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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

This post is a continuation of my epic adventure to China. If you haven’t familiarized yourself with Part 1 and Part 2, 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.

Catabolic. No Protein.

A few moments later, another flight attendant came by to offer me an extra bonus tray. At first my heart soared: they found me a chicken dish, one that had been hidden in the heart of the aircraft galley. But, alas, it was only another tray of the sides – to replace the delicious airline chicken entrée that didn’t exist anywhere but in my hungry mind.

Perhaps she took pity on me, having seen my crumpled visage, etched with the thousand sorrows that is an empty belly soaring thousands of feet in the sky. Or perhaps, her training in warding off the hanger had warned her of potential threat. I would never know.

I took the second tray gratefully, acknowledging her kindness. What it lacked in heft from the missing entrée, the tray made up in effort, albeit effort that would never fill the void left by the chicken I’ll never have. That hollow hydrochloric acid filled hole of disappointment just deep to my navel. Two soft sounds escaped my lips, my mama had taught me well.

“Shi shi”

Devious Interlopers

The moment I unwrapped the new tray, exposing the plump, curvaceous bun, I thought to myself, forget the intermittent fast, I’m going to carb load instead. This is the power of metabolic flexibility. Unencumbered by only one dieting style, I could freely choose the path I wanted. This was true freedom.

The buns were warm and soft. They melted the butter on contact. The salads, while containing raisins hidden among the foliage and chickpeas, were pretty good as well. Only because I was able to pick out all those vile little buggers thanks to the thousands of dollars I had spent almost a decade ago on laser eye surgery. As life does, it just proved to me you may have to wait, but you will see the value in some of your long ago decisions.

Except one little fucker.

It snuck in and assaulted my taste buds. But with a quick ‘Pfffth’ towards the first class cabin, problem solved.

In this case, I went for distance, not height, knowing the overhead bins had the potential to cause ricochet return fire. The risk was too great. The cake was soft and moist – though not chocolate, it was pretty tasty nonetheless (it was not seafood flavoured and didn’t have raisins, really that’s all that mattered in that moment).

The Flight Continues.

It’s now 5 hours that we’ve been in the air. The fancy LCD screen firmly affixed to the back of the seat ahead of me, sharply angled downward due to the recline of the seat back, enveloped my crotch in its faint blue glow in the quiet, fart filled darkness of the airplane cabin, the time to destination alternating in the top right corner between itself and the local time at origin.

Only about 7.5 hours to go.

I’ve watched one movie already, played one game of black and white, and will soon start another movie.

It’s at this point I’ll pause my writings and pick up again if anything interesting should occur.

Thanks for reading, dear reader. Knowing you’re here with me as I relive this big adventure will make it more palatable for me.

[author’s note: these posts were crafted from the in vivo, real-time notes and musings of our protagonist while on the trip itself, this is totally the reason for all grammatical errors, typos, syntax miscues etc]

Photo by Mai Moeslund on Unsplash

The following is Part 2 of 5. Read Part 1 Here. The other parts to follow over the next week or so.

Perhaps, with my words, I may assist other non-travelers in their own journeys. Or perhaps not.

Only by reading, and heeding, will you find out.

The second leg – The long leg.

There was 13 hours of flying ahead of me. The longest I’d ever been on an airplane in my life. Trapped. Enclosed. Essentially immobile. The longest I’ve been away from a ‘safe’ restroom. There was no other option, so I made my peace.

I had been told by my more well-traveled friends to seek an aisle seat.

They had advised me that this vaunted position facilitated one’s ability to stave off those pesky DVTs as well as future emboli, and further allowed easy egress for restroom breaks when one’s bladder or bowels forced the issue. Which was a certainty in the next 13 hours.

Unfortunately for me, it was not to be.

Madame Fortune would not gaze lovingly down upon my countenance with her soft, chocolate eyes, bathing me in the deep love and compassion she carried safely in her soul for a novice traveler like myself.

Having had no hand in the booking process or setting up the flight ticket, I had no prior ability to choose my seat. In fact, there wasn’t even an option to complete an online check-in or even to upgrade seats, if I were inclined to live large and make it rain.

My boarding pass didn’t lie. 52A. Another window seat. Just like the flight before, but this one for 13 hours. Ugh.

I found my seat and organized my carry on items. The plane filled up quickly, the crew brisk and efficient, as though they had done this before many times. The two seats beside me remained empty.

