As I began my little trip to the opposite side of the
sphere on which we dwell - to a different and foreign culture - I contemplated crafting
a magnanimous blog post on how we are really not all that different and that it
IS a small world after all. Instead I
find myself standing in a Shanghai subway car at 11:00 pm typing this post on my phone with
one hand and clutching an H&M bag in the other, blogging about my quest to
not wear the same pair of underwear four days in a row.
I travel to China at least once a year to conduct my
futile battle against counterfeiters. A few years back, I had a 10 day stint in China which included nearly a week at a
rather luxurious Hilton. Despite the
posh accommodations, the hotel had a distinctive Valjean dragging Marius
through the Parisian sewer odor that I dubbed “Jasmine Turd"; the “turd”
for obvious reasons and the “jasmine” because the hotel attempted to mask the
smell of seeping sewage gases with copious amounts of jasmine perfume. Well if you have ever encountered poo in your
life, and I bet you have, you know that following up a healthy poop smell with
a flower smell (or any other aromatic scent for that matter) does not supplant
the smell. To the contrary, it merely produces a new flavor of crap which is as
unappetizing as the original flavor.
Hence the term “Jasmine Turd” was coined among me and my
coworkers as a long-running derision of China when we happen upon a current of
foul air. Little did I know that Murphy's Law would crossbreed with Karma
to give me my own particular aroma for the Chinese to endure.
So this little quagmire of mine began where my last post
ended, San Francisco! No, this was not
an extended vacation. This was a short, in fact FAR too short, San Fran layover
between Salt Lake City and Shanghai. Layovers are tricky, too long and they waste time;
too short and they might just drag on into the next day, especially for a
flight to China. So when my first flight
was delayed 50 minutes with a 55 minute layover, even a common core math
student could tell me I was in a heap of connection trouble.
After some swift talking, I got United to drop me on a
Delta flight that would give me a 35 minute connection – of course the Shanghai
gate was on the exact opposite end of the airport and through a different security
screening – but there was hope. As soon
plane door opened at the gate I was trucking (this may only be a Utah term, but
it mean “booking” which means running with conviction) through the terminals
like a Marine in basic. Since I wear loose
fitting but comfy cargos when I travel- that are way too big for me, I was
holding up the britches with one hand and holding my messenger bag/briefcase on
my back with the other. After a side
stitch and a few stares, I made the gate without flashing any San Franciscans my
backside – always a victory.
Sweating profusely as I boarded the plane, the check in
desk said that they were just about to pull my luggage. “Great,” I thought. "I made it and my luggage was not pulled off
the airplane, now time to hunker down for 12 hours of movies, work, bad food,
and endlessly trying to keep feeling in my butt."
Open Scene, Interior airport terminal, Shanghai China, wary
traveler with loose pants waits for his bag at the luggage carousal… and waits…
and waits. It does not come. He realizes he is screwed. Enter scene left United baggage support
specialist. He taps on his phone and
informs the traveler that his bag is in San Francisco with Delta Airline. The next flight would be arriving in 24 hours. Not good.
Still, I would live, right? It was just one extra day. Except that my first day was actually two
days crammed into a day and a half – it is an international dateline thing. So the clothes I put on Tuesday morning would
likely not be replaced until Friday morning.
Ewww. OK for scout camp, not OK for lawyer business
trips.
I knew I had to start making hygiene compromise, two
words you never want to hear side by side.
When I shower, do I wash my armpits and wash away any lingering antiperspirant? Or do I wash up and embrace the BO with a
clean slate, since it is easier to find a blue eyed China-man than to find deodorant
in this county. Do I wash my hair and
hair treatment (the pleasing odor is half the point) and go frizz dude or embrace
by inner S.E. Hinton greaser? Do I flip
my skivvies inside out, go commando, or steal some from the lost and found? (Loose cargo pants foreclosed commando). I would be meeting with two different law
firms that day along with one of my corporation’s regional directors, so these are the hygiene compromises I get to make at midnight in China. I am Jasmine Turd.
After enduring a few jokes and offering several apologies
at work, I needed some assurance that my bags were on the way for work
tomorrow. Calling United, they didn’t
have the bag, Delta had it. Calling
Delta, they didn’t have the bag anymore.
They sent it to LAX (obviously) and then gave it China Southern… is that
even an airline? – and gave me a phone number (a wrong one of course). Finding the right number I learned that they
were only in the office 9:00 AM eastern which was 9:00 PM at the end of Thursday
in China. This was not good. I had nothing for tomorrow.
With the specter of wearing the same clothes from Tuesday
to Friday, I knew I needed a back-up plan in case China Southern didn’t come
through – and really should I expect them to?
So I got online in China and I was in luck, there was an H&M one subway stop over and I just prayed it was open late. Then I called United again and they said they
would compensate me for clothes for my next day if necessary. So I had a store and money, now I just needed confirmation from China Southern. Sure
enough, they said they didn’t have my bag.
