Chris Stasse: Official Ambassador of the Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich

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"Chris Stasse: Official Ambassador of the Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich"

100 years ago, the horses on this road would have carried a lot more—physically and symbolically—than the backs of eager tourists.

100 years ago, relations between China and Tibet were as shaky as today, but nonetheless had a major artifice of trade linking them together. This was the Tea and Horse Road, which formed a kind of second, southern "Silk Road" connecting China to Central Asia through the Himalayas. China wanted Tibetan horses. Tibet wanted Chinese tea, much of which was grown here in the middle of Yunnan Province. I drank a cup of the famous Pu'er tea this morning.

There was no doubt that this was the road Eleanor and I stumbled upon, though it had been steadily disappearing for lack of use since WWII. We even saw a few signs: 茶吗古道, literally, 'Tea Horse Ancient Way'. Of course, they were recently erected, as the path had donned new commercial significance since its glory days. Horses, perhaps descendants of their Tibetan ancestors, now prove their money's worth carting tourists around a team of villages next to Lijiang. Visitors feel involved; villagers make easy money—both are riding on the coattails of a now lost and legendary epoch.

•

Set on avoiding the main highway, Eleanor and I had taken the western, less traveled route out of Lijiang. This would bring us first to the aforementioned cluster of villages, send us up and over a mountain pass and finally deliver us to the Yangtze River. From there we would hike through Tiger Leaping Gorge, at which point Eleanor would be forced to return to college to complete her thesis. I would finish the last stretch of land to reach Shangri-La alone.

We quickly found out that horses weren't the only reason the region west of Lijiang was a popular destination for travel. Spring had brought great fields of yellow and pink crops to bloom; their identities and final products neither Eleanor nor I knew. This fact, the nearby lake, the mountain backdrop, winding paths, welcoming weather, classic Chinese farms, sheer variety of shapes and colors—all suffused into an almost Wizard of Oz kind of ambiance. We both agreed it would be too easy to stay here for weeks or months, working at a local temple or with the peasants, perhaps even teaching English. We camped at the base of the mountain and, next morning, went into the heart of a more affluent village to buy breakfast and supplies.

Here, we found a market for large-scale restaurants that accommodate the big groups of tourists consistently passing through. We took brunch at one of them. May I remark here—now that I am at end of my travels—how different Chinese eating can be from the American tradition, how central and remarkable rice is to their cuisine, and how necessary it is to eat with patience and enjoyment, wherever you are. You probably already know that the Chinese almost always do "family-style" eating, wherein dishes are to be shared by the group—even if it is a group of just two—and one only ever orders for himself if he is by himself. The Chinese eat with a small ceramic bowl in one hand, chopsticks in the other, and they may refill said bowl six or seven times during a meal. Because it is expected and almost always necessary, there isn't really a recognized idea of "seconds," as colloquially exists in America.

When I visited China earlier in my youth, I was more than a little perturbed by Chinese cuisine's apparent failure to strongly delineate between breakfast, lunch and dinner. We in the West have fairly solid ideas of what constitutes the three meals of the day. Eggs and toast for breakfast, a sandwich for lunch, and tacos for dinner—for instance. If one goes out to eat in China, however, there are no breakfast menus (indeed, as soon as one leaves the bigger cities, it is hard to find menus at all), there are no "diners," there are no "sandwich shops." One goes to a small restaurant, and regardless of the time of day, almost always orders some combination of rice/noodles, vegetables and meat. The larger metropolises and an individual's taste of course present some variance—but they are exceptions within the greater cultural norm.

It is not at all uncommon to have eaten rice for breakfast, lunch and dinner. After living here for several months, this fact does not distress me one bit. Actually, I must confess a certain respect, admiration and even preference for this most basic, basic of foods. Learning to cook it in my small stove has only exacerbated this delight. Rice, rice porridge, rice noodles, rice cake, rice milk, rice ice-cream, rice crackers: don't travel to China if you don't have at least some appetite for its staple delicacy.

I have enjoyed Yunnan for it's generally laid back atmosphere. In particular, the people have a habit of telling you to do everything slowly; it's as common as wishing someone a pleasant day or good luck. "Slow" in Mandarin is "màn" and one hears constantly "màn man zôu" (walk slowly—especially popular for us), "màn man zûo" (work slowly), and of course, "màn man chī" (eat slowly). When we visited Buddhist temples this last one was practically their anthem. Eleanor and I took to wishing "màn man chī" to each other or to our hosts before a meal. And then we would each try our best to actually follow through with it. Indeed, after traveling to dozens of different places, after meeting and saying goodbye to a plethora of different people, after witnessing food—its significance not to be over or understated—remain a personal and social touchstone, I must take a moment to preach: have a conscious relationship with your food, with where your food comes from, and with how you eat it. To me, saying grace and saying "màn man chī" are both essentially the same reminders, and their importance is not to be gleaned over or desensitized to.