No one was coming my way…

That deep, secret feeling of joy welled up inside me. I let myself revel in it, just a little. I didn’t want to get carried away, let that feeling grow too big only to be crushed later.

Could it be? Could I have the whole row to myself?

As you likely guessed, I did not.

All the seats filled up. Including the two formerly empty ones beside me. Good thing I was smart enough not to let myself feel too much joy earlier. It would have been devastating. It’s much easier to have not had than to have had then had taken away. At least this way, it was only mildly disappointing.

Pinned against the window seat, knowing that for 13 hours every time I required an exit, I would be disturbing the people beside me, I settled in. It was what it was. In the end, we were 30,000 feet in the sky, traveling to the other side of the world.

Still fucking amazing. Every single time.

Counting Sheeps.

With that thought, I wrapped up my neck in my brand-new, bright red sleep supporting choker that my good friend Rumu had ordered for me using her magical Amazon Prime, and shut my eyes.

To my new seat mates, it probably looked like there was some element of auto-erotic asphyxiation as I looped that band tightly around my throat, barely cutting off the air supply, achieving that nice fuzzy light headedness we all enjoy a little, sometimes.

With a content smile softly settling on the chapped, cracked corners of my mouth, the result of failed hydration attempts with Coke Zero, I shut my eyes and thought to myself how this device was working exactly as promised, much better than those useless U-shaped neck pillows.

The weariness and stress of international travel, the ever-present fear of missing flights, and the insanely early morning wake-up to check and double check everything before the journey departure finally caught up to me.

Respite. My eyelids heavy, I let them fall, turned off my mind, and slept.

I woke up well-refreshed with absolutely no neck stiffness or pain thanks to the fancy neck pillow, brought to consciousness by the low rumble of the meal carts being pushed through the narrow aisles. Clickity-clack. The timing was impeccable, as on my awakening my belly rumbled in hunger. The effect of missed sour patch kids, for sure.

I could make out the quiet, hushed tones of the flight attendants asking the passengers for their choice of meal.

“Would you like the chicken or the salmon?”

As the flight attendant arrived at our row, she spoke in Chinese to the couple beside me. They responded in kind and both received their trays. They were having the salmon. It was my turn now. I looked up at her, my still cracked-mouth already forming the words, but she cut me off before I even had a chance.

It’s like she knew. But she actually didn’t.

“We only have the salmon left”

I broke a little. The tiniest of cracks inside my fortress deep and mighty, to match those on my parched lips.

I don’t like seafood. At all. In any way. In any style. Any type. No you can’t convince me otherwise. Just like everyone tries.

Something strange happened. It’s was as though I didn’t understand her, an epic misunderstanding. Panic welled up inside and spilled out of me, coating my words in their thick, tell-tale grime. It was quite embarrassing really.

“I’ll have the chicken.”

“No sir, we only have the fish left.”

“So there’s no more chicken?”

My voice had risen a few octaves. The panic even more apparent, more viscous. She looked at me with those knowing eyes. Compassionate, but firm.

“No sir, we only have salmon left, do you want salmon?”

“No thank you. Are you sure there’s no more chicken?”

It didn’t compute. I couldn’t fathom, couldn’t comprehend. The fog, unshakeable. How could it be? I shook my head. How could this happen? How could this happen, to me?

“Sorry sir, but there’s only the fish.”

Acknowledging defeat.

Our eyes met again, mine defeated and broken, hers with kindness masking the exasperation of having to deal with flight passengers on a regular basis, with their problems and concerns and demands.

She handed me the tray, minus the fish entrée.

There was a chick pea and carrot salad. A soft, warm bun with a nice side pat of butter beside it and a small piece of cake to round it out. There on the bottom right corner of the platter was the empty rectangle of what could have been my chicken and rice. My entrée. Desired but unattainable. The curse of the sour patch kids had struck again.

My eyes affixed on that void, where my chicken should have been.

It was not to be.

Adapt.

This was the first big lesson. Adapt.

Life has a way of teaching you that things won’t always go your way. There are circumstance beyond your control. Roll with them. Take the punches in your face. Absorb them. You were never that pretty to begin with. Not pretty enough for the chicken. Make the best of what you got. With that in mind, I steeled myself for the hunger, that empty burning in the pit of my belly.

Sometimes, you just have to extend your intermittent fast.

Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash

This is the first part in a multi-part series of my travel to China last year, exactly a year ago to this day, January 2nd 2018.

This is a true story. Not simply based on one.

