(another tale from last year's trip to China, which begins with the entry "Ni Hao, Beijing.")
Monday. What day is it? Oh yes, the 20th. We woke this morning with all of the familiar symptoms: fuzzy tongues, blurry eyes, sick stomachs, a deep feeling of dread. We had to wake up, get dressed, and get packed. What's on the roster for today?
First, breakfast. Nooooo. Please, no breakfast. Okay then, following breakfast is a tour of the Lama Temple, which we had visited several days before. When just standing up makes one feel sick, one cannot imagine breathing in sweet incense fumes, crushed shoulder-to-shoulder with fellow tour groups, following our guide’s fluttering flag. Noooo. No Tour. And then getting on the plane to Xi’an, god help us. We are booked on China Air, an airline with two recent, hard-to-forget disasters: one plane failed to miss a mountain, and the other simply fell apart in mid-air. Someone tells us a rumor that China Air craft are all Soviet rejects. This does not inspire confidence, not even when you are feeling really hale and hearty. This is not optional, though. We must get on that plane.
So, sick from the ‘white wine,’ we drag our sorry selves and our suitcases down to the lobby. Another colleague and tour participant is waiting there with his luggage. “Where’s your son?” we ask him. “Oh, he’s not feeling well, so he’s going to stay here while the group goes on the tour. Then, we’ll take a cab to the airport to meet up with them later.” I gape at him, then rush over to the checkout desk, where X is signing the hotel bill. I clutch his arm and tell him Itamar’s story. He gapes back at me. “We can do that?” In ecstasy and relief, we hand our bags over to the tour bus and secure our hotel room for another few hours of sleep, blissful sleep. On our way to the elevator, we come upon our companions from the night before and give them the same information. In turn, they gape at us. We have again been touched by the stupid-tourist guardian spirit. Sleep, blissful sleep.
It would be folly to think that the hangover would just wear off, just like that. The extra sleep only puts a little dent in the pain and sickness, just rounds off the sharp edges. In no time we find ourselves crammed in a taxi bound for the airport, then waiting in padded chairs for our tour group and our flight. X visits the airport snack shop and returns with two Chinese 7UP-style drinks and a Pringles-style container of potato crisps. If you’ve ever been this hung-over, you know that this is very good for you. Something about the combination of sugar, carbonation, and grease.
Rather abruptly, I do not feel at all well. I shove my belongings at X. “Watch these,” I command, and set off at a rapid clip down the large airport hall, toward the bathrooms. It seems like a very long walk, and on the way I realize that I am planning to go and vomit in a public restroom, but not just any public restroom. This is a public restroom with holes in the floor, where there are little bits of toilet paper stuck down amid small unidentifiable puddles. This is a public restroom with a pungent odor, because you never flush the paper you use, instead depositing it in a little wastebasket to one side of the door. In a more desperate situation I would not have cared, but here my will overcame my sick stomach. Just as I reached the doors of the restroom, I stopped. I squared my shoulders, told myself I felt fine, and turned around to make the long walk back to my seat.