sofasurfers

“OK, I’m just going to come right out and say it,” said my latest ally, the girl from San Francisco (her travelling companion and her had to separate in Urumqi because the former had had her passport (and all the visas), money, tickets, you-name-it, nicked, while the clock was ticking on the Kazakh visa). “Do you think I could stay with your couchsurfer in Almaty?” She’d made her own requests on couchsurfing.com, but none had come good. Why not? Well who could say for certain, but there was clearly some confusion from the outset: “How do you get to the point where it’s actually OK to ask to stay with a couchsurfer?” she’d asked. Eh? You just click on the bit that specifies you’re looking for a couch. “Oh I’ve just been seeing if they’ll meet up for a drink and then get stuck when it comes to asking to stay - I think I’ve been too passive.” (FYI, it should be pretty foolproof – you say what you’re looking for, ergo they know exactly what you’re looking for.) Anyway, the social experiment will be taking on an extra dimension in Almaty. After all, in the spirit of couchsurfing, how could I very well say no? And besides, it will most likely be more fun and less strange to have an ally again – for all of four days. However, my hosts say on their profile they are happy to receive one couchsurfer and no more – so is this a liberty too far? Still she is slight and supersweet. I have texted my hosts, a Russian couple – and they have said “Welcome”.

Supermarkets, pharmacies and house parties – three of my favourite exotic experiences that I try to explore in a foreign land. But schools – now that was an ambition. I’d been hoping to visit a Chinese school since Xi’an – my hosts there were both private English teachers, and I’d done the whole “If there would be one thing I could do here, it would be to see Chinese school life”. I’d got past the school gates but I only really saw teachers (ya boo sucks!). So when I learnt that my Urumqi host was also a teacher – with bonus points for working at a state school – I started dusting down my charm again. “I’ll have a think about it and ask the school,” Number 11 had said. Given that the parents had called a meeting to complain that there weren’t enough foreign teachers in the school, I guess my request was readily sanctioned. And so, received by a welcome committee of Chinese students kowtowing at every door – a privilege not for me, but for anyone walking through any door seemingly – I shadowed Number 11 into his classroom.

“I’ve asked them all to prepare a question for you,” he warned. OK – that’s cool… What that meant was that Number 11 took to the sofa at the back of the room, while I cowered behind the front desk just like a teenager – all hands stuffed awkwardly in pockets – holding court with 14 17-year-olds (I was lucky – most class sizes are apparently 35 to 50; this was a special class to groom the students for international universities).

And so the questions came thick and fast: “Can you speak Chinese?” “Will you be volunteering for the London Olympics?” “Do you like China?” “Please tell us about this couchsurfing.” “Do you pray for designer fashion?” (Is that a hint or something?) And so I earnestly answered their questions, and, after some pushing from Number 11 (“You’re not supposed to just listen to her,” he admonished his class, “you’re supposed to interact, to think about what she’s said and ask something back. You see, Fleur, they’re all taught by the lecture method, where they just listen; they’re not used to engaging”), a kind of conversation ensued – albeit mostly with my teacher’s pet, who went by the international name of Tiger (teacher’s pet - Tiger! see?!). With his pink shirt, his hairdresser’s hairdo, his interest in women’s fashion and Sex And the City (“You are so Carrie Bradshaw!” he’d squealed), Tiger left no doubt as to his sexuality.

The school bell then rang (lessons here are 45 minutes) – a strangely hypnotic, polyphonic melody (very Prisoner). Number 11 announced that he was going out, and that we could continue. The questions continued, so I continued….

Right into the second English lesson. I got to ask my own questions back: What hours are you in school? 9am till 10pm. What happens if you’re late? “We get fined – 5 yuan (50p) the first time, then 10, then 15…” What do you do at the weekend? “Sleep!” they say in unison (they only have Sundays off). Why are some of you in uniform, others not? “We all have to wear uniform [check it out - “Swifter, Higher, Stronger”], but we wear our own clothes underneath and take off our jackets in the classroom. They don’t want us to compare ourselves to each other.” What are all these gadgets you’ve all got on your desks? “Electronic speaking dictionaries”. What do you want to do after you’ve graduated? I want to join the government because our president is so good and makes our country so strong. Hang on a minute, stop talking at the back there! (Several of them have turned around and are chattering with each other). Number 11 steps in: “I try to explain to them that when they go to their foreign universities, their tutors and the other students won’t like them talking in class, but they’re allowed to be like this in Chinese schools so it’s hard to change things.” We continue with the “What do you want to do?” tip: I want to work in petrochemicals – yes. I know they are finite, but I’ve done my research and we have 100 years left; I will die before that. I want to be a businesswoman. I want to make mobile phones. I want to be a fashion designer (guess who?). I want to be a businessman. I want to be a business woman with my own travel agency so I can travel around the world… I have seen the future and it’s yellow.