While parts of this story may have been disclosed in various ways over time, to various people, through various means, this is the whole thing, unabridged for you to use as you see fit.

As a lesson? A warning? Perhaps even a long-winded yarn to be disregarded until you too find yourself on a flight across the world, the searing pain of mental self-flagellation stinging as you think to yourself, I should have heeded the Wordonist.

It’s taken me this long to process the events of that period of my life. To build up the internal fortitude to come face to face again with the intense feelings and emotions that reviewing my initial notes and journal entries to put these words down, was sure to evoke.

The memories. Harsh. Jagged. Sharp.

Here they are, dear reader.

Takeoff.

It’s a couple days in to 2018 and things have started off on a different foot than usual.

As I write this, I’m tens of thousands of feet above the ground, safely encapsulated within a soaring metal carriage hurtling through the atmosphere at hundreds and hundreds of kilometres per hour.  That alone is an incredible, awe inspiring thought.

What a time to be alive, no?

Today marks the beginning of my roughly 5 week adventure in China – an opportunity that developed rather quickly over the past 3 weeks. In that time, I’ve probably felt a gamut of emotions and feelings that I haven’t felt for what seems like an eternity – stress, anxiety, loss of control – not that I’m perfect, but as you’ve undoubtedly gathered, I’m pretty damn close.

Over the past few years, I’ve lead a relatively structured life. I was in control of everything. I was the one responsible for making my daily decisions and making my choices. It was I, who was responsible for getting everything that needed to get done, done. I own and run my own business. I am in charge. It was just the way I like it.

My Napoleon syndrome was at ease. Because I was the Boss.

I’ve departed to meet up with the team, most of whom would have arrived prior to me; my flight itinerary robust, with stops in Montreal, followed by Beijing then finally arriving at my final destination of Changchung, in the Jilin province of China. 

As I sit here in the sky, I don’t know exactly where I’ll be staying but I do know that I’ll find out in roughly 20 hours.

I stand corrected.

19 hours and 35 minutes, to be precise – if all goes according to the e-ticket I have “tucked” safely into my ancient, nearly 5 year old Samsung Note 3 smartphone. It had the fancy stylus. Though rarely used, I liked that.

The last time I flew trans-oceanic was an eternity passed, so long ago that I don’t know whether I crossed the Atlantic or the Pacific ocean – hence the use of trans-oceanic. It was over 34 or 35 years ago. An adulthood ago, you might say. Enough time that I’ve grown quite a bit since then, though my friends may argue not much in height, only in paunch.

Being a novice flyer with that constant, nagging fear of missing flights or other such disaster, and also conveniently hitching a ride to the airport with a buddy on his way to work, I arrived with plenty of time to spare. Three and a half hours, in fact.

In my mind I kept considering my flight an international one with a suggested 3 hour pre-flight check in, but I soon realized that the first leg would still be considered domestic, as it was Toronto to Montreal, but that thought had slipped my overworked, anxious brain. I digress…

As one does when faced with excess time at the airport, and being but a mere economy class rider with no fancy lounge access, I bought stuff. Well, I bought one stuff – a Coke Zero.

If you know me, you may be wondering what got in to me at this point. I never imbibe in diet or calorie reduced beverages. That’s not my style. It’s never been my thing because, hell, I love the taste of sugar. And I’m perpetually on a “bulk”.  So more calories is always something I strive for, sneaking them in when I can.

However, this was one of those rare times that I used my brain and did that logic thing.

In this case, I knew I’d be on a plane, ideally snake free. I knew I’d be slowly dehydrating, much in the same way that raisins are made –take something beautiful like a grape, and turn it into something vile and disgusting, a shrunken, shriveled sack of it’s former glorious self.

I couldn’t let this happen to me.

So my mind knew I had to stay hydrated while at the same time minimizing my simple sugar intake. And as an added bonus, not rot my teeth (which, in reality, I could have just brushed as I made sure to pack my toothbrush and toothpaste for easy access in my carry on baggage, not to be confused with my personal baggage, which is heavier and also travels everywhere I go – knowing the difference here was the first step in upgrading my novice traveler status card to sophomore).

As I was walking up to the counter of the Relay station, those airport ubiquities that offer all the things you’d crave, want, desire, or need on any form of airplane travel, to pay the requisite King’s Ransom for the bottle of frosty Black Gold I held so gingerly, I saw them.

They called. They beckoned. They whispered my name in that siren call I’ve often fought so hard against in the treat aisle at the local grocery store.

