I’m off to Beijing this morning. I have the weird nervous feeling I get half the time I travel alone, which usually means it will be a good trip.
The last time I felt the feeling so strongly was on a trip to Chiang Mai. I flew through Tokyo. As the packed plane boarded in New York, the two seats next to me remained empty. Just as they announced they were closing the doors, an elderly Chinese couple made their way down the aisle, clacking and shouting at each other in Cantonese. “Fuck,” I said to myself.
They must have had every newspaper in China with them. They stuffed them in the nooks and crannies of their seats. Every article they read, they extensively commented on. I shot daggers at them from the side of my head.
Rather than waiting, I optioned to knock myself out with an ambien immediately. In a haze, I occasionally woke up to them screaming at each other in heated argument. By the time we finally arrived in Tokyo, I had vowed never to take a trans-Pacific flight again.
When the seatbelt lights turned off, and the plane collectively stood up, the old Chinese woman turned to me.
“We worry about you,” she yelled. “You no eat your meals, you starving?”
“I’m ok,” I laughed.
“We watched the whole time,” she said. ‘We worry.”
Sometimes, when you’re a woman traveling alone, other people feel protective of you. Especially older women, who somehow see their younger, independent selves in you.
“Thank you,” I said. All of my anger erased.
I’m not sure if I’ll have Facebook or Tumblr in Beijing, which somehow never occurred to me. So if this is goodbye, I’ll miss you. Although not blogging for a week will probably be good for my mental health.
Have fun wherever you are, and if you’re in China, come find me.