[This is Ollie here. Hi! Everyone]

Well, it’s been just over a month since Fleur set-off with me (can you believe it? just over a month… 8,000-odd kilometres and a few not so odd kilometres… public speaking, panda testicles, our man with a gun, sleeping with a rat (no pun intended!)… lots of new friends, 3 or 4 new languages and now a new travel buddy - all of this and she’s only just half way through).

And I can’t believe I’m having to read it all from home!!!

Especially since I’ve just uploaded all the pics from our first moments in moscow. I could have shed a tear, but instead Fleur’s blog keeps my eyes much happier than that

And so without further adoo, click here to see the pics from when it all begun:

Moments from Moscow: Click thumbnails to load the photo story.

Go Fleur! I miss you! We miss you! Couchsurfing loves you! Kazakhstan needs you! 

[Cheerio all, from Ollie]

The Kazakh border - the fun starts

So we’d barely crossed into Kazakhstan, when friendly faces started popping round our cabin door. ‘kazakhstan is boring!’ said one.

L: My NBF from SF; R: another happy Kazakh

‘Chelsea Futbol!’ said another. We’re currently entertaining a 4-year-old (who almost cried when eventually I confiscated my nice camera from him, but he seems to be distracted by drawing on my sheet and being poked in the tummy). Oh no - he’s remembered and is upending my pillow looking for it it. I have to go! Verdict: not boring.

How can you say nyet to me?

All change! No more Chinese, no more Uighur… Bring in the Kazakh and the Russki. And funnily enough, I’m sharing my cabin with another couchsurfer (from San Fran) who just lost her traveling companion. Funnily enough Number Two: I somehow found myself taking a 90-minute English class this afternoon! I even had a teacher’s pet-the third person this trip to compare me to Carrie Bradshaw (no-not why he was TP). All will be revealed!

So the Uighurs (pronouned ‘weeghurs’) - with about 40% of them in
Turpan, the local flavour is even more strongly theirs than in Urumqi
(where the population is more like 20%). Think snake-charmer pipe
music, distant drums, sequinned headscarves on the women, gambling in
the streets, chickens squawking, donkeys for transport (yes,
Hitchhiking on a Donkey: Novel Experience # 2381), bazaar life - with
the sandy tones of mud and straw-built houses and mosques in a dust
bowl town, one could even think for a moment that you were in Morocco.
Except for the state advertising in Chinese (as well as Arabic). And
of course, the dominant gene of Chinese cheekbones.

Not naturally blessed with the patience gene, I have noticed a
remarkable spell that seems to have been cast upon myself when in the
presence of my couchsurfing hosts. It must be something to do with the
overwhelming sense of indebtedness when staying as someone’s
non-paying, barely-contributing guest. For yes, I can’t promise that
it will last, but I seem to have located my long-dormant patient
streak. It’s particularly apparent when then not in the company of
one’s host, when suddenly my wicked old friend, The Impatient One,
reappears. And how bad I felt for the kind and sweet economics student
who agreed to accompany me to Turpan. To be fair, it was a trying day.
It was a six-hour round trip, plus long walks around fascinating
historic sites, all to the incessant accompaniment: “So, in Britain,
what do you eat for breakfast? So tell me about British history…
What do you like to do in your spare time? What do you like to do in
your spare time? What do you like to do in your spare time? (This is
not a typo.) So, in Britain…?” Sometimes, I had to say, do you mind
if I just read this sign (you know, those museum signs where the lines
are too long and the words start jumping about if you don’t
concentrate). Then there was: “Take a photo” (repeat three times at
every point of interest and non-interest). And when I did take a
photo, my new photographic assistant would be right behind me looking
into the screen. Plus there an ever-ready arm to hold mine when
approaching any imminent danger – a step, for example, a door. Don’t
worry, I’d say, I can do this by myself. DON’T WORRY! PLEASE! And when
I gazed out of the window, it would be: “So are you meditating?” or
“What are you thinking about now?” or “So, in Britain…?” And then of
course there was the language barrier: “So, in Britain, jin shah
panas?” What? “So, in Britain, jin shah panas?” Oh God, and then he
started shouting in the Jiaohe ruins to hear his own echo, and started
mucking about with a megaphone we found. I wanted to scream. But it
was when he said, “America is a much more open country. Britain is so
closed and rigid,” that I burst. And exactly are you basing your
opinions on? I snapped. “American culture is much more diverse, much
more available – Coca Cola is everywhere, we have American films.”
Well I suggest you do a bit more research (ooh! Challenging me and my
national pride – big mistake). It was a shame I had lost the will to
speak because he did of course have much to say for himself. But it
seems, British women are something of a rarity out here. Everyone,
including him, assumes at first I am American (”99% of Western women
we see here are American, so when I realised you were British, I
understood you were precious”.) Yes, but I can cross the road unaided,
thank you. The Impatient One clearly needs some more couchsurfing
therapy.