“We are here”

“Look at us”

“Feel us, so soft, so tender, so juicy”

“We’re fresh, we’re colourful, we are just like you imagine us”

“Just like at the movies.”

Those fucking little sour patch kids.

I could feel their eyes fixed on me. Those beady indentations with their little sugared irises. Their expressions of joy and delight, entreating me.

Don’t fear, dear reader, I held strong.

Even after picking up the package. Even after feeling their comforting heft in my calloused, yet silky hands. Pressing into the package flesh, feeling the give of freshness, that telltale sign that their words held true, they were indeed fresh. Soft. Pliable.

In that instant, I could actually feel one of them in my mouth. Manipulated by my tongue, every taste bud experiencing sensory ecstasy. The mouthfeel a marvel of modern science, knowing that millions of dollars of research had been invested in that one delectable moment. Just like a Dorito’s crunch. An experience. The distinct flavour of green, washing over my taste buds as explosions of flavour cascaded, first around the border of my Homunculus’ exaggerated tongue, then in my psyche.

Sweet and sour.

It was electric. That connection.

This was a dangerous game I played. But I resisted, and let me tell you, I don’t know where I was able to summon that inner strength and discipline from. That incredible ability to just walk away.

I carefully hung the package back up on it’s metal hook. And walked away.

Fine. Since it’s just us, I’ll tell you my secret.

I had left my Amex Black card at home, and there was no way the limit on my regular Visa would have allowed me to put down that level of credit for such a small package. Airport candy is not cheap. And it’s worse when I know how much I could have bought that exact same package for at the grocery store. Or even the corner convenience store.

So in the end, after my large Brazilian-Canadian Icon Tim Horton’s hot chocolate and two, toasted everything bagels with generous dollops of herb and garlic cream cheese, I settled into a surprisingly comfortable chair at my departure gate, with just my Coke Zero and broken dreams of sour patch kids that never were – I remained childless.

Within no time, or just under 2 hrs, boarding was called and my journey was set to begin.

The first leg of travel was uneventful. Exactly the way one would hope a flight would be. With minimal delay due to frigid conditions and a minor pit stop for some casual de-icing, we were on our way to Montreal, just a hop, skip and zoom away.

Touchdown. The first one.

After what seemed like a blink of an eye (barely over an hour in flight speak), we touched down in even more arctic conditions in Montreal’s Pierre Eliott Trudeau International Airport (YUL). The layover in Montreal was going to be about twice as long as the flight to get there.

Upon deplaning and then reviewing my boarding passes, I realized that my next departure gate wasn’t printed on them. Having never been to YUL, I wandered my arrivals areas for a few moments before I found what I was looking for. Obviously it was the bathroom. Clean and well appointed, it was conducive to facilitating the call of nature.

As you’ll come to realize shortly, my biggest challenge with long duration air travel is not the air travel itself (I’m not a nervous flyer, and have no travel anxiety), but my aversion for airplane bathrooms.

In reality, it’s not just an aversion to airplane loos, I have an aversion to virtually every stranger bathroom I’ve come across. It’s my version of stranger danger. It’s been like this since I was a kid. I know I’m not the only one. Many of you likely suffer from the same affliction, calling events short to head home to the comfort of the known.

I can count on one hand the number of times I was able to take respite in the loos of high school. It was zero times. So I don’t even need a hand.

But lucky for me, I just had to pee, and in virtually every case, I can make that happen with just a little bit of focus and effort. Remember, I was a large hot chocolate and a bottle of Coke Zero in at this point. The goal of hydration achieved.

As I saw my reflection in the speckled bathroom mirror while washing my hands, I gave myself a little nod. An affirmation. Acknowledgement for a job well done thus far both as it pertains to flying and as it pertains to the use of the public washroom.

Apparently the guy washing his hands next to me thought I was nodding to him because in that instant, our eyes met and he gave me a nod, too.

It’s also possible I was mistaken. Though rare, it does happen on occasion. Perhaps he had heard me whispering words of encouragement to myself just a few moments earlier at the urinals.

“You got this buddy!”

“You can do it”

He left and there I remained alone again with my reflection, contemplating what was to come ahead. I pulled out my now disheveled ponytail and re-tied it. It took me 3 attempts and it ended up looking identical to the starting point, stray hairs escaping, flyaways knowing I too was about to flyaway.

With that thought in mind, I pulled the elastic loose and tried one more time.