It is with this in mind that Eleanor and I each gave a wry smile when three distinct groups of rambunctious tourists came, ate, paid and left in the time it took us to eat but one meal that morning. Our breakfast, through no fault of the cook, I am sure tasted better.

•

Speaking of where our food comes from, Eleanor and I needed to buy rice and meat before embarking across the mountains. Rice we procured easily enough in buying it from the restaurant itself. When we asked for meat, however, they brought us a massive slab of salted pork fat and claimed it was all they had. While pure fat is served more often and even as a dish unto itself in China, Eleanor and I were not enthusiastic. Instead, we managed to find on the street some old Naxi women dressed in traditional garb selling fruit (the Naxi ethnicity constitutes a majority in Lijiang and its surrounding area). Eleanor asked where we might buy meat and one woman was kind enough to direct us to a possible location—her house. We were led into her yard and up to the attic where, lo and behold, strips of pure, salted fat hung. Clearly we needed to express exactly what we wanted; it took some time before she revealed her store of sausage and dried, seasoned bacon. Half a kilo of the latter: 40 yuan. It was expensive, but no more expensive than we would find at the supermarket. At least we knew exactly who slaughtered, salted and sold it, and exactly which family our money would benefit.

•

The Ancient Tea and Horse road was infamous for treacherous mountain passes, dangerous and exhausting even before one decided to haul a load across them. Eleanor and I received a first-hand taste of this as we ascended the slopes north of the Naxi villages.

Remember: walking was our work; it was what gave meaning and balance go the comforts we might otherwise enjoy during the day. A student has her schoolwork; a farmer has his fields; a traveler—of our sort anyway—has the load he carries with each kilometer completed. We were prepared, therefore, to follow through with and even enjoy the inanely repetitive step after step which forms the very essence of hiking. At its best, hours of walking holds a meditative potential, wherein one resigns himself completely to the fatigue, soreness, ache of each turning in his muscles. He thinks of nothing else, he feels nothing else; indeed, he desires nothing else. The work, otherwise boring or torturous, otherwise a mere means to an end, becomes immersive, self-standing, a goal completely aloof of any other idea or conception. It becomes, in a strange and elusive manner, blissful. In this way, though not in this way alone, the journey was the destination.

•

We summited or at least, the road we were on decided to summit. The top of the mountain was still high above us. The weather was mild but our clothes were nonetheless soaked. Our path had for hours been devoid of people or houses and so it was a relief to finally encounter a goat-herder and his flock.

The man, though long into adulthood, looked young, and had a fair face and dark skin. He wore the classic, national hat, green with a red star, along with a herder's satchel. Eleanor talked to him for a while and from listening I gleaned that if we continued walking the same road, it would be three hours before we reached the next village; that it was not a good idea to do so; that he might show us some kind of other route instead. Afterwards, Eleanor explained there were wild boars and large cats in the forest that even he wouldn't take a chance with. The "other road" actually led to his house and his village, and was only a half an hour's walk away. With little hesitation, we followed our new friend up a path steeper than anything we had encountered that day. We found ourselves in a tiny mountain village of just 64 souls.

We happily relieved ourselves of our packs inside the living room, which was apparently also the dining room and kitchen. This room and indeed the man's house as a whole would be dirty and basic by any "normal" standards of consideration—but it seemed perfectly accommodating to us weary wanderers. We soon met the mother and 19 year old son, and learned that the younger daughter was currently away in school. The son I immediately felt to be a warm, charming and simple fellow. He easily looked 23 or 24, was well-built and sturdy from years of farm work. What contrast!—myself lanky, tall, curious and worldly; him strong, reserved, soft and wholesome—and yet each the same age. The whole village was ethnically Yi (they are a typically mountainous minority) and all the women, upon reaching a certain age, donned the same customary clothing. The mother, thus clad in a rainbow gown and headdress, left a lasting impression on both Eleanor and I. She, like her husband, looked young and fair for her age and moved about in a pointed, elegant manner. She spoke little. More than anything, I was struck by her resolute sense of place in the family. I'm quite sure she knew her role as mother, wife and villager so deeply that it hardly ever surfaced into conscious consideration. An ingrained sense of duty—both liberating and constraining in nature—was easy to imagine as she most likely moved straight from the dominant wing of her father to the dominant wing of her husband. It gave her an inexpressibly simple, childlike quality.