Jiaohe

Taojing

The Inpenetrable Pumpkin

And so onto dinner, where I was guest of honour (the name of the
restaurant? Fabulous Guest!). No speeches – just 10 dishes including
my first Peking Duck, all for just £2.30 each. As guest of honour,
the dishes arrive in front of you before anyone else. It totally foils
me – previously I’ve slyly waited for others to start strange dishes
to see quite how they negotiate them. Here I had to work out for
myself how to tackle a closed pumpkin with just a pair of chopsticks,
for example. And then onto the Irish/Kiwi bar again for me to be
handed over like an unwanted orphan from the old people into the fresh
hands of the young. And then onto a club called Armani – sadly this
one had to be a private joke between me and me, but what a joke it
was: Scottish whisky made in China mixed with green tea that was
downed in one, which had the curious effect of transforming my
chaperones into jiggling, shimmying, routine-loving boyband dancers.
And then, finally, exhaustedly (having arrived in Urumqi at 7am that
morning), I was dropped home by “Mr BMW” (for obvious reasons), to a
blow-up mattress in the living room and a date the next day to be
escorted to the oasis of Turpan, a historic Silk Road town and nearest
drop-off to the desert city ruins of Jiaohe. And so to sleep? Not
likely when there are days like these to process through in my mind
(so let me get this straight: I arrived, I couldn’t make my host
smile, he left me, I had to make this speech…). It takes hours to
unwind, and just as I do it’s time to wake up. And for some reason,
every day seems to be a day like this.

Amarni

And suddenly, I heard those words: “Fleur, we would like you to make a
speech.” It was “Luther”, one of the Chinese regulars. A speech?!
What about?! How very 39 Steps, I thought to myself. “Yes, yes, please
stand – yes, stand here, that’s right. Thank you very much. Ladies and
gentlemen, we are very lucky today…” Ah, how I would have howled
with hysteria had anyone I knew – even Number 11 – been witness to
this. Thank God – or thank couchsurfing – I had a readymade story. And
so I gabbled on about couchsurfing through Russia, Mongolia and China
for as few seconds as I could get away with, and quickly took my bow
and sat down. Only to be surrounded by as many as could fit round a
table all asking me questions. “Excuse me, may I ask a question
please” - that kind of thing. Actually it was extremely interesting –
I heard the truth about China’s only children (”They are too
dominant,” says one of the few older ones with a brother. “They are
selfish,” says another…”Tsk, be careful what you say,” says an
overly made-up female teacher). And I heard so, so much more besides,
but the shaggy dog is growing … Many had excellent English, many
self-taught – although when I explained, for the nth time, that I was
going to couchsurf in Bahrain on my stopover to London, and one said,
“Ah yes, the bank in Asia the British man bring down,” I didn’t have
the heart to set him straight.

As with any community, couchsurfing is rife with gossip; outrageous
behaviour travels fast and far online. And so, on my last day in
Xi’an, Beth takes me to her English school [quick tangent: in the
staffroom, a very shy Chinese student with a clipboard interviews us
about music: "Do you like music? Why do you like music? What don't you
like? Why not?" but she's so shy, she doesn't write down any of the
answers; she just blushes and flees – it's the sweetest thing] where
she looks up online a Californian couchsurfer in China who has been
causing something of a stir with his sexual preferences. Actually, so
keen is Beth to pass on the goss she phones both Gareth and another
Xi’an couchsurfer; we probably spend an entire hour searching for his
online profile. Anyway, search over, it seems he invites his lone
female guests to swing with him. Couchsurfing works because it
operates an Ebay-style reference system – and the act of
propositioning unwilling women makes for compelling reading with some
juicily negative references: “This man boasted about how “large” he
was, and how well he could “satisfy” a woman and then invited me to a
swinging club. His conversation is totally inappropriate for
couchsurfing.” And another more (typically) cagey reference: “I
strongly advise that before accepting this man’s hospitality, you meet
him for a coffee beforehand to check that you both want the same
thing.” So: surprise, surprise – people really do use coushsurfing for
casual sex. What’s more surprising is that this man is a couchsurfing
ambassador (for which you need just 10 positive references and to have
been vouched for by another ambassador), which goes to show that
ambassadorial glory is somewhat meaningless. And – what do you know –
there’s a swinging scene in China

