A fast train to Beijing, an aborted landing, and the newlyweds

I never really thought of China as a funny place, but it seems my trips here serve as plucky comedic relief for the travel gods. The adventure I describe below – just the first leg on a 21-day trip – lasted 32 hours and included a plane, a train, multiple automobiles, a honeymooning couple, some helpful Chinese people, and – thankfully – Budweiser beer.

The adventure began on a positive note: I was flying Air China’s new nonstop flight from Houston to Beijing, a real time saver. It departed Houston at 1 a.m. on a Friday morning and was due to land in Beijing at 5 a.m. local time on Saturday –  after a 15-hour flight. At least that was the plan.

On final approach to Beijing, at just 2,500 feet, the pilots aborted the landing and powered us back up into the night.  I expected we would re-enter the flight pattern for another landing try, but the plane never turned back for another pass. We just flew northeast for an hour, eventually landing at Shenyang Airport, not far from the North Korean border.

It turns out that Beijing was socked in with fog. Or it might have been smog. The air is pretty dirty this time of year with coal powering much of the home heating. Either way, no flights were getting in there.

When we landed in Shenyang around 5 a.m., the tarmac showed no signs of life at all – just some parked jets visible under the floodlights in the fog, and one lone car that approached our jet along with a set of stairs mounted on a truck.

We sat on the dark tarmac for about two hours as the pilots communicated with airport staff about how to handle us. We were an international flight that had not yet cleared immigration or customs. Around 6:45 a.m., they announced we would deplane and enter the terminal.

Winter blew us a kiss as we stepped off the plane and into an icy wind. Then on to buses and eventually in to the small terminal. We didn’t know what to do in the terminal and received no direction from staff. I followed the crowd, which moved to gate 30 for a while, then started migrating back to Gate 52, where we had originally entered the terminal, after a PA announcement in Chinese.

Americans on the flight slowly coalesced into an information sharing team, like a face-to-face Facebook group. We began triangulating in on accurate information, or at least the latest information. Someone found a willing translator to help out.

The group included a few retired couples from Houston who were on a 10-day vacation exploring Beijing and Shanghai, two younger couples, one of which was on their honeymoon and headed to Thailand; a 60-year-old businessman who was presenting at a conference that afternoon in Beijing; a 19-year-old musician and self-described music producer who was headed to Tokyo to visit friends and explore the Japanese music scene; and me.

The airline staff did order up food for us and within an hour or so a cart arrived with 150 foam platters containing some cooked (and some not-so-cooked) vegetables and bread. I opted for a Subway sandwich ($5.50) from the upstairs kiosk and a cup of coffee ($9) from the small café there. The menu showed a caramel macchiato and in a fit of hopefulness I ordered it, but the coffee I was served was most definitely not a caramel macchiato. Still, I was weary and happy for the caffeine.

We could never figure out what was next for this Air China flight, mostly because any announcements were made in Chinese and the airline staff at the gate only spoke Chinese. We heard many rumors, one saying the plane now had a mechanical problem and was awaiting a mechanic from fog-shrouded Beijing to fix it. We never knew. And no one was saying when it might depart again – at least not that we could understand. Our volunteer translator had disappeared.

People were talking about booking other flights, but we had not cleared customs and immigration so could not legally do anything yet. And several in the group did not have visas to enter China as they were merely transiting to other countries. As the conversation continued, our honeymooning couple was hatching a plan to take a fast train to Beijing – hoping to make their 6 p.m. flight to Thailand.

My mobile phone had coverage, so I called my travel agent back in the States and was told the only available flight departed at 9:10 p.m. and was nearly full. With the fog a continuing issue, she advised the train may be the best option.

The new bride, Veronica, who works for an oil services company in Texas, struck up a conversation with a Chinese passenger who wrote out instructions in Chinese that they could give a taxi driver to get them to the train station. After conferring further with my travel agent, I joined that fast-train group, as did the businessman Mike, and a few others. I told the young couple if their plan worked, the first round of drinks on the train was on me. Meanwhile, we waited.

Around 11 a.m., two buses turned up outside the gate, and another announcement in Chinese started the crowd moving toward the doors. Apparently we were being taken to customs and immigration here in Shenyang. They packed us all like sardines into two buses – and then drove us 200 feet to another door where we all exited to enter the immigration area. That was comical – 200 feet packed on buses.

The honeymooning couple who had no China visa were first to the immigration desk, and stood there a long time as Chinese immigration officials determined how to handle them. Showing their onward tickets to Thailand proved helpful, and they were allowed to pass. Immigration was not so kind to the 19-year-old musician headed for Tokyo, pulling him aside to await further instructions. I cleared easily and waited a few minutes for the musician before moving down the line to baggage claim, where I waited another 30 minutes or so without ever gaining sight of him again. It was now about 11:30 a.m.

