While sitting on the bench before last night's game with Canada, Mr. Lee cautions me about the dangers of night travel on the train. First class sleeper...no problem. Second class sleeper...less problems. Chairs...problems. The station is just like Camden's Rand Transportation Center: kinda dirty, kinda crowded, and the people were kinda dressed nicely. I have to give credit here; the people of China take pride in how they present themselves.
Of course, my seat is the chair variety. So with Mr. Lee's words ringing in my ears, I prepare for 6 hours of vigilant bag watching and keen kinesthetic awareness in case of a hub-bub. The train car holds about 120 people. One hundred and nineteen seem to be looking at me as I trudge in two suitcases and two travel bags. Way more than anyone else is lugging. The conductor shows me my seat and away we go. It's midnight. The train actually leaves about 35 minutes later than scheduled. Combine that with the 30 minutes the Mayor cost me last night, and I could have seen the final 3:38 and said a proper good-bye to my Aussie mates. In retrospect, I should have called time out and let everyone know what was happening. I can only imagine what the players on the floor thought when they saw me leaving the arena with an escort. Sorry fellas.
I am on high alert for about 10 minutes when a fresh faced guy approaches me and speaks English slowly. I am sure I sound exactly the same way when I speak Spanish. He asks every Language 101 question. How am I? What's my name? Where am I from? If he had repeated America any louder the police may have come to see if there was a problem. In a blink, there were people semicircled around listening to him ask me questions in English and repeat the answers in Chinese. I find out that he, and I assume his girlfriend, are university students and their teachers name is Mr. Bill. They ask if I know him as he is American too. I disappoint them with my answer, but I compliment him on teaching them so well. When they ask my favorite sport, the crowd is all smiles. When I say my favorite team is the 76ers, crickets could be heard. The guy asks if Kobe is my favorite player and for the sake of tranquility on my previously feared train ride, I say yes. The crowd bristles with approval and from there I am the golden boy of the train. I am offered food and drink and smiles from the non-English speakers. Would be thug types spend the entire time either looking out the window into the dark of night, or just conked out. At one point, one of them is using my shoulder as a head rest. When we get to Shang Hai a little old lady, and believe me she was both little and old, tugs at my suit coat, that's right still wearing the game suit as I was dragged out without so much as a potty break, smiles and gives me the get-out-of the-train look that grandma's all over the world have mastered.
At the street exit of the train station a proactive taxi driver barks over in English, "airport? airport?" A sign from God. I walk to the driver and heckle the price. He tells me he can not do it on the meter for that price, but he can do it off. Mr. Lee let me know what price to settle for beforehand. I agree to off the meter because I really don't care what he does with taxes, and off we go. To his personal car just around the corner. This guy was a hustler. The airport was just over an hour away, no traffic to speak of and at 120 Kph we made good time.
My goal at the airport is to throw myself on the mercy of the airline. I need my ticket moved up one day and I don't want to pay a lot, anything really, to do it. At 6am the Shang Hai airport is quiet. Its high ceilings and towering glass windows flooding the open space with light. I find the United service counter and ask about switching flights. I am informed that I must wait until 9 when the check-in area opens. Ok, so three hours to kill, I can not read the local papers and there is not a television so common in US airports. Back to Louisiana. The prime suspect falls for the doe-eyed detective. The rouge cop falls for the doe-eyed detective. The bayou is on high alert as everyone is fearing, or talking, or chasing the swamp strangler.
I see the line starting to fill up, so I get in the snaking Great Adventure style rope maze. I get to the front and I am directed to the lady at line 8. I explain to her what I want to do and she directs me to United service around the corner. Really? I head over to where I started and the lady welcomes me with a smile and asks how she can help as if we had never met. I am pretty good with faces and I know this is the lady with whom I spoke earlier. She works with me this time, and adjusts my flight. In fact, she does a great job getting me onto an early flight to San Francisco then to Philadelphia. My original flight was into Newark. The change means I have a chance to attend the rehearsal dinner for my son's wedding. It would be a wonderful surprise.
I get back into the serpentine line to check my bags in. I do not like standing in line. Not that I am impatient, but I would rather be first or last, waiting just rubs me the wrong way. I am behind a tour group with matching shirts. I get to the front and I am directed to line 8. The lady welcomes me again with a big smile; she is glad things worked out for me. Then her face turns serious as I try to place two bags onto the belt. She says I have one bag too many. I assure her the bags I have are neither right nor wrong, they are just bags. My bags. The ones I came to China with 9 days ago. She says I would have to pay an additional $70 for the bag. I reach for my credit card and she smiles painfully and tells me I need to go to United service again. For the third time, I go to the lady and this time I am ready to share with her how I am feeling. I do not shout, but I have a certain serious face I break out when I want to make a point. I inform the lady she should have asked about luggage, she should have delineated the policy, I traveled just last week with this exact luggage and there was not an extra charge.
My point must have been well made. She spoke quietly and said, "We will keep it our secret." I wasn't exactly sure what she meant, but she stood and walked me over to the baggage line, spoke with the lady (not line 8 by the way) and my bags were tagged and processed for free. I felt triumphant. As I waited on the chair at gate 77, I decided to organize some papers in my travel bag. Seems my outrage over the bag charge was unfounded. Apparently I flew to China on American Airlines, not United. Ooops.
The flight was my chance to get some much needed sleep. Nine hours across the great circle of the Pacific Rim. Upon arrival, I would have a little more than an hour to change planes. I thought of fresh coffee and the San Francisco Chronicle darkening my fingers. Unbeknownst to me however, is the process I must endure to change planes. First, I must retrieve my luggage from the carousel and herd through customs. Then, I must surrender my bags in a separate line so that they are on the plane to Philly. Now here's the part I don't understand. I must go through airport security to get from the international flight area to the domestic flight area. Seriously? I have not been given any chance to interact with reality since stepping off the plane. No interlopers, no clandestine contacts, not even a bathroom where a package would be discretely deposited. By the time the gauntlet was run, my plane to the Bay area was already loaded. I was not last, but I had no room to spare. No coffee. No Chronicle.
Looking down from an airplane provides incredible perspective. If only we could see all of our life problems from above. How small things seem in relation to the area around them. Snow capped mountains. Long running rivers. Cloud formations float carefree. What if we could see our life from above? Would we be more relaxed? More grateful? More full of wonder?
Getting off the plane in Philadelphia the air smelled sweet, like a donut shop. Home. I was on track to make a surprise entrance at the rehearsal dinner and my anticipation level rose. I called Steve to let him know I was at the airport. He was on the way. Perfect. I was curbside with my bags when he pulled his shiny black pick-up to a stop. He commented that he wasn't expecting me to be wearing a shirt and tie, asking if i always traveled so formally. "Funny story," I said, “I was coaching the final minutes of a game last night......."
We arrived at the restaurant. Steve graciously offered to drop me off then take my bags directly to my house. I walked toward the front door and was immediately greeted by a couple of Kevin's friends. They were shocked I was there and asked me to wait outside so they could see the faces of everyone inside when I entered. No problem. When I walk inside, it was like the TV show CHEERS, everyone calling out my name and waving. I walked the room saying hello to everyone, especially glad to see Joan and the kids.