ended up at 4 am? Waiting. And yearning.

First in Line.

The agents didn’t show up until 5 am. Apparently the self serve kiosks open 4 hours before the first flight, however the counter agents only start 2 hours before. My flight ticket didn’t allow any self-serve options.

The big benefit to waiting since 4 am – I was the first one in line when the early bird agent had fired up his computer and was ready to go at 5:30 am.

Surprisingly, I wasn’t the first one served.

Some young dude cut in front of me and went directly to the agent as he was setting up. Bypassing me, the only person in the line. The fucker. He and the raisin both, cut from the same cloth. He actually swerved through the human corral gate system that ostensibly was supposed to keep things orderly.

This seems to be the Modus Operandi for lining up and going up to counters here. While I had not quite mastered the Chinese Art of Queuing, I was better prepared. I closed any future gap and only the one interloper was able to get by me.

I still wanted to punch him in the back of the head (the soft, friendly punch of displeasure – you know exactly what I’m talking about, even if you won’t admit it out loud).

The only thing stopping me again was the real life fear of being arrested and shuttled off to an unknown gulag work camp never to be seen again, and without access to my special sulphate-free, curl enhancing hair care products.

Words Have Power.

Virtually infinite power. They can uplift. Or they can decimate.

Always remember this.

On discussion with the man behind the counter, with just a few simple words spoken in halting English, he crushed my hopes and dreams. That’s how powerful his words were – like a razor sharp katana slicing through what little resistance remained inside me. Torn to shreds. A silent, sharp intake of my breath. My shoulders slumped.

Defeat.

At 5:30 am Beijing time, he told me in no uncertain terms that the first available flight to my final destination 900 km away departed at 1 pm.

Another 8 hours at the airport. After already having spent 10 there. With no company other than my own self-pity and desolation.

Lucky the power of positive thinking popped into my greasy head. For every downside, there is often an upside. It may not follow Newton’s 3rd law and the upside may not be equal in its opposition, but it still existed.

With that in mind, guess who was the first guy to check in for that 1 pm flight?

You got it – This Guy!

Earliest Check In

I left nothing to chance and went early to get checked in. With that simple action I created 7 hours and 45 minutes of buffer. Good thing too…

Apparently the luggage people weren’t supposed to take my luggage tags off. Fortunately, this was an easy enough fix. New tags printed. Luggage loaded onto conveyor belt. Things were finally going my way.

I went to the security area, where the staff, under the watchful eyes of the heavily armed soldiers, patted all the important bit thoroughly and tenderly. I made it through with inordinate amounts of time to spare.

Well before my flight was to board, I made my way to the boarding gate and waited there with my phone plugged in to the convenient charging station located between seats.

Apparently this was a popular flight as the area soon filled up with people. A lot of people. It was good thing I got there early otherwise I would have had to be sparring in my use of technology – the plug outlets were limited.

This also made sense as to why it had been so difficult to get an earlier flight. The agent from this morning really wasn’t against me, there actually weren’t any seats available. It wasn’t a conspiracy against me, after all.

My Plane

Looking out the massive bay windows, I watched as my plane pulled up to gate D14.

There is always something awe-inspiring about seeing a large metallic vehicle lumbering up, knowing that this marvel of engineering was in the air.

Flying. Like a bird without flapping wings.

As the crowd of people deplaned, I watched them all exit, making up stories about each of their journeys in my mind, wondering if any of it was real. Business traveler. Visiting relatives. Connection to a faraway tropical destination. Missed flight and re-booked. Who knows, but it certainly did help pass the time.

Boarding.

Now if you’ve never been to the Beijing international airport, let me tell you – it’s a big ass place with a lot of people. Like an ant hill with constant activity. Motion. Constant. Dizzying almost.

The boarding gate was no different. Except it suddenly felt different.

It was past the start of our boarding time. My first thought was that the plane is being prepped for turnaround. It’s being groomed and cleaned. I know airlines take that seriously. The last thing they need is an Instagram pic or an angry tweet about the soiled nappy that someone found in the magazine holder. Or how all internal surfaces are teeming with deadly bacteria and viruses.

Suddenly, a large number of the people sitting in my boarding area rose up in unison and began to line up at the gate. While in most cases this would be a good thing, this felt off because they were lining up at D13, the conjoined gate.

