A Night in Beijing

There are a lot of routes to Bangkok and there aren’t many nonstop flights. It’s just a little too far. So you can get there via Taiwan, Hong Kong, Singapore, Frankfurt, Beijing, and other cities. I chose Beijing because Air China (the national airline of the Peoples Republic—as opposed to China Air, which is based in Taiwan) offered the cheapest round trip to Thailand—and among the shortest. The two legs totaled just over 19 hours, with a 90-minute layover at Beijing. The short layover turned out to be a poor choice, for reasons that I will explain shortly.

When I booked the flight in December, I neglected to check the phases of the moon. It didn’t occur to me departing on February 3 would put me in the middle of the Chinese New Year celebration. No wonder the plane is full! In the crowded 119-seat aft cabin of our Boeing 777, where I managed to snag aisle seat 53J, I’m one of three or four non-Chinese.

The New Year is celebrated for about two weeks not only in China but in most of East and Southeast Asia. It’s a time for reuniting families—for returning to the ancestral village. Many of my fellow passengers are doing just that—going back to their “villages,” even if that village is now a city of 12 million.

Seven years ago, in February 2006, we flew into Ho Chi Minh City at the height of Vietnam’s New Year celebration. On arrival at the airport there—on my first trip to Asia—I was struck by the mountains of baggage that Vietnamese expats, mostly from America, were lugging into Vietnam. Not just giant suitcases, although there were plenty of those, but huge cardboard cartons and plastic tubs full of clothing, detergent, toothpaste, even small appliances. These folks, many of whom had fled their country at the end of what the Vietnamese call “the American War,” were bringing evidence of their more prosperous new village back to their old village.

The eyes of relatives and friends standing behind a barrier with small welcome signs and armloads of flowers, expectantly scanned the arriving passengers. Trom the tears that flowed, I guessed that, for some, this may have been their first time back—some 30 years since the end of the war.

At JFK today, the departure gate is alive with families. Everyone queues up well before the boarding announcement, even though each person already has a seat assignment. (The Chinese seem queue naturally when it seems like something might be in short supply.) The mood is ebullient as we board the plane. Celebratory music drums from the PA system and excited chatter reaches a crescendo as the generations settle into their seats.

Because of the steady snow in the Northeast, departing planes are being held for de-icing. The boarding is delayed more than an hour, and once in our seats, we wait for two more hours before getting into position for de-icing. After the glycol bath, we take off forthwith—three hours late. I know before leaving New York that I will miss my 90-minute connection to Bangkok.

A JAL plane is de-iced at JFK International.

So here I am in Beijing, at a decent hotel near the airport. After promising a free room for the night, the airline makes me pay150 yuan (about $25) for a single room because I refused to double up with the next Flight 984 refugee, another American on his way to Bangkok. Don’t get me wrong; he seemed like a nice guy, but was a total stranger. My protest to an Air China agent at the airport next day would be fruitless. In China, there may be a one-child policy, but two strangers must share a room when marooned en route.

The van to the hotel is reminiscent of the customs line at Ho Chi Minh City eight years ago. At the Beijing airport, huge bundles and gargantuan suitcases appeared on the baggage belt while officious mamas and grandmas loudly supervised their loading onto a flotilla of luggage carts. My photo tells the tale. Our driver is somewhere behind these bundles of—well, it’s hard to tell except some of them looked extremely heavy. My little suitcase is under there somewhere!

Our hotel shuttle driver is behind this pile of baggage.

In the unheated hotel lobby, it’s Wednesday, Feb, 5, and I’m not particularly sleepy. My brain thinks it’s about noon on Tuesday in New York. Several of us English speakers, including a Chinese American from Baltimore who is making his familial pilgrimage, rouse a waiter in the darkened restaurant, order beer and noodles, and swap travel stories until after 2:00. The Chinese guy pays for the food. Happy New Year!

A flat bed and five hours’ sleep, a shower, and a shave feel great, and I’m ready to head back to the airport for a restart. I don’t mind the unexpected on a trip like this. There are always new people to meet (including friendly, helpful Chinese with little English but a strong desire to connect) and new places to see—like the Golden Phoenix Hotel near the Beijing International Airport—if you stop, look, and listen.