A Rough Beginning in Hangzhou, China
This concludes the excerpt from my book, Memoirs of a Middle-aged Hummingbird, published in 2006. Fortunately, my first night in Hangzhou in 1988 did not scare me away from Hangzhou or China. Hangzhou became my hometown in China and I’ve returned there 15 times between 1988 and 2007.
I shouldered my bags, took a deep breath, and went into the Foreigners’ Waiting Room at the Hangzhou railway station. I had no place to stay. The CITS tourist representative stationed at the railway station looked more and more distressed as she tried in vain to find me a bed for the night. The places where foreigners were allowed to stay seemed to be full. Rightly suspecting I would sleep right there in the Foreigners’ Waiting Room if she didn’t find me a room or bed, she finally, and reluctantly, reserved me a place at a hotel meant only for Chinese. Another helpful lady negotiated a taxi for me after I was told that none was available. Finally, after a 28-hour train ride, I arrived at my hotel for the night.
A brief look around told me that I wasn’t in the tourist, scenic area of Hangzhou. Unable to explain what she wanted to tell me, the clerk reluctantly picked up two of my bags and motioned me to follow her up and up and up and up and up five floors (there are very few elevators in China except in tourist hotels) to room 511. The building had a prison block look, and my room resembled a cell — complete with bars on the high windows that faced into the halls.
The price had not been high, although much higher than Chinese paid. The room had the barren look of a flophouse room. There were two beds, and I was not sure whether or not I had been charged for both beds, or would eventually get a roommate.
I had basically three needs at that time — food, showering off all the cigarette smoke from 28 hours on the train, and sleep. I found the ladies’ toilet and showers. The shower only had one knob, which, as I expected, emitted only cold water. A Chinese lady motioned that I should bring one of the plastic washbasins. Being unclear just how to coordinate the water (there was a large, insulated boiled water kettle-type pot in a little room nearby), and not having the energy to figure it out, I decided to forgo the shower. I also ruled out food since I wasn’t sure how to connect with food that would not turn on me, so I munched a little bread and decided I would last till morning.
The sheets could have been clean, or used. I couldn’t tell. The pillow was quite dirty, but eventually the girl in charge of the 5th floor (occupants of the rooms do not receive keys and must request the room be opened by the floor attendant) brought in a clean pillowcase — with Mickey mouse on each side riding a bicycle. There was something else American in the hotel besides me!
There was a practical-looking room with a row of spigots where people seemed to be washing both clothes and their teeth. I washed out my very dirty facecloth from the train ride.
In fastidious American style, I looked for the wastebasket. Finding only a spittoon-shaped thing outside the door, I dropped my carefully gathered trash into it, and discovered there was some water in it. It was indeed a spittoon! I had seen a sign in the hotel saying, “Please do not spit.” However, it, and the spittoons were in vain. All around me, and all evening, I heard the unmistakable sounds of spit being gathered and emitted time after time.
My other need — sleep — also needed to wait a bit. The noise level was in the high decibel range with shouting, spitting, slamming doors, and televisions turned up for the hard-of-hearing. So, I turned on the tv and became engrossed in a Japanese picture dubbed in Chinese. It seemed strangely familiar. I couldn’t quite place why until I remembered watching the Arab Friday night movie on tv in Israel with my roommate. As in this movie, the women were always pleading, crying, and in distress; the men were overbearing, nasty, and abusive to the women. With Mickey Mouse on my pillowcase, and an Arab-style movie on tv, I felt somehow at home.
Tags: China; Chinese dormitory; visiting China in 1988, Hangzhou, Travel
