Beijing to Hanoi - Grounded: A Down to Earth Journey Around the World - page 55

sounds like: “Blah blahdy blah blah BLAH-BLAH-BLAH-BLAH-BLAH!” Executed with proper
ferocity, that midsentence upshift is truly terrifying. I've been practicing it in my spare time, as I
feel the maneuver might come in handy someday when, in the middle of an argument, I realize that
in order to win, my only hope is to induce a massive heart attack in my opponent.
2. To get your attention, elderly Chinese women will sometimes clap their hands. Right in your face.
With percussive force. I've also been practicing this technique, occasionally employing it on Re-
becca. (For full effect, it's best if you follow your sonic-boom hand-clap with a frightening midsen-
tence volume boost. And then spit on the ground.)
For her part, Rebecca's been most intrigued to learn that in Mandarin there is no easy way to say
“no.” It's just not in the language. To express a negative, you can use the word bu —the equivalent of
“not”—coupled with the appropriate verb. So if someone inquires as to whether it's raining outside, you
could answer, “Not is.” Or if someone asks you if you want to go out to a movie, you could say, “Not
want.” Which, I would argue, sounds much harsher than an unadorned no.
Rebecca, in her endearing way, instantly cottons to this harshness. For a full afternoon, she adopts “not
x ” as her exclusive means of communicating with me. Rebecca, what time is it? “Not know.” Rebecca, do
you have the subway map with you? “Not have.” Rebecca, this is sort of wearing on me. “Not care!”
TODAY is National Day, which commemorates the 1949 founding of the People's Republic of China.
Thousands of people have gathered nearby in Tiananmen Square, beneath the giant portrait of Chairman
Mao. Like bridge-and-tunnelers pouring into Times Square on New Year's Eve, all sorts of rubes fresh
from the Chinese hinterlands have flocked here to celebrate the holiday.
It's pretty easy to spot the hicks. While most young Beijingers wear clothes that might not look out of
place in an American city, the hayseeds are wearing fashions that seem thirty years past their prime. Lots
of homemade stuff, too. Raggedly knit rainbow sweaters. Shakily hemmed, faded floral skirts.
The real tip-off is in the eyes. The country mice gaze slack-jawed at the skyscrapers, or at the hip city
chicks sauntering by. The true urbanites will keep their focus locked on that rickshaw careening around the
corner, headed straight for the crowded crosswalk.
Along with a flood of yokels, National Day ushers in the beginning of Golden Week. This week-long
holiday (there's another one that coincides with the lunar New Year) is designed to allow everyone in China
enough vacation time to visit relatives in distant cities. Or, alternatively, to go gambling with those relatives
in Macao.
At least 120 million Chinese will travel during this Golden Week. Rebecca and I hadn't quite realized
the magnitude of the holiday or how badly it would thwart our own plans. Yesterday we went to a railway
ticket office and asked if there were any seats available on a train to Shanghai in the next few days. The
man behind the counter actually laughed in our faces. He said something in Chinese to the coworker sitting
next to him, and then that dude started laughing at us, too.
Every form of transport into and out of major Chinese cities is solidly booked. People have begun re-
sorting to desperate measures. The China Daily has a story about a Beijing man who couldn't find a bus
ticket to visit his family back home in Dandong, near the North Korean border. After trying everything he
could think of, the exasperated man just gave up and bought a bicycle. He plans to ride it the entire six
hundred miles home—an estimated nine-day journey. I don't fully understand his logic, since his vacation
week will be over before he even reaches Dandong. But whatever. I guess what I'm saying is: Rebecca and
I are stuck here in Beijing.