Leaving Xi’an

Peter, our driver, picked us up at the hotel, expertly loaded our bags into his small trunk, and we were on our way. Morning traffic in Xi’an. No lanes, just activity. Cars, buses, people walking, people biking, people standing, people running. At major intersections there were traffic lights, at times obeyed. At really major intersections were immaculately dressed traffic police, soulless in their mirrored sunglasses, crisply waving their white gloved hands to stop, turn, go on.

We dodged our way through city traffic, the people starting their day, going to work. We only witnessed one wreck, a mini van up against a curb, windshield shattered, glass beads splayed all around, the three occupants squatting on the median, none appearing to be injured. After about half an hour we left the city buildings behind, approaching fields. Just as suddenly as the city had started, it stopped. We were in the country. No billboards, no skyscrapers, only rows and rows of corn, occasionally interrupted by fields of sunflowers. Bright, smiling yellow faces turned upward to greet the sun, the first rays in 3 days. And so many tombs. The giant mounds, small hills, under which important people from hundreds, thousands of years ago, were buried.

Peter explained, in his broken English, about the museum at the airport. I listened carefully. “Very good. Museum. Qian dynasty. First. Han, terra cotta soldiers, second. This first. At airport. So good.” We all expressed surprise. I remembered back to three days ago, walking across the rudimentary tarmac to the functional, yet sterile, baggage claim. I didn’t remember seeing any services, much less a museum, in the airport facilities. I stared out the window, alternating fields of corn and sunflowers flying by.

Peter started to exit. The sign for the airport indicated we should be going straight. At the same moment, both mom and dad spoke up from the back seat. “Peter, we need to go to the airport.” “Airport? No museum? Museum very good.” “I don’t think we have time. International flight.” “No time? Okay.” And he veered back onto the highway.

We arrived at the airport at 9:30, the suggested time for our 11:30 am DragonAir flight to Hong Kong. Flying to Hong Kong from mainland China is considered an international flight, even though in name they are part of the same country. The counters were unoccupied. No one at the Airport Fee counter. No one at security. No one at check-in. We were perplexed. We stood in the middle of the lobby, looking around. Finally, an employee arrived to the security counter. We walked over, showed our passports and tickets, and in sign language he indicated we couldn’t check in until after 10:00. Maybe Peter knew best after all.

Unlike the domestic terminal, this terminal, though antiquated, did have services. A dusty coffee shop in the corner of the lobby, 5 small round tables with 4 ancient, wobbly upholstered chairs surrounding each. We started to sit at one of the tables. The waitress approached us, handed us a placard in Chinese and stood there, bored, waiting for our order. I turned to mom and dad. “Coffee? Tea?” I turned to the waitress, using my fingers and voice, indicated, Two teas. One coffee. Thank you. In a few minutes she returned, absentmindedly placed the beverages on the table, turned to me, “Pay. 40 yuan.” Geez. Even in China airport food is expensive. Comparatively. I handed her a 50 note. She shuffled off, returned with a crumpled 10 note in her hand and lazily pushed it towards me.

We drank our beverages, taking in the lack of ambiance of the terminal. The three coffee shop workers, sitting, staring absently into space. Every few minutes a sharply dressed airline steward arrived, the men in their pressed suits, the women clicking along in their high heels and sleek hair. They breezed through security, disappearing around a corner. Another westerner arrived. He stood in the middle of the lobby, just as we had, only minutes before, confounded by the lack of employees. After a couple of minutes, I stood up, walked over to him. Are you on the 11:30 flight to Hong Kong? “Why, yes, I am…” he replied in a crisp English accent. We are, too, I motioned towards my parents. You won’t be able to check in until after 10:00. “Ahhh. Right you are. I could have stayed at the hotel, then.” I smiled. I know. Us, too. I headed back towards the “coffee shop” and he followed, staking out a table beside ours.

In addition to the coffee shop, there was a small area designated as a gift shop, a place to spend those last few yuan you might have in your pockets. Dad and I entered and explored, hoping to find a treasure we had not already seen in one of the many markets we had experienced in Xi’an. Same things. Chocolate in the form of terra cotta soldiers. Chocolate covered chestnuts. Dried fruits – ginger, apricots, plums. Bottles of ginger concoctions. Silk pajamas. Small, bright orange and red stuffed tigers, to place in a baby’s crib to protect them from nightmares. Tea sets. Calligraphy brushes. One of the employees approached dad. In quick English, she said, “Is this your first visit to China? Where are you from? Who is that?” Dad answered her questions, indicating we were from the United States, it was our first visit to China, we had spent 3 days in Beijing, 3 days in Xi’an, we were going to Hong Kong, I was his daughter, and I taught English in Korea. “Ah. I thought she was a teacher. She looks very educational.” I looked at her and smiled, wondering how a person can look educational.

She approached me. “Do you speak Korean?” Well. Some. Only a little. She pulled out her notebook, asking me different phrases in Korean she could say to the Korean customers. The only useful ones I could think of were “Hello”, numbers, “This is good.” She started asking questions about how to say what something is made of – cotton, wood, silk – words I have no idea for in Korean. I told her to wait a minute. I returned with my Korean/English dictionary. We looked up words, she wrote them phonetically in Chinese. At that moment, I realized the absurdity of the situation. Me, an English speaker, telling her phrases in Korean, using my English and limited Korean, her responding in English, yet writing the words in Chinese characters. She flipped through the dictionary. She asked me to listen to her pronunciation and give her feedback. “Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. How are you? Would you like this? This is a very good price.” Her pronunciation was excellent. I proclaimed, Perfect! and she giggled and blushed. How did you learn English? You speak very well. “Xi’an Foreign Language University. Thank you.”

I returned to the coffee shop. We sat, watching groups of travellers arrive, mostly Chinese, some other foreigners. Families, snapping pictures together before one or two lined up for security. The Chinese, looking prim and proper, the women in their pastel suits and small heels, the men in dress shirts and pressed pants. The Westerners, quite slovenly by comparison, in t-shirts and jeans or skimpy tank tops, bra straps peeking out.

At security, the Chinese inspector took particular interest in my passport. I wondered what could be wrong. Then I realized he was just curious. He looked at my passport photo, taken right before I was divorced. It’s not a flattering photo. My hair is extremely short, dark, and I look tired. He stared at me, smiling. I smiled back. He looked at the picture again. “You?” and he pointed at me. I laughed. Yes, it’s me. He looked through all the pages of my passport, at the stamps from the various countries. He looked at the picture again. He stared at me, still smiling. I smiled back. He laughed. I waited. After a few minutes, he gave me another smile and my passport. I tried the only Chinese I know. Xie xie. Thank you. He smiled. I felt his eyes on me as I continued to the check in counter.

A few more security checks, a walk across the tarmac, and we were on our way to Hong Kong.