The Question

I followed suit, but something deep inside compelled me to go up to the gate agent and ask the question I didn’t want to ask.

It was a silent question as I merely showed her my boarding pass with my flight info plainly printed.

Then the words. Those powerful words. Crushing.

“No.”

And the head shake. Side to side. There was no mistaking the two in combination.

She named a city I couldn’t decipher, but I knew it wasn’t the city I was heading to. It was not my final destination.

A babble of words tumbled out of my mouth. All in English. Rapid fire. Words slurring. Falling over each other in their haste to exit. To deconstruct the reality. I had regressed to the same guy that was on the airplane last night, unwilling to believe there were no more chicken available. Only seafood.

She looked at me blankly.

And spoke just a few more words. Powerful words.

“No. Going [Name of Chinese City I couldn’t understand].

More gibberish from me. Babbling. Questions with no answers. No hope of answers. More of my words. Impotent. Powerless.

She turned away from me to continue boarding the passengers who were at the right place, at the right time. To do her job. I could feel all the eyes on me. Quizzical. Questioning. Annoyed. Pitying. They too were making their stories of me in their minds. Just like I had done earlier.

In a fog, I stepped away from the boarding counter, carry-on in tow.

Sinking Heart

There was that feeling in the pit of my stomach. If I hadn’t been party to the previous events in the past 20 hours or so, I wouldn’t have known what that sensation was, what it represented.

This time, it was stronger. More insistent. Foreign.

Like me being here. In China. In Beijing. At D14. A foreign man in a foreign land.

In what I can only imagine as coming across as crazy man of the jungle confronting civilization that has disturbed him, I set myself upon the roughly half dozen people still sitting in the D14 boarding area.

I approached each one, shakily extending my boarding pass which clearly stated my destination, the time and the gate, D14.

At each one, I was met with that negative head shake. Side to side. They didn’t understand what I wanted. They didn’t understand what set off the crazy in me.

No English.

The beads of sweat built up on my furrowed brow, and soaked my shirt underneath the winter jacket I refused to remove in the heavily chilled airport air. The short intakes of breath, my panting, the heaving of my chiselled chest. What they couldn’t see was my pounding pulse, elevated, rapid, unyielding, or the incredible uptick in my blood pressure, pushing against the insides of my head, my brain, my being. A raging river. Ready to overcome its banks.

In each of their eyes I could see it.

They wanted to help but didn’t know how.

Though we were in the same place, at the same time, we were all a world apart.

Meet the Saviour.

He was the last one, sitting farthest away from the boarding gate. He was quite a bit older than everyone else I had approached so far. An elderly gentleman likely in his 70s. I had already counted him out in my mind, stereotyping him as unlikely to be of assistance, but in desperation, I went up to him anyway.

I showed him my boarding pass.

He looked up at me with kindness in his eyes. Or maybe that was imagined. Maybe it was fear. What a sight I must have been.

Whatever I saw became instantly irrelevant when he spoke 3 simple words. In English. Powerful words.

“10. D10. Change.”

FUCK ME.

The boarding gate had changed and I had no clue.

I was at D14. My new gate was at D10. Only 4 gates away.

Remember, this is not a small airport. This is not a small distance. Usain Bolt had nothing on me. Arms and legs pumping. Blazing fast.

I Saw the Sign.

Through the wind-caused tears in my eyes, I saw it up ahead in bold. D10. My gate.

Then realization struck. There was no line. I didn’t see any agents at the desk. This was not a good sign. Not a good sign at all.

Looking out the window, I saw my plane. That magnificent piece of machinery that defies gravity. The one I should be on. The passenger walkway retracted.

This was an even worse sign.

For the second time in about 10 minutes, the unthinkable happened. My heart sank, again. This time accompanied by panic. A soul encompassing panic. Unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.

I started rushing around looking for anyone who could help me. No one. This is what isolation feels like. This was diabetes personified, but instead of starvation in the midst of plenty, it was isolation.

The Second Saviour.