For a couchsurfer, the words, “Good night” are always accompanied
with, “So what are you up to  tomorrow?” in an attempt to work around
and with your host’s plans. For my final night in Xi’an, there didn’t
seem to be any major plan – Gareth was taking his businesss English
students to KTV, the karaoke bar (well, I suppose singing English
songs is good language practice – but for business English??), but
that would finish early and Beth didn’t have any. So, returning from
the mountain, I dropped a quick text saying I’d be backin town at 7pm.
I didn’t hear from Beth until 8.30, when she called me to say that she
too was going to karaoke. They’d be back at 10.30 (I had keys). “Oh –
would you like to come?” she said (afterthought, I thought to myself).
Nah, I said (I’d got up at 6.30 this morning, plus I really didn’t
have the energy for madness tonight) - I’ll see you at home. But of
course I didn’t because it was another late night for them. “A perfect
guest is one who is part of the furniture,” they’d said at dinner the
night before. This evening’s dinner-for-one got as far as opening some
rice pudding that I’d bought from the local shop, only to find that it
had congealed back in March, its best before date (foods on sale way
past their sell-by date is a frequent occurrence here, I am
realising). I was even without a cuppa, for there is no kettle in the
flat. And so, with the other little pile of abandonment, their
Chihuahua cross called Gumpa (named after Chinese beer), we shivered
on the sofa together. China’s heating is centralised: “The government
says when it’s hot and when it’s cold,” Gareth had explained. Feeling
lonely should be the one thing that the couchsurfer is protected from
when being hosted – but what was I supposed to do? Pull rank over my
hosts and say, “Hey come on, guys, it’s my last night – and no, I’m
not up for karaoke again”? Well, at least I was being the perfect
guest.

Footnote: you may be wondering how the dog managed to go to the loo,
locked up in that third-floor apartment. Was it litter trained, I
wondered? I looked around for a litter tray but there was none. And
the apartment didn’t smell of accident. Then I followed a slim opening
in the French windows leading onto the balcony: a long, skinny balcony
which I soon discovered was decorated with long, skinny dog logs. The
RSPCA wouldn’t approve. Still, at least it’s not on the menu.

Perhaps it’s a taurine-flavoured motivation.

Just thought I’d chuck on this photo that illustrates (I hope) the
terrifying gradient that had me wobbling like a wet jelly (the other
side was equally steep – think rock tightrope). And this little friend
in the foreground is a porter who canters up and down the mountain to
deliver provisions to the top. In flipflops, of course. Chinese
proverb: wherever there is demand, there is supply.

Dragon Ridge, Xi'an

Yesterday I scaled a mountain – Huashen, which indeed means Flower
Mountain, and which stands at 2080m. And – of course – it was a
psychological and physical conquest. So I’m going at it with
characteristic gungho, until I finally admit to myself – on this
extremely steep and narrow ridge – that I’m terrified, and not
enjoying the view in the slightest. Can mountains fall over? I was
convinced that this one would, so precarious was this path. Of course,
this didn’t deter the Chinese tourists at all, who pluckily continued
– it reminded me of the Chinese spirit that I have observed here.
China is really is the land of possibility: anything, so they believe,
is possible here. So I retreated defeated. I found a much more sedate
path, where I joyfully stumbled upon this tree porn! And then this
sign! That would have made my day, but then my curiosity drove me on
(I wonder, I thought, what lies beyond the brow of this hill?) Thus,
several molehills maketh a mountain - I eventually realised I could
do the mountain after all, and so I did it, and no, the mountain
didn’t fall over. Very busy and very noisy Chinese was the theme of
the climb: there were constant shouts as they tried to hear their own
echo, but no sooner had one shouted, that another drowned his echo
with another shout. And then there were the ominous-sounding
explosions every so often (not good for my nerves). I returned to the
foothills of the mountain somewhat in admiration of the Chinese drive
to do, compared to the British (as solely represented by yours truly)
ease at defeat. It reminded my of my hosts’ thoughts (I’d asked them
if they thought they were becoming more Chinese in attitude, owing to
their love of noise and busy-ness). “Oh sure,” said Gareth. “Everyone
thinks China wants to conquer the world. They don’t – they just want
to make their own country great.” To conquer their own mountains, you
could say.