One of the first things all three of them did upon setting eyes on me was, well, to laugh. I walked inside the house wearing what I thought was the classic Chinese farmer's hat: a straw woven pointed dome, perfectly fashioned to keep the sun off you. We had bought it the previous morning from a few older Naxi women for 10 RMB, and I had been wearing consistently it ever since. Eleanor, after enjoying her share of the laughter, informed me that this lovely hat was, in fact, a rice cover. One places it on a pot of steaming rice, and viola: said rice cools slower. Though sufficiently embarrassed, I insisted that it was a worthy hat as well, and adamantly maintained a facade of naive tourism thereafter. Other knowing Chinese would have a chuckle, and other tourists, funnily enough, would greet it with legitimate admiration.

Our host family had a sense humor, but they did not appear interested in asking us many questions—apart from where we were from and where we were going. It was us who did most of the talking. In keeping with tradition, we as guests were treated to a special dinner: a pig's head was placed on the roaring fire before us. Eleanor and I were both a little deflated to learn that such rituals were common, that the village often received tourists, and that there was an odor of business about it. We were special perhaps only in the sense that we walked there.

We feasted that night on pork and dumplings and were offered the sister's unused bed to spend the night. There was a fire going even in the siblings' bedroom—at 3300m elevation, it can be bitterly cold at night. We talked with the brother for some time before bedding down. He showed us laminated pictures of a family vacation, and even proudly presented one of his girlfriend, soon to be wife. He explained that from five or six years old he had been chosen to marry the daughter of a neighboring family, and that arranged marriages were the rule not the exception. Alas, once the proper, age, he had hardly liked, let alone loved this girl, and his family was forced to pay a sum for the disavowal. I'm not sure who I felt more sorry for: the rejected girl or the son's family. In any case, our friend now had a new girlfriend with whom he was very happy.

I asked Eleanor to pose him a question: Did any of the village youth ever leave the community out of curiosity, frustration, or what have you? Was there even an inclination to do so? He responded "no" on both accounts. Given the sheer size of this village, given the clear intimacy of culture and social life, considering that history was, behind these fences, neatly bound and thought of as complete: I could see why.

•

Early the next morning, the mother and father were nice enough to show us a convenient path down the mountain. We bade them thanks and goodbye and hiked until reaching the next village. Here, tourists were not often received, but we still were welcomed with similarly impressive hospitality. A man whom we ran into on the street inquired after our venture, invited us to his house and began cooking lunch for us. He hid a chuckle over my hat.

I was immeasurably glad to have Eleanor there with me during this period of travel. While I could communicate with people inside a few basic subjects, my Mandarin restricted me from that delectable and undeniably human activity: storytelling. Eleanor would tell our relevant stories to most everyone we met, sometimes abridged versions, sometimes in great detail. They returned with stories of their own. Last night, that son had given us a small window into his utterly different life; now this man illustrated what it meant to be father in an impoverished Chinese family farm.

A delicious meal of beef soup, eggs, potatoes and fried rice was laid out before us two travelers; he sat down with us, but did not partake of the food. I listened intently, and dared not interrupt. The man spun a tale whose subject and direction I could only guess at. Potatoes...forest...school...family...daughters: fragments procured from his thick mountain accent. Not much of a story to my ears. Midst their talking, the mother of the household passed by and scolded her husband for not cooking a new batch of rice for the guests. It occurred to me in an instant that this was the practical origination of châo fàn, or fried rice: revive old, cooked rice by mixing it with heat and oil. We insisted that what we had was already perfectly satisfying.

As the man finished talking and began taking care of our dishes, I immediately asked after Eleanor. She brushed aside my shabby guesswork and told me thus: the family and farm were indeed experiencing difficulties, more so than our previous hosts. Potatoes were nearly the only crop that grew at this elevation, and yet it was hardly worth it to try and sell them. Between a smattering of trade and 1000 RMB of annual government support, the family had next to no income. Due heavy subsistence farming, this would not be such a damning position, were it not for the fact that both their daughters were currently attending boarding school. Bus fares, room and board almost depleted their already shallow pool of income. For at least one day of the week, the daughters were forced to fast.

As Eleanor imparted this to me, I tried to remember exactly how the farmer had spoken. It had been with masterful tact, I realized, and smiled with appreciation. This man invited us to a savory meal he did not join; he embarked on a story of need, though not one word directly asked us to fill it; he portrayed his position, mentioned even that other kind travelers had donated sums of cash, but managed to exert zero pressure on us to follow suit. If pressure was felt, it came from within. In keeping with unspoken tradition—central to Chinese social life—he carefully guarded his honor and created a chance for us to gracefully embellish our own. The ball was now in our court.

