8:00 am November 2

Riding the MAX train to the airport I can’t help but feel like there’s something else I should be doing. Tryg spent all of last night tying flies and now has fallen asleep against his backpack on the seat across from me. There are a number of people with suitcases and baggage, but Tryg and I are the only ones wearing heavy packs stuffed to their limits—40 pounds apiece. I feel every bit the superior traveler. But the sinking feeling persists, digging into my gut and rattling around my head with every bump and turn of the train. It’s not the fear that I’ve forgotten something—I’m sure I locked the door, positive the stove is off, and that my mother’s cats are fed. This feeling is larger, all-encompassing.

If you’ve talked to me in the last few weeks before I left and asked if I was excited I probably said “Yes, and very scared,” and you might have laughed as if I were kidding.  But as the date came closer the excitement waned while the fear increased. By the last few days my blood pressure was on a constant high, and my dreams rarely calm. Now, as the MAX pulls up to its final destination, I am still aware of that feeling. Isn’t there something else I should be doing? I repeat in my head a few times while kicking Tryg awake. 

“We’re here,” I say as Tryg looks around, confused. 



The happiest recipient of a photo so far, Northern Beijing.


The bags are heavy, and my legs are tired. We decided to walk to the train that morning.  What better way than on foot to start such an incredible adventure? we’d thought as we had left my parents’ house—a place where I had been ashamed of living for a long time.  A 25-year-old shouldn’t still live with his parents, at least that’s what I felt, even if it’s not what I necessarily believed. I believe you do what you have to do to get by, but it was never something to be proud of. 

“Did you know that in the beginning of On The Road Jack Kerouac is living with his mother? That’s where he starts off, from his mom’s house,” I mention as we walk out the door.

“Hmm,” Tryg responds. He is a good guy to have around if you want to talk to yourself.

The plane ride is very short to Seattle and then very long to Beijing. All told, travel time is 17 hours. Neither of us has slept more than five hours in the last two days, but when we arrive in Beijing, we’re placed into action mode. The local time is 5:30 but the sun has already gone down, and the smog is thick enough to dim the street lights.



Wood and wire vs. 50 story highrise.
 A land of dichotomies.  

 We are to meet an old friend of mine from the last time I was in China, a Finnish girl named Liisa. But before we can find her, we have to figure out the public transportation. Liisa has emailed me instructions, but my Chinese is bad, and Beijing is not proving to be a friendly city. Makes me think of New York—people are busy and they don’t want to help you even if it’s their job to help. We hop a bus that one attendant says will take us to the first stop in Liisa’s directions. I ask every person waiting in line if this bus does in fact go to SanYuanQiao. They all assure me that is does, but I still find my self un-assured. 

On the bus we find another white man—he’s from Finland. As a white person in China you start to feel like a dog sniffing out other white people in your vicinity. It turns out Jaakko (pronounced yakkoh) is a businessman, though he looks more like a California surfer.  He owns three businesses and is in Beijing to source products. Unfortunately, while talking with Jaakko I start to get the uneasy feeling that we’ve missed our stop. 

With my large pack bumping into everyone, I make my way to the bus driver.

    

“Hey, shirfu, ni qu sanyuanqiao ma?”  I ask. 

“SANYUANQIAO?!” the old man shouts, surprised and irritated as he quickly pulls the bus over to the side of the road. 

We say goodbye to Jaakko and jump from the bus. We walk back to the stop that we’d missed by three blocks and read the next step in the directions. We are supposed to wait for Bus 10. But after waiting for 15 minutes or so, we start to wonder if Bus 10 is ever going to come. At about that time I notice an old man wearing an old blue uniform standing next to us.  

“Ni hao,” I say tentatively as he stares me and Tryg down with a funny little smile. 

“Ni Hao! Nimen shi na guo ren?” 

“We’re Americans,” I respond in Chinese.  I’m surprised at how well I can talk with him and as the conversation continues I become proud of how well I can communicate, even if I’m only catching every 4th or 5th word.

Eventually he figures out where we’re trying to go, and tells us that we can’t get there from this bus station. “Let’s go!” he says in Chinese with a heavy Beijing accent, and he starts walking.  

With our heavy packs we find it hard to keep up as he barrels through crowds to take us who knows where. I’m cautious, because you never know if a person you meet on the street in China is trying to help you, or help themselves. 

We get to a different bus station, but this one has no sign for the number 10 bus. We have another conversation, but this one is very confusing to me. I can’t figure out what he’s saying, but it seems to be important. Finally, I put the words he’s saying together with the motions he’s making and I realize that the bus is not a bus—it is, in fact, a subway. 



Replacing a brake disk for one of the many 3 wheeled carts.

 “The 10 is underground!” That’s what he’s been shouting the whole time. 

He’s off again, and we are lagging behind. My legs are aching from sudden heavy use, after hours of stagnation in a cramped 747.

We find the station and head down a long series of stairs. The old man shows us the ticket booth, tells us how to buy a ticket, how to ride the train, and what to do when we arrive. We say goodbye and thank him. I don’t know what we would have done if that old man hadn't come along, but I’m not surprised he showed up either. I’ve never had a problem arise in China that wasn’t some how solved by China, even though no one expects this to be a land of miracles. 

We make the last few stops on the train easily, and in no time I’m hugging Liisa hello. I haven’t seen her in nearly five years. Liisa was one of a collection of people that I used to hang out with from the university in Jinan in 2006. When you’re the only foreigners in a dull city you tend to glom together. 



A business mogul surveys construction in a fast growing Northern Beijing suburb.

 But believe it or not, at 19 I was rather socially inept. Even now I tend to hang back in groups. I’m quiet, and I don’t share my opinions unless I trust the people around me. So back then Liisa and I did not become good friends. In fact, we hardly knew each other. A couple years after I left China, though, we reconnected on Facebook. We didn’t talk often, but by the time I was starting to plan this trip I had formed a friendship with her and so now have a place to stay for a week in Beijing, a soft landing in a crazy country. 

My first meal in China is wonderful. There are so many incredible flavors that you just can’t recreate in the US. Noodles, soup, mushrooms. I can’t tell you how long I’ve missed it all. Tryg is practicing some Chinese vocabulary as Liisa is telling stories about our year in Jinan. My stomach is starting to hurt. 

Most people get stomachaches when they eat too much, but for me stomachaches mean something more. For almost my entire life, stomachaches have meant that I’m losing control, and panic is setting in. 

We finish the meal, and head back to Liisa’s apartment—a one-bedroom flat with hardwood floors, a washing machine (but not a dryer), sit-down toilet, and a kitchen. Back home, with all the drafts, cracks, and broken tiles, this would be considered a major “fixer-upper,” but here it’s practically a luxury apartment. I head to the bathroom. 



High speed internet, modern skyscrapers and 10% growth rate, but
clothes dryers have yet to find their way to China.

 That night as I try to sleep, the question that has been repeating itself in the background all day blasts into the quiet dark room. 

Why am I here again?! I’ve already been to China, I’ve already had this adventure. Why am I back again, what good will come from it? Shouldn't I be working now? I could be saving money for grad school, or getting an apartment. I could be working towards my future and doing something productive. So why have I offered this year up on a stone table to something I can’t identify? Do I really believe that what I do this year will matter? I keep telling myself that “something” will happen, but now that seems absurd. It seems crazy to believe that this year will lead anywhere. What if all this is just a massive waste of time and effort? 

My stomach roars like a hurricane all night. I shut my eyes for maybe three hours. The sleep deprivation is mounting. 

(To fully appreciate Tryg's images, click on them where they appear in the blog.)