Overripe Peaches and Soured Cream (8/30)

The alert reader may have noticed that just about every day since I began the bike trip in France almost four months ago, I’ve been extolling the wonders of one place after another, painting pictures of exiting one little paradise only to enter the next. In case this has filled any armchair traveler with a touch of envy— and I don’t imagine it actually has— rest assured that it’s not all peaches and cream. There are days when I wish I was in my armchair at home, with the choice of how long I stay there and what I do. And when I do get up, peeking in the refrigerator at the food I’ve chosen and eating precisely the amount I want. There are days when the peaches are overripe or the cream has gone a bit sour. Like today.

 

It began with a rude 5:00 am awakening, a 40-minute trip to the airport, 90 minutes waiting to board, a 3-hour flight, a 2-hour (!!) car ride from the airport to the next hotel in Guaying. Only to spend the entire lunch trying to figure out with my companions how to solve the problem of my phone suddenly refusing connection to any Internet source (which started last night at the other hotel, continued at the airport and yet again at this new hotel). The old “restart the phone strategy,” taking out the Sim card and putting in another, shutting off the VPN, none of it worked. Until the youngest member in our group (of course) stumbled on some combination of the above that actually worked! At least for the next hour and then some venues—particularly WhatsApp and Facebook still wouldn’t open. 

 

Then a couple of hours in my new hotel room actually getting to plan the next 3-day workshop before meeting in the lobby again to drive to dinner. But from the moment I entered, I could smell some lingering smoke in the air. So down to the desk to ask for another room, but it turns out that all rooms are smoking rooms. They offered some air-treatment that they promised they’d do when I went out to dinner. 

 

Which activity came all-too soon. Another hour-long car ride and another “too-much-food” banquet around the table with 6 companions who didn’t speak English. And to be fair, I don’t speak Mandarin. But these too-long too-much-food little-conversation-I can-understand-or-participate-in are starting to wear thin. I’m beginning to long for my own armchair a short walk from my own refrigerator.

 

And both in the airport and this new hotel, I was reminded of something I was blissfully spared at my Hangzhou Hotel but remembered from other trips. I’m a huge fan of the pentatonic scale—indeed, my publishing company is called Pentatonic Press and my jazz band Doug Goodkin & the Pentatonics, never mind all the work I’ve done to learn fabulous pentatonic music from Bolivia, Bali, Thailand, the Philippines, Ghana, Uganda, Ireland, Finland, the U.S. and yes, China, especially a few beloved folk songs. But there is an insipid New-Agey Chinese background music that makes my skin crawl. And here it was again, a constant sonic wallpaper framing a picture I didn’t want hanging on my wall. 

 

I am well-aware that such complaints might seem indulgent and over-privileged in the face of the ongoing catastrophe in my country and around the world— and it is. Still, it was my reality today and I’d be less than honest if I didn’t publicly gripe a little bit. If nothing else, to balance out the fantasy that I’m living in a constant state of traveler’s bliss. 

 

And now I’m done.