China has long intrigued me. I’d always wanted to visit but never thought it would ever happen. None of my friends seemed to share my wish, and given the country’s magnitude, being a lone traveller and not knowing anyone who lives there, how could I make the 24-hour return plane journey — and the associated expense — worthwhile?
But then opportunity knocked. My brother and his wife have a little boy, and in South Korea first birthdays are a big deal, equivalent to a 21st birthday in the UK. My whole family were invited. Having been to South Korea once before, for my brother’s wedding, I was keen to explore more of Asia this time, and so I arranged to take in two extra cities: Hong Kong and Beijing.
**
First stop was Hong Kong, for three days, and from there I went to South Korea. I stayed for a week, culminating in the strangest first birthday party I’ve ever been to. It’s called doljanchi and the set up is more akin to a wedding ceremony, featuring professional photographs, a smart dress code, buffet and a video played showing snaps of the baby’s first 12 months. The crowning moment is when the baby chooses, before everyone, an item from a table that supposedly foretells their future. Oblivious to the prying eyes of 60 excitable guests, my nephew eventually gravitated to the solitary bank note. To him it was something to play with and possibly eat, to excited onlookers it represented a future flush with cash.
The following day, I made the short hop west to Beijing. As the plane began its descent, the nerves ratcheted up a notch. For the lone traveller who can only speak English, Hong Kong is a breeze — after all, it wasn’t so long ago it was under British rule — but China’s capital was a wildly different ball game, even if preparations for the 2008 Olympics have since made the city easier for internationals to navigate.
The train journey from the airport to the city centre did little to dispel my nerves. I sat opposite a man who stared at me. He continued to do so even when I looked at him. I surveyed the carriage, longing for someone to offer a welcome smile and assure me this was a trip ripe with possibility and fun. Nothing. I felt increasingly isolated. The prospect of three days in Beijing filled me with quiet dread. Wasn’t this supposed to be a holiday?
Soon after exiting the train, nerves turned to panic. Despite having a map and English directions to find my hotel, I still managed to get spectacularly lost. Even in London I do my utmost to avoid asking someone for directions, so by the time I had mustered up courage to ask a Chinese stranger for help my stress levels were off the chart. Predictably, it was an utterly hopeless, even comical, exercise. He couldn’t speak a word of English. I thought the map might be of some use, enabling him to at least point me in a hopeful direction. It wasn’t. To his credit, he tried to help — or at least that’s the impression I got — but the whole episode not only added to my confusion and stress, it added to a growing sense of inner foreboding towards the whole trip.
Thankfully, after walking several roads multiple times — and praying! — I reached my destination. It was a small and quaint courtyard hotel, tucked away on a hutong, one of the innumerable alleyways that comprise Old Beijing. The hotel turned out to be the highlight of my stay — which probably says a lot. The staff were a delight, going above and beyond what I booked. They offered me fresh fruit at every opportunity, and on one evening, the manager invited me to have dinner with him before making Chinese tea for me — a delicate and refined process that involves far more than dunking a tea bag in a mug and stirring it. They made me feel like royalty — and all for £27 per night. Most touchingly, at the end of my stay one of the staff helped me out with my bags to the hutong, before waving me off. After walking some 100 yards, I looked back and he was still waving.
**
A reliable companion for the duration of my trip to the Chinese capital was the Lonely Planet Guidebook to Beijing. From tips on language and etiquette to background information on Tiananmen Square and the Great Wall of China, the book was my best friend for three days. It featured one particular piece of advice that made me think twice about the intentions of three Chinese students who looked to build conversation with me on my second evening in the city.
I was wandering around Tiananmen Square taking photographs when the students approached me. They were bubbly and friendly, asking me questions and sharing about their studies. Ordinarily, I would willingly reciprocate, savouring the opportunity to exchange snippets and stories from our respective backgrounds and cultures. But was this too good to be true? The guidebook said that there is a tendency amongst young Chinese students to befriend unsuspecting British tourists in order to practise their English. However, this can often lead to polite requests to join them at a bar for a drink and chat, only for a hefty bill to be left with you. And of course, the bartender is in on it all.
As we walked aimlessly in front of the The Gate of Heavenly Peace for five minutes or so, my concerns eased. There seemed no intent on their part to head anywhere else, leading me to assume that we’d soon naturally drift off in our separate directions. And there was an infectious innocence to them. If I hadn’t read the guidebook’s warning, there was certainly nothing to arouse suspicion. But then I have been told by friends that I’m sometimes too trusting.