Success. This one had at least 86.8% of my hair neatly packaged. It was good enough. Sometimes that’s all that we need: to be good enough.

I returned to the boarding area to bide my time. Lucky I went back as early as I did as they soon called on those passengers with Air Canada boarding passes to come up to the help desk and have those passes reissued with Air China, the airline operating the international portion of the flight.

This did, however, cause a slight blip in my plan. Initially I was just going to sit and wait patiently in the boarding area until the second flight was boarded. But because I was already up and moving, I noticed another Relay station just barely in the distance.

It called. And I answered.

Another Coke Zero. For fighting the raisining. And a package of Original flavour Jack Links beef jerky. Because we all know how important protein is for gains. I was still bulking.

After about another half hour or so, they called our flight and off we went to board.

Not a bad first leg for a novice flyer on a big adventure to China, I thought.

Therein lay my error. The mistake of ages. This was to be an epic adventure…

Photo by John McArthur on Unsplash

Some of you may recognize it from a past year, say, perhaps, 2017, but the words still hold true. If not truer still.

As 2018 draws to its inexorable denouement, dear reader, I leave you with this…

Thank you.

Thank you for having been here with me. In this space. My space. But not Myspace. In my small little corner of the web, inspired by Charlotte, but wholly by me. A budding wordonist practicing wordonism, deriving simple pleasures from letters affixed just so beside each other.

Thank you for having read those very words that I sometimes struggled to put down. That came out jumbled from my brain, defying the synaptic gymnastics that worked against their liberation. The resistance within.

For consuming the words that I used to try to give you an honest, forthright glimpse into my uncurated life. Unfettered. My real life. My simple life. Basically, my real simple life.

The words that I wrote for the voices in my head. For the voices in my bed. The soft, quiet ones. The loud, brash ones. Those that were stoic. Those that were staid. The ones that cajoled, and creeped, and cackled at all hours. Keeping me awake. Keeping me asleep. Simply keeping me. A kept man.

These words of mine that belie the inglorious battles I have faced this past year. And years before then. Big and small. Mountains and molehills. With one commonality. They are always epic in nature. Against nature. Au natural. Just like the way I sleep.

Battles against my own inner daemons. Even the fancy ones with the extra a. The ones I know we all have. That we are sometimes too afraid to share. Too afraid to give voice, and with that voice, life and power.

We are the same, dear reader, you and I.

Ashamed of the judgements, the hushed whispers in the shadows, in the dark. Or worse, in the light. That harsh white light that washes out my smoove chocolate skin tone. Muting me. Silencing me. While putting me in the spot light. The pointing and laughing, which we all know are sometimes acceptable independently, rarely acceptable together, and never together in the bedroom.

And the memories of 2017, not repeated in 2018, of losing inches. And that was just after losing 4 inches. Which doesn’t seem like much, but apparently people notice. People talk. People can be so cruel. Apparently every inch matters. See if I decide to cut my hair ever again…and I didn’t this year.

Then there are the legendary battles against the equally terrifying external daemons, both big and small, and sometimes smaller, like that time on Halloween, when we should all be so fortunate to amass great fortune in free candy…I would have won too, and been richer in those little Snickers and Mars bars, if that little fucker hadn’t called his mom over to save him…

In any case, the details don’t matter.

Isn’t that what we’ve learned again this year? Along with the past few years? That facts aren’t important? That we can make them up along the way, or ignore the truth as we see fit? Bending it to our will as a farrier forges the golden horseshoes for that lucky horse.

But what does matter is you. All that matters is you. You matter. And not just because you’re made up of atoms and molecules, or electrons, neutrons, and protons. It’s much deeper than that.

You being there for me. Sharing your time. Your precious time. The time you’ll never get back. And your precious attention. Of which I want it all. Every last bit. My Precious.

And I don’t know if I can express my gratitude clearly or plainly in a way that you’d understand how much it means to me. How much you mean to me.

Every one of you. Especially you.

Yes, you.

That we were given this chance to connect. To intertwine our lives and beings. Gorilla glued in place. To bondage in such a way that we couldn’t escape those precious moments that tied us together as we shared my words, my lessons, and sometimes my pictures in 2018.

Here’s to you and yours. And now ours.

I raise a toast. Slightly burnt, but generously coated in hypoallergenic nut butter to conceal the faint essence of stroke so as not to alarm you.

To our continued adventures. You and me.

To always learning lessons from life, loves, and libations.

To You.

Photo by Steven VanDesande Jr on Unsplash