In my wild-eyed frenzy, I stumbled upon another older man, this one a member of the airport cleaning staff. Stooped over, he looked at me as the words spilled chaotically from my mouth. He didn’t speak any English but lucky for me, distress is universal – he knew, he could tell, that I needed help. He went out of his way, stepped away from his work, and walked me to an info booth, speaking to me in Mandarin the whole time. Softly. Gently. Comforting. Trying to wrap me in his soothing words like a baby swaddled in sheepskin.

The woman at the info both, like most of the people I’d interacted with at this time, only knew a few words of English, said that the plane was gone, that I can’t board, that I would have to go back to the other terminal again and re-book on another flight.

At least that’s the gist of what she said in very few words.

I walked in the direction she pointed to return to the other terminal but couldn’t see where I needed to go to get back on the return train. I ended up back at the info booth. It was as though I was stuck in groundhog day, stuck in an infinite cycle of repetition. A negative feedback loop. Trapped.

Insanity

After a couple of repeating circuits (funny how under heavy stress we do the same things over and over again, expecting different results…), I finally understood what the woman had been trying to say – I had to take the lift down, and then down again, to get to the shuttle

When I got to the bottom, I didn’t recognize the area as the shuttle train area, so I found a security guard and used Google translate to type in “missed flight”. She understood and pointed out the door to buses. Apparently it was shuttle buses to get back to ticketing from here. On the way to this terminal, it had been a shuttle train.

I got on the first bus while it waited to fill up. I wanted it to hurry, but as always when you’re in a rush, the world isn’t. Stop signs. Red lights. It waited. And waited.

Finally, after an eternity of waiting, of sitting with those feelings, we departed for the terminal. When we arrived at the baggage pick up area, I again found a security guard and asked for directions, since I still had no idea where I was and didn’t recognize any of the signs. This time I understood a bit better – I had to go up to the 4th floor to the ticketing area, and this time back directly to the Air China duty agent.

Communication Success

He spoke English.

I explained my situation and he started to say they would re-book me for tomorrow afternoon. The power of words again.

This was the point where I was on the cusp of one of those epic airport meltdowns. The ones you read about in the news, the ones where YouTube videos show people acting the fool. The ones that sometimes end in tragedy.

If you’ve ever wondered why people have them, I feel like I have a small idea of how it happens. How otherwise reasonable people end up doing unreasonable things. The snap. The break from reality.

I took a deep breath and slowed my breathing rate. My eyes, certainly blood shot, locked on his. I spoke slowly and carefully and measured my words.

A Little Bit Crazy

My voice, quiet, still came out with a jagged edge I didn’t or wouldn’t have recognized.

“Sir, I’ve been here since yesterday evening, because of a missed connection due to your flight coming in late, you didn’t get me a hotel, I’ve barely slept in 36 hours, and couldn’t get on any earlier flights. I was waiting at the departure gate for an hour and half before the flight and the gate was changed. There was no way for me to know. I need to get to my destination today.”

The red, hot burning behind my eyeballs welled up. Tunnel vision. My teeth hurt from clenching my jaw so hard.

Everything except the duty agent blurred from my consciousness.

He sensed my desperation. Or took pity on me. Or just wanted to avoid the confrontation that would have ensued with this unkempt man, his hair in a slovenly, greasy ponytail, his vacant eye, sunk in deep into the sockets from obvious lack of sleep.

“OK, we will get you on the 2:30 pm flight.”

It was 1:30 pm at this time. He directed me to the special counter for people with close departures. That agent was able to find my luggage and have it directed onto my new flight. And then I was off.

I ran. Boy did I fucking run. My backpack and carry on bag digging into my shoulders. My lungs burning as I don’t train cardio. I didn’t care. I was going to make that flight.

Having just gone through security not even an hour earlier, I was a pro: took everything out. Every camera lens, every battery, every thing that had slowed down the process the last time.

I found my gate and immediately confirmed it with the counter agent. There would be no mistakes this time.

Nature’s Call

As you’ve probably noticed, I never once discussed toileting.

There hadn’t been time. There had been too much stress. And it had been a long, long time since I had peed. Was it worth it? Could I chance it? My bladder wasn’t really giving me a choice, so I found the nearest facility to give my bladder peace.

It couldn’t have been more than 5 minutes total time when I returned and they’d already started boarding. As I joined the line, I pulled out my phone and sent a quick message letting my party know I would see them on the other side.

