The Right Way on the Wrong Train

The washroom on the train to Xi’an was cleaner than I expected. Its steel sinks functioned, and a grated black floor was less grimy than other trains I’ve been on. In the next stall was a squat toilet, and the whole two-room facility smelled unsurprisingly of urine. Neither the toilet nor the washroom had a door.

I stared into it for several long minutes as the train rattled, then began its slow overnight trek from Beijing, China’s modern capital, to its ancient heart in Xi’an. The washroom seemed an awful place to spend my first night on a Chinese train.

I took the wrong train to Xi’an. I missed mine, the T55, which left at 4:50 p.m. The T231 left at 5:33 p.m., so I hopped that one. I still had to run to catch it. I was dripping sweat as I ducked on board. I knew it was the wrong train, but I flashed my pink ticket at the attendants who pointed me to car 12. No one checked what train I was supposed to be on until we were moving and I didn’t have a seat. A passenger about my age offered to help as I stumbled past him. He looked at my ticket and pointed to the other end. He spoke English with a heavy accent, but he was perfectly understandable. His English name is Kent. I walked to the far end of the car, finding every bunk occupied. Only then did anyone look closer at my ticket.

Kent returned. “Why are you standing?” he asked. I showed him my ticket, pointing to the train number. He offered to let me sit on his bunk while we sorted out what I should do. He thought I’d have to buy a new ticket, maybe pay for a hard seat in another carriage.

“I think this ticket is probably useless,” he said, but he offered to help mediate a solution. He found the attendant who had let me on the train, and after a brief exchange, returned with her.

She told me, through Kent’s translation, to stay in the empty bunk below Kent’s, “and maybe no one will come.” Don’t tell anyone or ask anyone else for help, she added. About an hour later, she gave me a plastic card assigning me to the top bunk in Kent’s compartment.

I didn’t sleep well that night. The train lugged and lurched forward, like a car with a faulty transmission. When we turned, I felt the cars tip and thought for sure we were about to derail. I imagined myself the next day telling a gripping survivor story to a TV news magazine as part of an overblown expose on the horrors of traveling by rail in China. I don’t pray often, but several times that night I whispered to no one in particular, “God, if you can spare a moment, maybe keep this train on its tracks a few more hours.”

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The Xi’an Adventure: A misguided journey into China’s ancient heart

At long last, here it is folks, the Xi’an adventure. This was my first real trip on my own in China, and it proved a good introduction to the Middle Kingdom. Starting with a missed train and ending with a nine-hour overnight climb up one of the country’s sacred Taoist mountains, this trip gave me more to grapple with than I could have hoped for. I’m breaking this up into three posts, just to make things more readable. What follows is Part I.

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Into the Lion Mouth

Well folks, I made it to Dalian, the “supermodel of Chinese cities,” as Frommer’s describes it. This is really a different kind of city, maybe a different kind of China.

I’ve been here three days now, and the place is starting to grow on me. My apartment (sort of a super-dorm) is on campus. I have a bedroom, a living room and a bathroom. My windows overlook the ocean.

The kitchen is across the hall and I share it with a few other teachers. On my first night, three Japanese teachers and one of their students invited me to eat with them. I dazzled them with my ability to use chopsticks.

I spent most of today walking around downtown, which is where this city really shines. Tall buildings, wide streets, grass, none of this feels like the China I saw in Beijing or Xi’an. I kept stretching my arms out just to enjoy the sensation of not bumping into anyone.

One of the odd things I’ve noticed here is how much I’m not an oddity. While I don’t speak Chinese, and that’s an issue when I try to interact with people, I can walk down the street completely unnoticed. In Beijing, and in Xi’an even more so, someone was always trying to sell me something. I learned very quickly that “hello” or “halloo” is a bad word and should be avoided. Here, I get none of that. No stares, no desperate vendors, no weird xenophobia.

Part of it, I think, is that Dalian has been so exposed to the outside world for so long. This city was always a port, and at various times in its history it was controlled by the Japanese, then the Russians, and back and forth. The Chinese didn’t take full control of it until the 1950s. And there is still a large contingent of Russians and Japanese. With so many colonial leftovers, I suppose a handful of Americans, Canadians and other Westerners don’t stick out so much. I’m sure I get mistaken for a Russian most of the time.

Also, I know I still haven’t posted anything about Xi’an. That’s coming soon. I’m posting from an internet cafe, and most of my Xi’an notes are on my laptop. I can’t get online at school until Monday. I’ll post pictures then, too. This time I promise.

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