Going Chinese 2.0

The marathon of flights continue. Shortly after my arrival from Zurich, I meet my crew friends for dinner, jokes of much-flying-no-social life shooting over a Lebanese mezze at Souq Waqif.
Dammam turnaround with an entertaining crew happens in a breeze the morning after, returning to base before lunch and right into a voluntary confinement in my bedroom.
At midnight, yet another briefing is conquered in victory and the aircraft once again floods with passengers bound to the Chinese capital. One of the few flights that tend to become overbooked, passengers soon pile up next to my door. Women carry both sleepy children and large duty free bags in their arms, men wave boarding passes asking for seating instructions.
Delayed on departure and although most passengers sleep, the flight seems to take surprisingly long, the fatigue of previous flights wearing my energies off, the night once again growing short over Urumqi.
Strong clean-air turbulence awaits on final descent, a stomach-wrenching roller coaster testing my passengers’ stomachs over the sunny fields of Langfang. A thorough swine flu scan is performed before we are finally cleared for disembarking.
Back in Beijing. Back to my favourite layover hotel. From my room, I see how the Financial Street seems to fail in coming alight, must be the weekend I think.
Later, the crew and I take two taxis and head to a busy multistory building just a few avenues away, the store front displaying large red Chinese characters against a dirty billboard.
Prada, Gucci, Armani, Apple, Salvatore Ferragamo, all fake. I am grabbed by the arm at the unison of ‘beautiful man come here’ shouts, dragged from store to store through the seven floors of narrow passageways stale with the smell of old stored goods and heavily dyed fabrics. This ladies and gentlemen, is the Silk Market.
Two hours later, the crew leave the building, which I believe is the fanciest fire trap I have seen in my life, carrying several supermarket bags of ‘presents for the family’. Purses to be given as an original Fendi, or wallets of Armani dreams. I hold onto the only original item I found: an iPhone.

My next day in Beijing is of pure sightseeing.

The summer sunshine dyeing the prevalent smog orange, the city slowly pacing itself into yet another working day. At the Forbidden City, the queues are not long, the set of red ceramic floors never looking more ready to be relished on.
Built in the fifteenth century as a ‘private city’ for the Emperors of China, the Forbidden City remained as the exclusive premises for the Mings, each pavilion a bureau dealing with a different matter in the kingdom, as well as housing for concubines, wives and extended families.

Despite our rushing through the maze of edifices, my South African friend and I spend almost three hours mesmerising at the intricate details of the red-painted wood and, perhaps due to the incense, slightly hypnotised by the sheer scale of the complex.  A ‘pop star‘ moment closes the visit, peasants from nearby villages posing alongside these two lost foreigners amidst the milleniar architecture that only China can offer.

For a complete experience, Jinsheng Park, which lays opposite the back entrance to the Forbidden City, offers the best panoramic view of an already remarkable structure.

 

I always loved the buzz of subway networks. Usually more user-friendly than buses, the intricate cobwebs of underground tunnels dig right into the essence of a city, the faces of its passengers telling stories of the daily life through their expressions. A few changes in the extensive subway network in Beijing take us to the Olympic Village, a bucket list item.

Less than a year ago, thousands of athletes took over the now empty plaza. Cameras from all over the world shot film after film of footage in front of the red and silver lines of the Bird’s Nest, the opening ceremony within its steel and concrete confinements now famous for its grandeur and typical Chinese sync.
The Water Cube is a must. The walls resembling giant plastic bubbles contained in a cubic-shaped frame exude swimming history, the small museum showing pictures of Michael Phelps enlarging its collection of medals -instrumental victory music in the background-  as only one of the main swimming highlights that took place in its pool.

 

A summer thunderstorm pours over the open space of the village only seconds after we enter the subway station, the underground trip back to the Financial Street opening an appetite for some late lunch and an ofuro rest at the manicured hotel spa nestled on the top floor.

Unable to sleep, I lay in bed and listen to some music before my wake up call, the fatigue kicking in at the wrong time, crew bus pulling next to the departures hall at Beijing Capital Airport.
A series of commands are unheard. My brain, dealing with both fatigue and distracted by departure procedures forgets to arm a door.
What a long night awaits. Thunderstorms force our flight South over the solitude of the Burmese countryside, the orange sea of street lights of Kolkata and into Pakistan, reaching Doha nine hours later in a swirl of numb muscles and brain fatigue.

No time to rest. In fact, only the minimum. I am off to Kathmandu after dinner.

3 thoughts on “Going Chinese 2.0”

  1. I work for a domestic United States Carrier and I'm SO jealous that we can't travel, as cabin crew, to the destinations you can. I could nonrev, but it costs so much money.

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  2. camba,

    love the blog, i am in Melbourne , Australia and ya starting flights at the end of the year, can I add ya on facebook? awesome blog, keep it up.

    cheers,
    B

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