I had a window seat right next to the emergency exit. I put on my special red neck pillow, pulled it tight, and closed my eyes. My body was finally able to shut down.

I woke up as the wheels touched down on the runway a couple hours later.

After nearly 40 hours since I’d left my home, I’d made it.

Final destination.

Photo by Tom Pumford on Unsplash

This post is a continuation of my epic adventure to China. If you haven’t familiarized yourself with Part 1, Part 2, or Part 3, those are probably good places to start. If you click on each on the links above, you’ll be taken directly to the respective pages.

It’ll fill you in on the back story, but as with many things in life, it’s your choice. Knowledge can be power, and overwhelming.

Touchdown 2: Beijing

It’s 21:55 local time in Beijing and I’m sitting at a table experiencing my first Chinese Starbucks after shoveling my face full of a Thai Express Chicken and Cashew bowl (I was most certainly catabolic before ingesting the protein), as noted above.

Decaf Tall Mocha. I’ve been off coffee for a few weeks now, and haven’t had the urge to have any so I’m keeping it going. This may have been a bad idea in hindsight.

Since you’re probably the smart, observant type of reader, you almost certainly noticed that I wrote that I’m still in Beijing. And you probably thought to yourself, wait, knowing his itinerary, he should have landed at his final destination of Changchun at least a couple hours ago.

[author’s note: you actually wouldn’t have known that because I didn’t post up my actual time-based itinerary anywhere – you don’t need to feel bad that you don’t care about me enough to know these things in real life.]

Yup. Still here in Beijing.

As always the adventure continues.

At the time of takeoff from Montreal to Beijing, I wasn’t aware of it, but we were delayed. There was an extra long line at the aircraft de-icing shower preceded by some general airline delays and runway traffic which pushed our arrival to about 18:30 local time.

While we still made great time, it wasn’t great enough.

At 18:40, I was still in the process of deplaning. And by deplaning I mean joining the mad rush of everyone jumping into the aisle and rushing to empty the overhead bins, before the plane had even come to a full stop.

My connecting flight departed at 18:40 pm.

Based solely on our landing time, and the fact that we would likely not get off the aircraft for another 15 or 20 minutes, unless miracles exist, my connecting flight would be gone for sure.

Reality check, miracles didn’t exist.

I had missed my flight and so much more.

Next flight, easy right?

Through text communication with my contacts, I found out there was a flight at 20:05. Looking at the current time, and the rebooking process, the chances of making that one, not even close.

Now this is where being a foreign man in a foreign land comes in to play.

Hide and Seek

I hit up at least 5 or 6 Air China counters, along with numerous staff with identifying badges complete with Air China lanyards, airport security, and any general airport people I could see, to try to figure out where my luggage would be. No one could tell me. Or could understand me. Or both.

For the record, my Mandarin is about 1 phrase: shi shi. Unfortunately not a phrase that could help me out in my current predicament.

The big problem, you see, was that I was told my luggage was originally checked straight through to my final destination. But because I didn’t make that flight, neither did my luggage. And in order to re-book, I’d need my luggage with me. I was sent to various carousels, various counters and at almost every one of them I was sent elsewhere.

This felt like a real life version of dealing with North American telecom providers and their help lines. Flipped from person to person, having to repeat the same story only to be shuffled to someone else where the process starts over. This time it was in person.

Finally, on being sent to the Air China Duty Agent, who astutely pointed out that my early flight had already left and that I’d missed it, he said I need to go to a specific counter to pick up my luggage.

K16. Probably the first real, strong, solid lead.

Salvation at K16

There was one elderly woman in front of me in a wheelchair being assisted by the staff. I was first in line after her. Or so I thought, because as soon as that woman was being wheeled away, about 4 or 5 people pushed past me and rushed the agent at the desk. They didn’t care about the yellow line with the two feet painted on the ground that clearly said “Stay behind yellow line”.

For the record, so you know, I was behind that line.

Not to be outdone by the unfairness of it all, I pushed myself up to the counter, using my pointy elbows to advantage, trying to hold my ground. The agent ended up assisting about 3 people who had originally been behind me, who had disobeyed the yellow line. The non-rule followers. They knew how to be louder, bolder, and more insistent.