Tree Porn

More Tree Porn

I’m getting used to being the white freak in China (I have had my
photo taken too many times to count). I was sitting in the park,
minding my own business when four teenagers stroll past me. After a
short time, I hear a meek “Hello!” - the teenagers evidently stopped
right by me without me noticing and had spent the last five minutes
composing their opening line. “Hi!” I say (in English). They fall
about laughing. Another couple of minutes pass, and then they sidle up
to me. They are giggling. “Hi!” I say again. They wave a girly white
mobile phone in my direction, which translates as them wanting to take
my picture. Sure! I take their picture in return. I’m wondering how
old they are, so I write in my book, “1974″ and point to me, and then
point to them. “1991,” one of them writes. We smile at each other.
They linger. We exchange names. They linger. Then: “I miss you!” says
one of the girls. I miss you too, I say. And then we just hang out in
this little bubble of mutual curiosity, in a surprisingly comfortable
silence, until it’s time for me to leave. I say good bye in Chinese,
and they in English.

So with Beth’s other half, Gareth, stumbling in the next morning at
10.30, having been drinking till this time, I console myself with the
idea that at least they’ll want to take it easy tonight. We meet in
their living room at about 7pm, and settle in for some Family Guy on
the telly. Both are swaddled on their respective sofas in their
(uncovered) duvets, I on an engulfing armchair. We chill. Now
admittedly, this may not seem like headline news, but for me, it was
the most exciting event thus far. There had been Chinese TV in
Beijing, but it only served as background noise to the couple’s rants
about China and those strange, silent tensions between girlfriend and
boyfriend and girlfriend and guest. Here in Xi’an, we chat, we do our
own thing, we play with the dog, we laugh at the TV. There are vague
discussions about going out locally to get something to eat, but I’m
willing it away – right here is perfect. But finally there is some
action, and Gareth and Beth take me to their neighbourhood. It’s a
total trip. First we meet their friends in the corner shop, and we
stay to banter awhile (they banter, I observe). We pass their friend
who used to own a restaurant but lost it: she plies us with strange,
processed meat balls boiled in spicy water and refuses to let us pay;
I am introduced to the whole family. G&B pick up some beer (that side
of things never seems to stop) to take home and Gareth charges into
the shop to muck about with the adolescent shop attendant (he tells me
later he was trying to pinch his nipples). They muck about some more
on the talking calculator, tapping in numbers that apparently also
say, “Dirty bitch!”, “Your nephew and your uncle will go to hell”. We
finally stop at a Muslim restaurant – when the waiters see Beth and
Gareth coming, they shout at them affectionately in the street. We eat
lamb kebabs outside (B&G buy a bottle of rice wine – they shot the
lot, and chase with beer) and talk about China. “The problem with
expats,” says Gareth, “is that they live in an expat bubble. I know
many who have been here for two years and now as many words.” You
could not say this of G&B – they both seem to speak excellent
conversational Chinese; they are the opposite of my Beijing hosts, in
that they are fully engaged in local life. They get what they give.
They have learnt the language, they have made friends, and they love
it here. “I don’t understand why people live here if they don’t like
it,” says Gareth. This bridge to local life is exactly why I’m
couchsurfing.

So how do you get around with no Chinese (ok, I have five words now)?
Simple – you just call your Chinese-speaking friend (for at least I
can say this of my hosts), and then, quite unannounced, thrust the
phone into the face of a local. The first time I did it, I felt quite
guilty, as if I were a messenger of doom/authority/serious trouble – a
flash of fear crosses said locals’ face as they nervously take the
phone. But it’s so amusing, so very Dom Joly, and the situation so
quickly explained by the voice on the end of the phone, that I do
think that next time I will be brave enough to take a photo of the
moment.

