I don’t know what time it is. I don’t know what day it is. I don’t even really know where I am.
The nice people next to me, a mom and her son who were returning to Guangzhou from a two month holiday spent traveling all over the US, tell me it’s Thursday. I wrote a long rambling piece on the plane but it’s awful and I think I’ll just leave it as a draft on my iPad. Nobody needs to read that. Not that anobody needs to read 99.99% of runkevinrun.com anyway… and that’s probably being conservative.
There was either a language barrier or a bureaucratic disconnect in the procedure for getting a Chinese 24 hour (or even a 72 hour) transit visa waiver.
The first woman I spoke to, dressed in a sash that I think said “Information” but may have said Miss Guangzhou 2015, directed me to lane 19, an LED sign proclaiming it the “special circumstances channel” at immigration. The woman there said I needed to go through the international connection’s lines… and so when I went back to where I started, Miss Guangzhou told me that, no, that woman was wrong and I needed to go through lane 19. I went back to lane 19 where a Scottish woman was having a meltdown as she had been directed back and forth just as I had been. I’m used to ugly Americans embarrassing me; it was odd seeing an ugly Scottish woman having a fit. It wasn’t like that was going to solve the problem.
What was going to solve the problem was a tiny office at the beginning of the queue for lane 19. This offshoot hovel housed immigration authorities who scrutinized passports, boarding passes, and forms to determine whether or not they’d let us out of the airport for an Eddie Murphyian half-quel. That’s a movie title reach for twenty four hours.
I had filled out forms and was waiting patiently outside before I finally screwed up the courage to ask the others waiting in the DMV-Ian holding area if they had just walked their forms in. They said they had and so I ambled into the tiny office and handed off my paperwork. I’m always freaked out to lose sight of my passport but what can you do? It’s either that or I would be spending the next 13 hours in the transit lounge.
As I waited outside in the pen, others arrived and I advised them to walk their paperwork in. Paying it forward like. But always with the caveat that I could be entirely wrong on how this whole thing worked. I’m not expert… I’m just muddling through.
About thirty minutes in and two guys near me were denied entry. They were from Spain and I don’t know if Barcelona had raised red flags for China. If that was the case, I wondered how Charlottesville… or Phoenix… or The USS John McCain… or Trump in general would do for me.
I chatted with some of my fellow Sartre No Exit passengers. They all were headed to Bali themselves; one guy was gong to build houses, one girl was going surfing, a couple was on a baby moon. I passed out my spare Guangzhou Metro Maps; maybe that printer is psychic. Maybe that printer can see the future… or at the very least can see what the world may not necessarily need but might find marginally useful when trapped in a bureaucratic holding pattern.
Eventually, after about 90 minutes, I was cleared and sent through lane 19. The woman at the desk, her face obscured with a surgical mask, didn’t seem to remember me; I wondered if she would remember Scottish McFreakout who was a few people behind me in line. I didn’t wait around to find out, my passport stamped and my papers all approved.
I’m used to exiting customs and coming upon a rogue’s gallery of local banking ATMs. I prefer getting cash that way as opposed to converting it. But as I exited the arrivals security zone, there was nothing. I mean, nothing. There were a couple of restaurants, and as I strolled down the length of the hall I came upon a baggage storage service. But no kiosks, no ATMs, no currency exchangers. I should’ve stopped at ICE in LAX.
The woman at the baggage storage facility took pity on me and let me pay in US dollars. And why wouldn’t she? She charged me a Shylockian conversion rate. But at least I could drop my heavier bag and get around the airport.
I found the metro station and even spotted an ATM on the upper floor. Heading up there, I was able to withdraw 400 yuan (roughly $60) to cover the metro, lunch, Coke Zeroes and admissions to any museums or sights I might find myself at.
Unfortunately, the metro dispenser only took five or ten yuan notes… and my ATM had spit out four crisp one hundred yuan notes. So I went in search of a convenience store to buy a bottled water and break the note. But much like the arrivals hall I originally found myself wandering in, there was nary a minimart in sight. I finally found one at the point farthest from the metro, in some dead end alley, and bought a bottled water for four yuan. The bottle, though sealed, felt like it had been filled with local tap water and resealed using a pocket lighter to melt the cap back in place. But it was cheaper than Evian and got me some Chinese equivalents of Alexander Hamiltons.
The half day tour recommendation was to hit the Chen Family Ancestral Temple and Local Folk Art Museum. It cost seven yuan for a one way token.
I was pleasantly surprised how empty the train was… turns out that’s because it was the beginning of the line. We quickly filled in like a collegiate phone booth stunt and when stopped at stations, the humidity and compact nature of our masses created a sauna. It was a long ride out to the Chen Family but relatively uneventful.
Even with the delays at the airport in getting my visa, I arrived at 8:15 am. The place didn’t open until 8:30 and I had visions of Amazing Race teams all converging on a location to even out the race because the venue wouldn’t be open until much later. Fifteen minutes wouldn’t have been so bad though it was raining, the last vestiges of a cyclone that had gone through town the previous few days.
Thankfully it didn’t last long, though when the rain stopped it was that classic tropical environment wherein it feels much more humid and hotter post precipitation. As for the building itself, it was founded in the late 19th century by all the surnamed Chens in the area, as a place to congregate or prep for exams or stay during festivals. Over the years, it developed into a cultural folk art museum. Was it the greatest thing I’ve ever seen? No. Was it worth ten yuan to wander about? Yeah. But I understood why the nice woman next to me on the plane was nonplussed when I told her I was headed there.
She was also underwhelmed in her enthusiasm for the pedestrian walkway. Having strolled there, I now know why. I had pictured something out of a food stall fever dream with street vendors galore jockeying for space and hawking their delicacies. What I got was a sort of open air mall vibe, the kind of thing you’ve find on 3rd Street Promenade in Santa Monica. I was early to be sure but still… it all felt so very… commercial? I had been told it was an old street in Canton but if this is an old street, they’ve done away with more of their cultural heritage than Los Angeles.
I selfie’d outside Pizza Hut but opted instead for the dim sum at Taotaoju Restaurant.
I ate way too much but that’s the trouble with dim sum for one; mistakes were made. And honestly I don’t know what half of the stuff I ordered was. And that may be for the best. Though I did know enough to avoid the chicken claws.
Only later did I realize the Restaurant cheated me and charged me for five dishes when I only had four. So I got screwed out of USD$1.75.
I guess I can live with that.