When in Rome…

I took my cues from them and made sure the counter agent saw my ticket as I left the safety of that yellow line, which I was just as rudely shoving in his face as the others, waving it to and fro. Knowing the futility of using my words, I did, however, gesticulate silently, Chaplinesque.

Another gentleman, who had tried to push past using his larger frame, couldn’t quite get around me based on how I’d positioned my body beside the other people who had been able to move quicker than he had.

It was at that point the agent realized that I had been in line before all the people who were now crowded well into his personal space, or that I was the only one not yelling angrily at him in Mandarin (probably because I didn’t know what to yell?).

He chose at that moment to assist me. Sugar vs. vinegar. I was the sugar. Brown sugar.

The larger guy behind me LOST HIS SHIT, along with his travel companion to a much lesser degree. He voiced his displeasure in his outdoor voice and in no uncertain terms. It was a sight to behold in the relative stillness and quiet of late night at the Beijing International Airport.

And while I couldn’t tell exactly what he said, it was definitely not nice. There are certain tones of voice that don’t require translation. The meanings are understood. The agent, for a brief instant, lost his cool and responded in kind.

That only irked the man behind me more.

The Rage Rising.

I could feel the rage rise up. Intense. Seething. I could feel his fury. It matched the sound.

He started slamming his ticket in front of the agent on the desk, aggressively reaching over my right shoulder. Slapping the counter repeatedly with it. His body tightly pressed against mine from behind, the big angry spoon. There was no warmth or comfort there.

I could sense the spittle, as if in slow motion, dropping from his ever-flapping maw, coating me, my recently washed tresses, and silently tapping their displeasure as they landed on my shoulder, my back. Droplets visible on the counter in their delicate dome-like form, held together by the incredibly elegant forces of adhesion and cohesion.

To Punch or Not to Punch?

That is the question…

Being the foreign man in the foreign land, I just kept my mouth shut, and my iron fists un-clenched. I resisted the ingrained urge to shove the guy off my back, which it felt like he was crawling up on.

Literally.

He was tight against my back, pressing me against the counter edge, the only thing stopping my insides from being contused and compressed were my arms braced against the frame, well trained from years of isometric holds and various horizontal presses.

SNAP.

On one final slam on the counter, the agent picked up the big angry spoon’s ticket and threw it back at him. The rage evident. I’m fairly certain it wasn’t that action that shut the man up, but the words that accompanied it – because he settled down instantly while still cursing, albeit more quietly and less aggressively. He glowered at me every so often.

The agent, in that moment, had pulled his power card.

I’m almost certain of it. The agent turned back to the task at hand of tracking down my wayward goods. He hopped on the phone, and in a few moments wrote something on the back of my baggage claim tags.

I was given direction to a special luggage claim area. My stuff would be delivered there.

H40. More salvation.

Off I went to the oversized baggage area. After using Google translate to confirm that I was indeed in the area where missing baggage could be reclaimed, I waited. And waited. And waited.

After almost an hour and half, I left my stoic post in H40 and went back to my friend the agent at K16. After explaining to him that my luggage was still AWOL, he picked up the phone again and did his magic, again.

No Joy.

He looked up at me, and I could tell he was waiting for me to lose it, preparing himself for the onslaught of vitriol and anger and frustration. From the few moments I’d spent around him, I feel as though he’s in one of those customer service positions where one would need to develop a very thick skin.

He was indeed a baggage handler.

Lost baggage in one way, and found baggage in another.

He confirmed that my luggage was indeed somewhere in the Beijing airport. But couldn’t tell me exactly where. He said it should be on its way to H40 and that all I could do is wait.

“Shi shi”.

And with those two words, I returned to my solitary post at special area H20.

Which also happened to be where my back-riding, spittle-flinging buddy had also been waiting.

All I was hoping for, all I needed to set things right, was to get my stuff before he got his. Karmic retribution, if that’s your sort of thing.

I didn’t have to wait long. Another 15 minutes (after waiting almost 3 hrs since landing, 15 mins is just 1/12th so no biggie) and there they were.

Now remember earlier how I said that next flight was at 20:05, well it was past 21:30 now so that flight had long ago departed as well.

What I hadn’t mentioned was that the next flight out was 12:55, tomorrow.

And that adventure will be saved for another time.

Photo by Mantas Hesthaven on Unsplash