Fifty Miles on Foot

Thursday, 1/2

The new year rolled around comfortably. Trevor and I spent the evening in a local bar as a Brit and an American drinking Scottish whiskey and talking to a German-born Chinese guy while listening to Jamaican music. The guitarist counted everyone down and we downed our whisky as the clock struck midnight.

I woke up late, ready to take it easy for the next two weeks before my winter break. I stayed in the office late on Thursday to work and study, well-rested after Wednesday off. I looked up when my boss came in the room but kept hammering away at my keyboard. He nicely interrupted me to tell me that my winter break was starting, unexpectedly, the next day.

I went home and booked a flight to Bangkok. It was more money than I should have spent before my actual break started. And no refunds. I almost went to Harbin, which was definitely cheaper, but to hell with the cold. I packed a bit before the excitement wore off and figured I’d finish before leaving for the airport.

I had to be in Hangzhou in ten days anyway for my Chinese proficiency exam, so I booked round-trip from there. Cheaper than Wenzhou but it meant taking the late train from Qingtian on Friday night and sleeping in the airport for a few hours, which sounded better than paying for a place to stay and potentially missing the flight. That wasn’t an option. At least this way, even if sleep-deprived, I’d still end up in Thailand.

My grandpa had been in Bangkok more than fifty years before, while on R & R from his station with the U.S. Army in Vietnam. Things were going to be different this time. Excited to show him the city, I charged my camera. I had no idea what to expect; there wasn’t really time to figure it out.

Saturday, 1/4

Deep green forests were below us, divided by thin white lines, weaving mountainous roads. Puffy clouds stretched out in messy lines. Everything was disorganized. There didn’t appear to be cities, just clusters of buildings along the road and a few stragglers in between, not able to catch up to the group. Then we reached the Mekong, wide as it is powerful, like a great wall of water that had come down from China. There was little industrialization in this stretch, which was either Cambodia or Laos, but just on the western side of the river began serious farming. I presumed it to be flatness of the land and the quality of the soil, a benefit of the river.

As we continued, seeing only farmland, I looked for anything to distinguish from what is visible when flying above the American Midwest. There wasn’t much besides more trees and smaller plots of farmland. I thought of I-65 and the boring drive from Illinois to Indiana. But then the mountains appeared again, and the difference was clear.

Lunch had been small and already a few hours ago, so I ate the last of the mung bean patties I’d bought at the train station in Qingtian. They were more than a month expired, I realized, so the guy two seats over was smart to decline my offer.

I gazed down at the land and thought about what Americans had brought with them to this part of the world. My grandpa, more than fifty years ago, certainly hadn’t brought mung bean patties or a Mandarin textbook. Soon, farms ruled again, now cut into sections by long lengths of perfectly straight roads. It all looked so… normal.

I took the airport train to the subway, walking the rest of the way from the station. The heat hit me immediately – so did the diversity. It was definitely Asia, but definitely not China. It was refreshing to be a nobody. I was sweating immediately. The nervousness was gone, replaced entirely by excitement. It was the perfect place to break from Qingtian.

The girl at the front desk offered me directions to a coffee shop that didn’t exist, so I just started walking. I thought some back alleys looked promising, but they almost exclusively had auto part stores. I passed a temple and decided to go a bit further. I had nowhere else to be and wasn’t settling for C-store coffee. Finally, I took a left and stumbled on a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop with an all-white interior. Plain inside, with plastic chairs and only two or three people. I ordered an Americano and almost immediately was talking with the owners. We lingered and talked for over an hour while I savored two cups of coffee. Another customer, an old lady who spoke Chinese, seemed impressed with my level of Chinese but mostly spoke Thai at me. I saw her again as I walked home from dinner. That started the walking.

Sunday, 1/5

By lunch I’d walked miles, through some quiet neighborhoods with still-closed stores and then mostly through Chinatown, ironically. On the far side of the river, most temples were full throughout the morning, and I heard chants as I walked. On the near side, there was little space for temples. Tourists reigned. I didn’t even make it to the Grand Palace, as I'd planned.