“Do you want to go for a drink?” one of them asked, just as I assumed our encounter was drawing to a close.
“Um…No, I’m good. But thank you. I’ll be on my way…”
“Just one drink. We’d love to find out more about England and practise some more English.” I’m terrible at saying no at the best of times — all the more so when alone before three charming Chinese students. Although the alarm bells were ringing louder, saying no felt cruel. If they are genuine, I reasoned, rejecting was a missed opportunity to honour their friendliness and further immerse myself in the local culture. Plus, it was some human interaction, which I sorely missed. And it was for one drink only.
“Okay, just one soft drink.”
They took me to a tea bar, where a waitress led us behind a velvet curtain to a secluded room. We all ordered soft drinks and I settled in. Each student talked about the careers they want to pursue, and I relished being the spokesperson for all things Britain, like where London is in comparison to everything else in the UK. Talk of one of the girls being single and wanting to visit England led to some awkward laughs and a rush of blood to my face. I was lapping up the attention. Those alarm bells were nowhere to be heard.
But then they discussed ordering tea — and the one they had their eyes on just happened to be the most expensive one going. Spotting the possible implications of this, I interjected politely, “You go ahead, but not for me.” They ordered, the tea arrived and — yes, shame on me — I drank some. The tea in China is excellent and I was having too much fun. Once drunk, their attention turned to the next expensive drink on the menu — wine. At this point, I said I had to leave. My enthusiasm for light conversation quickly drained as we awaited the bill. And then it came.
“You are our guest — you pay?” one of the group said with a smile that no longer felt sweet. It was a betrayal, or so it seemed. All three of them looked at me as if it wasn’t even a question. I felt backed into a corner with no option but to agree. A stronger person would have questioned it but courage escaped me, or perhaps reluctant grace overcame me. As the group began to gather their bags, I grabbed my phone to work out the damage in sterling. Surely it won’t be that bad? £20 tops?
£60.
Sixty pounds.
SIXTY POUNDS. FOR FOUR SOFT DRINKS AND SOME TEA.
I paid it.
Inwardly I was seething as we exchanged quick goodbyes and went our separate ways. The fun and seeming goodwill of the previous two hours now felt hollow. I had no appetite to see more of Tiananmen Square. I made a beeline for the metro and standing in the carriage I wondered how I had got so spectacularly conned. Yes, I was annoyed with the students, but more so with myself. I had been warned.
Earlier that day I stood amongst passengers on the metro wide-eyed as I took in the surroundings. But now, the carriages much emptier with it approaching 10pm, I could only look to the floor. I felt flattened, drained of wonder and energy. Even as I wallowed, I knew it wasn’t a big deal — I was safe and still had money to survive. But I was furious that I allowed myself to get needlessly sucked in. I hate wasting money, and this felt one mighty waste of money. And what was meant to be an interesting evening exploring one of China’s most fabled landmarks had left a sordid taste, and I feared it might blight what was left of the trip.
**
The morning arrived and anger had turned into irritation. A couple of hours later, as I hit the streets mid-morning for a bike tour of the city — the breeze in my face, the cacophony of everyday Chinese life in my ears and the alluring smells of fresh Chinese food wafting up my nose — the joy of travel had returned. The rest of the trip wasn’t so bad after all.
But here’s the interesting thing about the evening looking back: seven years on, it’s still the one story from my whole trip that I tell others about the most. In fact, of all stories from my travels, it’s still the one I share more than any other. A timeless anecdote that I love to share and which people seem to savour hearing. I remember telling my brother who found it hilarious — he couldn’t get over how much I’d been taken for a mug. I had a good laugh with another friend who nearly experienced something very similar — the difference being she wisely kept away from any tea bar.
But should I be surprised? The best stories we tell others aren’t the ones where everything goes as planned, nor are they always the ones awash with a Hollywood ending. Rather they tend to be the ones that, at the time, we desperately try to wish away. But years later, as we gather over the dinner table or a pint in the pub, we find ourselves retelling the story before a captive audience itching to discover the ending — which, as it often turns out, involves a good laugh at our expense. And we’re laughing with them. It’s a far cry from any late-night angst-ridden journey on the Beijing metro. The hardest tales can turn into the best of stories.
Not all horrible moments will find redemption in this way. But occasionally they will, providing the spark for laughter, conversation and friendship which can be priceless.
Actually, perhaps that’s taking it too far. Let’s just say this particular £60 now feels far better spent. Just.