The Second Floor

We find our heroine in a seemingly relaxed state where she finally discovered the portal to the second floor, an escalator beyond customs. So, everything is good, right? I should be fine, my blood pressure should be slowly lowering, and maybe I can sit down and buy a cool beverage and calmly wait for the remaining two hours I have before my plane departs. Ha. Ha. Ha…

Once I step off the escalator, I have a brief moment of accomplishment and happiness. I made it to the mythological second floor. I wasn’t destined to die on the first floor of a Chinese airport! However, upon my immediate arrival to the second floor, a couple of very important details were made painfully aware to me. 

For starters, 90% of what was being advertised was in Chinese. An airport in China is mostly advertising to Chinese-speaking individuals? GASP! Ok, so this piece of information was more like a frustrating reminder that I now belonged to a minority group in the sea of Asians that comprises this Chinese airport. Aside from airline names and numbers, everything my eyes beheld was illegible, which brings me to my second realization…I didn’t know the name of the airline that was taking me to Qingdao. 

When I left Charlotte, I was given three ticket-sized pieces of paper stapled together. These were my new best friends. I assumed that they were my three tickets, destined to take me through every leg of my journey one airport at a time, because two of them had already served their purpose in Charlotte and Detroit. Upon further examination of this third “ticket” once I got to the second floor, I realized that it was not a ticket, but a voucher for a ticket. My seat was reserved and ready to be sat in, once I figured out which airline I was supposed to be on. However, this voucher didn’t have an airline name. All that was written on it was my name, my destination, and a letter/number combination (which I found out later was code for my airline’s name). 

I also realized, upon looking up from my examination of this imposter-ticket, that the second floor of the Beijing airport made the track-sized arena I had just been hoofing on the first floor look like a one-room shack. The second floor appeared to go on forever. It was bigger, brighter, more crowded, and the ceiling resembled an enclosed stadium. At one point I saw birds flying around in the rafters…that’s how giant this place was. 

So, here I am in front of a Chinese-inscribed ticket counter near the escalator I rode to freedom, hoping to find some answers. I walked up to one of the flight attendants and showed her my phony ticket. In broken English she gestured that I keep walking to my right (towards more vastness that is the Beijing airport) and said that I should go near “H.” “H?” Is that code for something? Well, I wasn’t sure, but I doubted she could help me further so I thanked her and started the trek towards, what I hoped would be, “H.”

After walking about 8 more minutes I realized what she meant. She had directed me towards a giant T-shaped intersection where there were rows and rows of airline ticket counters all labeled with a letter of the alphabet. I maneuvered slowly through the throngs of people (seriously, so many people) and stopped several times when my bags tipped over (because at this point, I had stacked my duffel on top of my rolling suitcase because my arms were about to give out. The only problem is my rolling suitcase was being uncooperative, and I’m sure it didn’t help that it kept getting jostled by rogue Asians). After 10 more minutes of trekking, I made it to the “H” counter. 

And here I return to our heroine’s main obstacles: I still didn’t know which airline I needed to show my ticket voucher to, I was still in a primarily Chinese-speaking environment, and (something I realized days after I arrived in Qingdao) I kept mispronouncing my destination city to everyone I asked for help, which I’m sure hindered my communication at times. (The city is pronounced, “Ching-dow,” but as an educated American, I kept referring to it as, “Key-dow” so nobody knew where the heck I was going until they looked at my ticket voucher.) 

Oh, and at this point, after walking around nearly half of China (which I’m convinced is the approximation of the Chinese airport) looking for my flight, I had to pee, and I was so sweaty I looked like I just showered. I wish I was exaggerating. I kept using my sleeves to wipe sweat out of my eyes and off of my face as much as I could, especially after I noticed that NO ONE ELSE was sweating. Nope. No one. I was the largest person (obviously, I’m American) I had yet encountered thus far, which helped boost my confidence of course. Not to mention that all of the Asian women I had seen were supermodel thin and had impeccable style to match. 

Me? I’m huffing and puffing around the airport (after almost 24 hours of flying) in a t-shirt and jeans, simply drenched. I felt like a hippo trying to hang with antelope. Oh, and I was still lost. 

This is exactly how I felt right about now.

Anyway, so my goal at this point is to calm down and ask someone for help. I glance around at the multitude of people I’m standing near and have few choices that look promising: a Middle Eastern family, a handful of preoccupied Asian businessmen, and an airport worker helping a Chinese family. I decided to walk around a bit and see who else I could find. I made my way around the ticket counters until I approached the security checkpoint, where you go once you have a ticket. And that’s when I met my new best friend. 

I finally saw a slightly chubby Asian! He was a guard working around the security checkpoint, and he had the best English of anyone I met in the airport that day. I don’t know if it was the look of utter desperation on my face, the fact that I was drenched in sweat, or my white-girl complexion, but all I did was look over at him and make eye contact and he made a beeline for me. I told him I needed help, and the first thing he did was pull out a folded pile of paper towels from his jacket pocket. 

“You look like you could use some paper.”

 

I noticed his forehead was slightly glistening, and I realized that he was a fellow sweater in a sea of non-sweating Asians. We had a special bond. I could have hugged my new paper pal.  

After looking at my ticket for about 8 minutes, he gave me the name of an airline and told me which ticket counter to go see. I wandered over to the ticket counter, and after pondering for an additional 5 minutes over which of the 3 lines I should stand in, I boldly stepped forward and approached one of the counters. Fortunately for me, it was exactly where I needed to be, and I received my real ticket and dropped off my rolling suitcase with the attendant. I was then directed to return to the security checkpoint, my final step before I can wait at the gate. 

Happily, I stood in line and wiped more sweat from my face with my new paper towel. The hard part was over. As I stood there waiting in line, I heard someone behind me call, “American! American!” Turning around, I saw the guard who had helped me earlier. He made his way over to where I was standing in line and asked if I had found the counter and if I was ok. I told him I was all set and thanked him again. “If you listen to me, you will get where you are going,” he told me with a smile before walking back to his post. I will probably never see him again, but he is one of my favorite people in China. Go with God paper pal.

The rest of my time in the airport was pretty docile in comparison to my experience on the first and (part of) the second floor. I finally found a bathroom where I met “the squatty potty,” and was able to dry off my saturated face a little more thoroughly. I didn’t meet anyone else who spoke English until I arrived at my last destination, Qingdao, even though I began to mistakenly think that I could understand certain Chinese words. 

Upon further reflection, I’m pretty sure that my airline stewardesses were not asking guests if they wanted “cinnamon rolls” and were really asking in Chinese if they had trash. At least, that’s the new theory because there wasn’t any trace of this confectionery treat on the plane. Trust me, I checked.