I sweated all morning, but the short trip on the river ferry cooled me off before starting up again. I watched other boats sailing up and down as we crossed, admiring the stilted wooden buildings on the eastern side of the river. There was so much to absorb in Chinatown, the hustle and bustle I’d heard about: the food, the crowds, the hawking. There wasn’t anywhere to sit, everywhere was prime real estate for vendors selling food, Chinese New Year decorations, and fake everything. I found Thai coffee on a street corner and finally broke my rule about only drinking hot coffee. It was too damn hot already.

I walked in loops, up and down every alley and road I could find, crisscrossing and turning wherever looked busiest. As I wasn’t in a rush, I continued to weave my way through food stalls, toy vendors, and porno sellers, finally stopping for lunch at a noodle shack with plastic tables and enough locals to be trustworthy. Of course, they sat two young Thai girls next to me: I made a fool of myself sweating and eating. It was everything I wanted from a meal of noodles and chicken that had been sitting out for hours. I wasted nothing and sat a while, watching people meander and shop, resting my feet before making the trek home. I paid, the owner asking where I was from. I almost spoke Chinese out of habit: “America… and China.”

That evening I read about Tai Soon, an old Chinese pharmacy restored into a bar. I knew I had to go, even though one beer cost more than the three I’d bought the night before. I picked a stout and sat at the bar. The bartender was surprised I’d come to Thailand alone. Red LEDs lined the bar, the only real lights on, illuminating the exposed concrete of the bar’s construction. Above, Chinese lanterns hung from an opening to the second floor. We talked about home brewing and brewing in Thailand, while I slowly nursed the first stout I’d had since the U.S. and appreciated the chance to talk in English. Through the glass doors, I watched people walking by, and eventually walked home myself.

Tuesday, 1/7

For two days I wrote only in my notebook, unwilling to take the time to transfer the words to my computer. I was so tired and there was so much to write. I walked all morning – Grand Palace, Wot Pho, Amulet Market, Temple of the Emerald Buddha – and finally ended up at a famous Thai-style café, Kope Hya Tai Kee, glad to be away from all the tourists in their Thai-style pants. Two walls were open to the street and I sat half in and half out. I loaded my coffee with condensed milk and finished reading my book.

For a whole chapter, the Chinese tourists next to me were the only others in the café. Listening to them talk was comforting in the big city. The night before, I’d even contemplated eating Chinese food. I was excited to read my grandpa’s writing when I got back to the hostel, to compare it to the Thailand I was seeing, but for the time being I couldn’t be bothered to get up. Plus, I wasn’t sweating anymore. It was only a fifteen-minute walk, but it felt like miles, keeping me on that wooden stool long after my coffee was gone and my book was finished. Mopeds roared around the corner outside and a guy tried to sell me a newspaper. My eyelids felt heavy.

When I left for my afternoon walk, I passed through neighborhoods where everyone seemed to sell the same thing – auto parts, jewelry, food – and just kept on going. Eventually I left all the tourists behind and ate Pad Thai. My destination was a World War II building restored into a coffee shop. It was all dark wood and steel. I walked the long hallway that led to the roastery. My boots sounded hard on the wooden floors and I tried not to wake a sleeping cat, sprawled out in the middle of the walkway.

Afterwards, I walked another two hours. By then I was tired and needed to find another coffee shop so I could get WiFi. I wasn’t going to walk all the way home and wanted to call a scooter. Forward isn’t always better, and I got lost in a maze of back alleys with homes, waterways, and animal pens. It was awkward for everyone that I was there.

The scooter I eventually called wove dangerously through traffic as I urged him to go faster. I was ready to be home. I showered and lay down. It was hours before I moved again.

Thursday, 1/9

My last tour was a two hour walk to visit three bookstores. I picked a book about a girl moving from Hong Kong to New York, something like the opposite of my move. I got on the train and was early for my flight.

I sat next to a Chinese lady and her daughter on the plane. I felt comfortable with them and we talked briefly. The stewardess came around to ask, “Pork and potatoes or chicken and rice?” When I replied in Chinese, I got them backwards, asking for pork and rice. My face flushed red. I knew I wasn’t done in China.

It was cold when I landed in Hangzhou, and I was unprepared. I went outside and gave my phone to a cop, so he could talk to the Didi driver who was trying to find me. I looked around. A few people were outside with me, mostly smoking. I smiled. It felt good to be back. I’d walked fifty miles in Thailand and added a few more steps to my trip as I walked to the car.