In the meantime, our fast-train group had collected luggage and were mapping out the plan for getting to the train station. We would organize in two groups and take two taxis from the airport. They had learned there was a 12:30 train to Beijing that would allow the couple to make their 6 p.m. flight – barely – and our goal was to make that train. Once we exited customs, I made a beeline for an ATM machine to get some local currency before heading to the taxi stand. Unfortunately, in the interim, the young couple had engaged one of the unlicensed taxi drivers hanging out in the lobby and had negotiated rates for two cars. The group was following this guy out to the parking area when I rejoined.

The guy led us out of the terminal, talking on his phone the whole time – and it soon became evident that he had no vehicle waiting to take us. But eventually the cars did arrive. Within our group, we had a quick discussion to assess the situation and our plans, and agreed to proceed.  We loaded up our luggage, paid the facilitator who had procured the cars, and climbed in the car. In our vehicle was the increasingly anxious newlywed couple, Mike the businessman – who, it turns out, speaks a little Chinese – and me.

Mike showed the driver the paper with instructions written in Chinese about where we wanted to go, and away we drove. But a few minutes later the driver asked Mike a question – which train station? What – are you kidding me? Yes, it turns out there are two train stations in Shenyang. We hadn’t contemplated that possibility and had no idea.

I phoned a colleague in Beijing to seek advice, and with that we decided to maintain our current course, which would take us to the station 30 km (20 miles) outside the city. But we had to navigate our way through this city of 10 million people first. (For comparison, New York City population is 8.3 million and Los Angeles is 3.8 million.)

So here we are, in a strange Chinese city, in a taxi with a driver who speaks no English, in traffic, with an increasingly anxious honeymoon couple. The couple urged the driver to go faster and cheered when he did, but then grew sullen when he slowed again. I explained the presence of speed cameras along the roadway and pointed them out as we passed. The driver was not going to risk getting a citation for this band of travelers.

We made it to the train station around 12:20 p.m. and the honeymooners – in their mid-20s – streaked ahead to find the ticket booth. Mike and I, much older and trailing large suitcases for multi-week business trips, trailed behind across the expansive plaza area leading to the station, the cold winter wind blowing us another kiss along the way.

Inside the station, we found our honeymoon couple cutting to the head of the ticket line while offering apologies and begging indulgence from the string of Chinese waiting to buy tickets. After a few comical interludes there purchasing tickets, we made our way upstairs to the departure area.

For a group in a hurry, the expansive distances we encountered seemed to never end. So it was for this modern train station with its restaurants and shops – it was the size of a football stadium. We made our way across to the departure gate for our train. As we did so, we looked more closely at our tickets, which showed a 12:56 p.m. departure, not 12:30 as we had expected. The husband in our newlywed couple noted he had said “fast train” 10 times while speaking to the ticket agent. Sadly, repeating it didn’t translate it, and as I thought back on his interaction with the ticket agent, I was relatively certain no commonly understood language had passed between them.

We had no way of telling if the train we were booked on was a fast train or a milk run. For me it was not a concern – Beijing was my destination. But for the honeymooners hoping to make their 6 p.m. flight, it was a big deal. We tried to find out, but no one we asked spoke any English and Mike’s Chinese wasn’t sufficient to penetrate the language barrier.

The train was packed to the gills.  We made our way through car after car of packed seats and curious Chinese glances, all the while pushing, pulling and prodding suitcases along the way, finally coming to the last car, where we found open seats together and settled down.

None of the train staff spoke English, so we never really knew when the train would arrive in Beijing. But the train did have a bar, and I bought the first round of drinks. Turns out that Budweiser is the only beer served on this train in China, so Budweiser it was.

As we drew closer to Beijing, we began to see the thick smog that blankets the city in the winter. Many homes use coal for heat, and the air quality is horrible at times; cars are banned, schools are closed, people are urged to stay home from work – and flights are diverted. It’s a serious problem that the Chinese government is working on, but it will take time to fix.

The train made good time, though it did stop a few times along the way – arriving at Beijing station at 5:30 p.m. after a 4-1/2 hour run. Sadly for our honeymooners, that was far too late for them to make it out to the airport and their flight to Thailand. We said our goodbyes and wished them luck on their onward journey. I headed out of the train station to find a taxi.

The plaza outside the station was enormous – what else could it be on this adventure? – and just packed with people on a Saturday night. I worked my way through the crowd – luggage still in tow – and through the thuggish men hawking unlicensed taxi rides, and eventually found the official taxi line. There were probably 60-70 people in the queue ahead of me, but it moved along and in 20 minutes I was in a cab.

I handed the driver a sheet with the name and address of my hotel written in Mandarin, and we sped away from the train station chaos. I arrived at the hotel at 7 p.m. on Saturday night, my 15-hour flight turning in to a 32-hour odyssey. But it’s one I won’t soon forget. I never heard from Veronica or Garret as to when they finally arrived in Thailand. I hope they made it.

Next stop: Shanghai.