“How do you fancy some karaoke?” Like – do you even need to ask?!
After dniner, we go to meet my hosts’ school-teacher friends – a
mixture of UK, US, Canadian and Chinese twentysomethings – at KTV, a
posh Chinese karaoke chain. The VIP suite has been hired, bottles of
Absolut vodka have been bought, and pride has been pocketed: Bridge
over Troubled Water, Don’t Cry for me, Argentina, Big Girls are
Beautiful and more are warbled, shouted, rapped, wailed, while vodka
is slurped, slammed and spilled. At one moment, I hear a giant
amplified belch – I turn aghast to the holder of the microphone: it is
Beth. “Oh, that’s Beth for you,” says Gareth, the other half of my
hosts…
But at about 2am, my long day, my rubbish train sleep (I’d landed in
Xi’an at 8 this morning) AND news that we’re booked in to sing till
6am begin to sully my spirit. Argh – how to escape? Fortunately (or as
fortunately as one can hope for), Beth has gone AWOL (”Oh that’s Beth
for you”) - but apparently, she can’t be far away, and she’s probably
homewardbound. Gareth puts in a call, and I soon find her out in the
street thick in fisticuffs with some local Chinese, drinking a beer
for the road and chowing on a sausage sandwich. Then we even have a
bit of a moment, as I say I need to collect my rucksacks from the
youth hostel… “You can collect them tomorrow”… I need them – they
have all my valuables… “It’s too far.” It’s like 20m up the road, at
the Bell Tower, the very centre of town. “I don’t know where that is.”
Ok, we are going there – it’s no detour. I will pay for the taxi. “Oh
sorry, I am being drunk and bullish.”
We jump in a taxi. But first she demands a MacDonalds. But you’ve just
had a sausage sandwich plus dinner. Fortunately it is shut, and I get
to regroup with my possessions. 20 minutes later, we arrive home –
another greying communist block – to be greeted by a fractious
Chihuahua cross with cupboard syndrome (ie, it’s been alone and inside
all day and a new guest is all too exciting for her, as she jumps,
barks, runs in circles in seeming perpetuity). This is all too
exciting for me, as I find myself overtired and on the precipice of
rattiness. I’ve booked into go and see the Terracotta Army the next
day, so I turn in – into my own room with a double bed! Beth takes to
the sofa and a particularly loud DVD performance of The Wedding
Crashers, and prompty passes out. I then fret around my bedroom about
whether it’s really not guestly to march out into the living room and
turn the TV off. What if she just looks like she’s asleep, but is
actually thoroughly enjoying the movie?! I peek through the crack in
my bedroom door, and it’s impossible to see. I wander out into the
living room with the pretext of tidying my boots (!)… and I turn off
the TV – it is neither noticed nor remembered. The nomadic life of a
couchsurfer is unavoidably chaotic – dates change, hosts change,
you’re constantly on the go, without much control as to when and
where; sleep and peace are rare luxuries. A chaotic host is chaos too
much.

Terracotta Army in Xi

So at the designated time, I trot alo g to KFC, the meeting point for
the Xi’an couchsurfing group monthly get-together (some serendipity
that it lands on the day I land, sans host). This is where a) I hope
to connect with my replacement hosts, and where b) I hope to parachute
into a readymade social gathering with instant friends. It’s only when
I arrive at KFC-on-a-China-scale (ie a vast, 600-cover eaterie) that I
start feeling a bit tragic/shy/lost. I see one whitey with two young
Chinese people, but I can’t bring myself to assume that the one
mixed-race group are the couchsurfers. I hide behind some fauxliage in
an attempt to bore myself into action. Soon after, I hear the words in
my ear, “Are you here for the couchsurfing meeting?” (’Meeting’ – why
so businesslike?). Hello Romeo (real name, apparently) – Romeo is a
Californian airline pilot who had actually called me earlier in the
day to respond to my last-minute couch request (though by that time it
was all sorted). “Do you know if this is the right KFC?” he adds.
Pointing out that there is in fact another (though smaller) KFC
directly opposite, I find myself potentially in yet another ‘casual’
directions drama (when due to meet my Beijing hosts at Peking
University’s West Gate, I learnt that there were in fact two West
Gates… and then there was of course the “which Ulan Bator public
library” fiasco). This, I realise, is a Chinese hazard – so big,
everything is in duplicates: London is just so village by comparison.
Actually, no such drama ensued – the other group I’d spied were in
fact couchsurfers, and we gravitated together in one seemingly normal
and thoroughly unstrange collection of strangers: not one person had
met before, yet there was so much to share. Eventuallythe female half
of my hosts arrived –Beth, a 26-year-old Canadian English teacher –
and we set off to our meal (not in KFC).