It’s a bit of a problem, really. I love getting ready for a trip and arriving. However, I hate leaving most places.
It’s okay. I’m a grown-up, I understood a long time ago that you have to leave to arrive again.
Mind you, it doesn’t make leaving any easier.
We had a hell of a good trip in China this year. Everything was smooth, Chinese language skills were somehow retrieved from my brain, and we explored three new cities—Zhengzhou, Chongqing and Chengdu.
I was comfortable in China.
“Any chance Mark can learn 50,000 characters by September and start Grade 8 in China?” I asked.
Yeah, probably not. Plus, our awesome family visa “only” is “only” valid for a four-month stay every year for the next ten years.
“Hi, Air France? We would like to just rebook on another flight… yes, later.” Feng joked.
I guess I’m not the only one who didn’t want to leave.
Our flight was at 11 p.m., so we had a full day in Beijing. We explored Sanlitun for a while, then Mark and Feng went to see a movie while I wandered around between Sanlitun and Chaoyangman.
As usual, I tried to find snacks to take on the plane, mostly to keep my mind busy and have a sense of purpose. In Western countries, it’s pretty easy, a sandwich will do. But of course, you can’t get bread, butter or ham in China—or at least, it’s expensive and hard to find. Most, if not all, Chinese foods are meant to be eaten hot.
“We’re done. At the apartment.”
“I’m loading on cōngyóu bǐng,” I texted back.
This is what I ended up buying: a couple of chive flatbreads.
We took showers, packed, and packed again.
“Where are you going to put my panda fan?”
“In your bag, Mark.”
“And my actual paper fan?”
“In… no idea.”
“Feng, can you take my Mao hat?”
Eventually, at 7:30 p.m., we walked to the Workers’ Stadium station. Feng had to open his suitcase to show his bug spray and shaving cream at the subway security checkpoint. The bug spray made it, the shaving cream was confiscated.
Chinese security employees don’t like spray bottles.
We transferred to the Capital Airport Express train and thirty minutes later, we arrived at the airport.
“Moscow, Pyongyang, Almaty… Paris, that’s us.”
At the check-in counter, all the passengers were asked to sign a paper stating that they didn’t carry any dangerous materials. Even Mark had to sign it. But of course, Feng was still called by security two minutes after his suitcase went through the X-ray machine—the bug spray, again. I think he was allowed to keep, but I’m not sure. I was busy wondering if I still had a very forbidden lighter in my backpack (the other one had been abandoned outside, along with many comrades at the big lighter cemetery around the ashtray).
Beijing Airport’s Terminal 2 is quite dark and sad after 9 p.m. (and possibly before, I didn’t check). Or maybe we were feeling quite dark and sad.
I chuckled at the passenger doing tai chi in the boarding lineup, though.
It’s a 12-hour flight from Beijing to Paris. Things became bumpy over the Gobi Desert, but after that, I watched the movie Barbie, ate some Air France food and my food, then I fell asleep.
I woke up when we arrived in Paris—East-to-West transition completed, mission accomplished, trip not over yet.
We landed just before 6 a.m., and we had to wait for the 9:43 a.m. train to Nantes.
And this is where we are now. Feng is catching up on sleep, I’m catching up on work, and Mark resumed playing football with French kids.
But Feng and I are still dreaming we’re in China.
