Now I know: the driver who brought me to the resort overcharged me 25%.  That’s not too bad, considering what he charged was more than fair by Swiss standards. 

At breakfast, I once again noticed how much of a disregard for others some smokers have here.  One guy puffed right at the buffet, as though that was normal.  That was one reason for sitting outside, the other being that I enjoy having breakfast outside, especially in January.  This time I sat next to the water lily pond, replete with “bud-weis-er” croaking frogs. 

Today’s driver drove better than the one who brought me to the hotel, but at daytime, with more traffic, and seeing more clearly that yes, he did just cross a double solid line, the drive was at least as harrowing.  On the dash he had a picture each of Mao Zedong and Lei Fong, though I don’t know if they would have approved of the feats to which they apparently inspired him.  We drove past a number of smelly, smoky old cars the motors of which, instead of purring, growled a death rattle that indicated to me they might fling mortal coils or other parts through my open window any time now.  I was glad to get to the airport unhurt. 

People stood in disorder in front of the check-in counters.  Once I figured out that a counter with people in front of it was in fact free, I got checked in quickly, though the mileage card seemed to bewilder the young agent.  I showed him my case with my clothes and asked if it was okay as a carry-on.  He looked over his shoulder at his colleague, who nodded her head yeah-yeah.  Once I saw the line waiting to get on the plane, I realized she’d said “yeah-yeah” to everyone else, too.  I sat for three and a half hours with my laptop backpack between my legs. 

I read George MacDonald on the flight, too easily distracted by a subtitled Chinese movie that required much less attention.  Before we landed, the purser advised us that temperatures in Beijing were -2°C and that we might want to prepare for that.  I wanted to until I opened the overhead bin and visualized getting out the case, opening it, and fishing for my clothes.  I decided I’d brave a few minutes of cold and change on the tarmac, but it seemed to me I was the only one who decided against changing in a cramped plane.  I had a Russian lady’s posterior uncomfortably close to my head for an uncomfortably long time.  It was even more annoying when we pulled up to a finger dock and didn’t even have to get out into the cold.  I could step out of the way in the terminal and put on pullover and jacket, and it made me feel better to see a few Chinese men doing the same. 

At the baggage claim, I was once again confronted with what is fast becoming my pet peeve.  Why can’t everyone stand two meters away from the belt?  We’d fit more people, see just as well what was coming, and those going for their bags wouldn’t have to worry about injuring those waiting.  It hit me that this is how the British must feel about Swiss queuing abilities. 

I also observed that on domestic Chinese flights, or at least this one, most the checked baggage comes as cardboard boxes or plastic crates, none of those fancy embossed suitcases. 

One of our partners in Beijing waited for me at the exit and led me to a taxi.  Our driver looked young, but spoke like a Chinese Louis Armstrong with phlegm in his lungs.  He honked far less than the Sanya drivers, but at the toll booth, when he tried to switch from one lane to the other, the Chinese girl in her little white Suzuki wouldn’t let him in, to which he reacted not by braking and getting in after her, but by driving closer and closer to her, rear-views touching, until at last he had to give in, but not without his rear-view bumping her car several times as she pulled past.  Two things I concluded from this, three I deduced:
(a) Not all Chinese girls are the docile tiger lilies of lore. 
(b) My driver was an idiot. 
(c) I am still loath to speak a word of conflict even when it is to correct someone who’s obviously wrong.  It wasn’t until our driver, still angry, sped after the girl on the far side of the booth and fishtailed around next to her that I meekly said “Stop.”  I should have said it much earlier – but I don’t know if it would have changed his foul mood, which made him a scary driver for a good ten minutes after that.  I thought Sanya was bad: this was worse. 

So, tomorrow I need to prove to a customer that I can get our microscope to do what our brochure says it can but I’ve never personally done and all our tech guys agree is difficult.  It’s like trying to prove the top speed of a fast car, but nobody really makes good tires for that model and it takes a special type of road for it to go fast.  Oughta be fun…