Which WEI to the Beijing Hotel?

For the most part I'm a pretty confident traveler, and on my best days perhaps even a bit savvy. I welcome the organized chaos and bustle that comes with most developing nations. I accept the role of the street tout and even understand the blight that moves him. At the same time, I'm pretty quick to spot a scam but cautious enough to never get taken in a big way. I marvel at new languages, foods, and different cultures, and even make concerted efforts at assimilation, however for whatever reason, as Finnair Flight AY51 descended over tower blocks and smoke stacks into Beijing I found myself fighting varying degrees of anxiety.
It's natural to 'steel' yourself before wandering out of the shelter of an airplane and into the fray of a big city, especially a new one. But this was different and I soon realized that I didn't feel welcome in Beijing. I hadn't set foot one in this city that houses 23,000,000 people but for some reason I couldn't settle my stomach that the Chinese, particularly the Government, wanted me there. Maybe it was the difficulty I had in obtaining a visa overall, or the terse, cold email replies from the Chinese Consulate reinforcing their position. Maybe it was the Chinese position on censorship, or Google's latest battle, or the situation in Tibet, or the attitude towards Taiwanese independence. Maybe it was stories like the Tibetan nun who was shot by Chinese soldiers, or the internal political dissenters who disappear after last being seen with the Blue Suited men of the Chinese Secret Police.

Approaching touch down I couldn't help but wonder just how many times I had Googled Tianaman Square Massacre wondering 'whatever happened to that guy who stood in front of the tank in 1989?' and now wondering 'do they know how many times I've Googled Tianamen Square Massacre?' If they knew that then surely they would know that I wrote a position paper in 1998 in support of China's acceptance into the World Trade Organization (WTO). And if they knew that then of course they would know that I used to order the Moo Shu Pork with pancakes at least once a week from Banana Leaves on Florida Avenue when I lived in D.C.

If Big Red Brother was watching then I wanted any 'street cred' I could muster.

Despite my reservations, stereotypes, and misgivings, the transit from airplane exit to hotel entrance could not have gone smoother. Hell, even the taxi fare negotiation was uneventful. Whenever there's a language barrier, you get to play this game with vendors using the calculator on a cell phone to haggle over price. The slight, disheveled, middle-aged taxi porter wearing a black trousers and an oversized white button down shirt, took out his cell phone and entered the numbers 4-8-0 as his best price in Yuan before handing me the phone. Without hesitation I entered 9-0, and to my surprise he agreed straight away. Now, I either completely overpaid or he couldn't have been bothered to haggle at ten til seven in the morning. Regardless, for a 45 minute cab ride I was more than happy to pay a paltry £9.
Smugly, I slid into the back seat of the yellow taxi with the broad maroon stripe spanning boot to bonnet. This was all going too easily. Traffic was light, the weather perfect, and the chaos non-existent. Then...I spotted it. Pending trouble fated to cross my path. Destiny written on a 2" x 4" laminated placard. My future anthropomorphized in the name of a taxi driver...Mr. Wong Wei. I promise you, you can't make this stuff up.
In fairness to Wong Wei, in China he would be known as Wei Wong as the family name precludes the first name, however for our purposes, and frankly for the purposes of this blog, I prefer his Westernized name. True to his name, Wong Wei got lost. On previous travels I've run into issues with taxi drivers who couldn't either read or understand the English address of the place I needed to find so in one of my savvier moves I had a Chinese flight attendant write the Chinese equivalent of my hotel address into the front page of the book I'm reading.

Two problems with this. First, she confused 16 Donghuamen Street with 16 Dong'uamen Street. (I mean tough to fault her for that one). Secondly, I just so happen to be reading War and Peace by Tolstoy at the moment, so every time that poor Wong Wei wanted another look at the address while he was driving, I'd have to pass him a 1,534 page brick which he'd try to flip open single-handedly in a supreme battle of manual dexterity--thumb and forefinger straining mightily to hold back Tolstoy's view on 19th century Russia like Napoleon holding back Wellington and Alexander. And every time that poor Wong Wei got out of the car to show the address to someone by the side of the road, he'd lug Tolstoy with him like a school boy carrying a bathroom key attached to a wooden paddle.

Eventually, we reached the hotel and despite going the wrong way, Wong Wei showed me that the meter read 70 Yuan. I knew that guy was too slick! I negotiated an 82% discount and still overpaid by 3.5%. Fair play and well played.

No sooner was I three steps in the door before I ran into Atacama Crossing veterans and Gobi March participants Sevan Matossian, Diego Carvajal, Samantha Gash, and Jenn Steinberg. It was a great reunion, a comforting feeling to see old friends, but also a stark reminder that in three days we'll start Stage 1 of the 250km Gobi ultra-marathon.

Now which wei to my room?

Good running guys!

Rp