They last scanned my bag at an airport whose code CAN, but had no record of it from there? The Indian
operator lady at China Southern (dots not feathers) couldn’t pronounce the city
that was hosting my bag, so all I knew that it was not Shanghai. Time to go mobile.
Trying to the balance the need for speed with the desire not
to stink myself anymore, I made it to the subway. Boarding and grabbing the overhead rail, I
knew I was in trouble. I had bought the B&O
Railroad Monopoly property with not enough railroad and too much BO. This mall had better be open.
It WAS open and I found H&M in the basement. Victory? Not yet.
I like H&M in the US, except for one thing; they are notorious for
having way too many skinny pants and tight shirts. Now if they have skinny jeans in the US, the idea of skinny jeans in China horrifies me. Still
I had to try. So I grabbed what I could in
a size too big and ran to the changing room.
Do these people have calves at all? I see them walking, they must have
some muscle down there. So why do their pants not allocate any space
for this important muscle group? Literally,
and I do mean literally, I could not get my foot through the legs opening in
half of the pants. These would be skinny
pants on Karen Carpenter.
Back in the real world, I wear a size 34 waist. So I figured I would tryout between 34 and 36
in China. I grabbed some of each size
and went to work. The size 34’s fit like
a glove, an O.J. Simpson glove. It felt
like I was receiving some sort of physical exam you are only required to
receive after turning 40. And if my butt
did not fit, the pants I must acquit. The
36’s, the Chinese equivalent of parachute pants, fit rather snuggly around my
legs, but I did have circulation.
Unfortunately, they had 4” of excess material at the waist. I surmise that in China if you are bigger
than a 34 (and the biggest they had was 36), you may as well kidnap Princess
Leah and put her in golden metal bikinis, because you are Jabba the Hut. Nevertheless, my apparently gluttonous butt needed
a home.
Next up, a shirt. Like
calves, Chinese are born without shoulders.
So in order to get a shirt with shoulder room you also get a bottom half
that is designed by the maternity division.
Shirt after shirt came and went, several of which I got stuck somewhere
between my head and arm popping out of their respective holes. Finally, I found one that fit my shoulders and
provided back-up stomach room in case of unexpected pregnancy.
Now my wardrobe at home is already made up of khaki pants
and blue shirts, so I wanted to get something a little different to mix things
up. But what actually fit? Khaki pants and a blue shirt. ***sigh***
But I had pants and I had a shirt, but I owned nothing
else. I had no socks, no belt, and no
underwear. They all had to be obtained. One of the many problems with Communist
China is that my undergarment brand of choice is not readily available here. So
I had to go with what they had on hand. So it was these bad boys…
Long live the Queen!
(They didn’t have Superman in my size).
I hope I can clear US customs sporting these beauties. At checkout the lady there told me in a thick
Chinese accent that I could not return the underwear or socks once I tried them
on. Yeah, wasn't planning on it, but if these
things are way too tight for me, I would have stretch these bad boys out beyond
any size recognition had some Chinese fellow followed up by buying my used
underwear. So these were going on my backside
or going in the trash – agreed. Socks – check. Belt – check.
I had clothing.
Great. But I still stunk. Could I find deodorant and perhaps even hair
treatment? Running around the basement of
the mall, new clothes in hand, I saw a store with Legos, plants, and deli meat
on display. Perhaps deodorant was part
of this eclectic mix too? I found hair
stuff right away and hunted until I found something that had one non-Chinese
word on it – “Deodorant.” I ignored the price and ran to check out.
It was done. The
mall was closing down just in the nick of time.
I would not smell like poo tomorrow.
I would spend my next and final day in China with clean clothes, clean British underwear, deodorant, and a non-Art Garfunkel Fro. I would be civilized again. I could stop stressing. As I board the subway home, bags in hand, I think
that perhaps I was too critical of China and the smell. I myself contributed to the overall funk in
the air for two days now. Maybe I should
be more understanding and less judgmental.
There are some unique challenges and legitimate cultural differences
afoot. Perhaps a little more respect.
As I climb the stairs out of the subway station and
breathed in the cool evening air heading back to my hotel all I can think is, “This
place still smells like Jasmine Turd, with not enough jasmine.”
I never saw my bag in China. I spent three hours Saturday morning combing the Shanghai
airport for it. No dice. It was gone.
It was only after I got to Singapore did I receive a message at 2:00 am Sunday
morning that the prodigal suitcase had returned. It had been sitting that this CAN airport for
three days for some unknown reason.
United ended up comping me for two additional days of
clothes which were equally hard to find.
I ended up traveling to Singapore with my briefcase and two H&M paper shopping bags containing all of my belonging. Of course, after writing the last “jasmine
turd” line above, karma got me again, and I left these two bags on my airplane in Singapore. Once again, I had nothing but
my briefcase and a funky smell (as the “deodorant” I bought in China was not
really deodorant, but apparently foot spray).
Only after begging the nice lady at Lost and Found were my H&M bags
located after a 45 minute search and rescue mission. Finally, success!
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