"You want to give money, don't you," I asked Eleanor, grateful at that moment that they couldn't speak English.

She nodded. "How much?" she asked.

I thought. "100 each?"

She nodded again. "Maybe it's best leave it to them in an envelop, and address it to the daughters themselves. We could even write them encouraging notes."

I agreed; she wrote a few lines in Chinese and I wished them good luck and happy studies in English.

"That's quite a tip for some potatoes and rice," I couldn't help but mention to Eleanor. To deflect any objections, we slipped them the paper at the last possible moment before leaving.

"Zàijiàn," we said. "Zhù nî hâo yùn." Goodbye. Wish you luck.

We gave but a few leaves of paper, yet our packs seemed lighter, the road quicker.

•

As we descended the mountain, forest gradually gave way to villages, and villages eventually gave way to a town. It was based alongside the Yangtze river. We crossed a narrow bridge there to pick up supplies. It was our fifth day of travel and for the first time since leaving Lijiang we hitched a ride northward for free. Funnily enough, we immediately regretted holding our thumb out to the sound this particular vehicle, because, as we soon found out, it was a tour bus. We expected them to ask for cash, in which case we would have to politely urge them on—in keeping with our rule. But the driver declared our fare completely free because we, in his words, "looked very tired." It's true we stuck out like a sore thumb in this bus full of tourists.

15 kilometers that bus carried us, to the foot of Tiger Leaping Gorge. Of all the tourist destinations I have visited, this is one of the few I would actually recommend. It is touted to be the largest gorge in the world which still has a river running through it. The 50 RMB entrance fee is understandable, considering the local work force must have cleared the path, erected rest stops and posted signs. One begins hiking the gorge at the base of Haba Snow Mountain—lying east of the river—and enjoys the beautiful scenery of Yulong Snow Mountain, which lies west of the river. It is not a tourist parade up the mountain. The foreigners one encounters along the way are punctuated by herders and farmers who are simply going about about their daily business. If one finds a guest-house for travelers, it is likely the only building in the village pandering to such a market. And no matter the influx of tourism, it would be difficult corrupt the natural ambience and composure of a setting such as this.

A farmer lady put us up in her house the night before our big hike up the mountain. It must have been March 27 by that point, and the notion of our looming separation weighed heavy in our minds. Eleanor and I had but one night left before she would assume her social and academic responsibilities back in Dali, and neither of us were ecstatic about this fact. We left at dawn the next morning to make the most of the last full day together on the Road.

It was steep, of course, and the dirt path stretched just five or six feet from the side of the mountain. But we were conditioned to the rigors of such a road. It made for a small ego massage when a young Chinese tourist joined our duo, and exclaimed more than once how laborious it was to match our pace, even with a pack that was admittedly much lighter.

He must have been 24 or 25 years old and the first thing I noticed about him was a terribly heavy accent. Honestly, I thought he might have a speech impediment. But he was simply a man from northern China, Beijing to be specific, and I had grown accustomed to the speech patterns of Shanghai and Yunnan. I could hardly understand him, despite the fact that I began my journey in his home town.

Our host the night before had warned it might take four or five hours until this particular path crested, and that its last stretch before summiting was arduous. The so-called "28 bends" (the road bends more than a dozen times as it pinnacles in steepness) were indeed exhausting, but we made it from the base of the mountain to the top in just under three hours. For lunch, I suggested peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Eleanor gave a small jump in delight. I pulled out a few well-worn bottles, as this had become a staple meal for snacks and dessert on the road. In Shanghai, I shared the "American sandwich" with Arthur the Russian and my host families; in Hong Kong with Maddy; in Yunnan with Eleanor, along with the myriad of different people we encountered while hiking, Buddhists and farmers alike. This Beijinger, too, seemed to give it positive reviews. Lunching over the awesome mountain precipice, I confess I had many reasons to sit back and smile in contentment. Not the least of which was knowing this utterly simple recipe would live on in at least a few tiny pockets of people, after I took my leave of China.

•

The next day, after camping on the mountain and experiencing a series of "lasts" (last rice porridge together, last night in a tent, last meal with the stove, last instance stuffing the impossibly large sleeping bags into the impossible small pouches), we exchanged teary goodbyes. Eleanor and I had gotten to know each other well—certainly well enough to maintain correspondence when I returned to the States and she returned to college. I should say it is fitting I found a more than adequate travel partner to explore China with before I concluded my trip. Indeed, if I ever rekindled the urge to jump back on the Road in the land of the Red Flag—I would know exactly who to call first. If you're reading this, Eleanor, I again declare my gratefulness to the friendship we saw blossom over the weeks.

Among the plethora of amazing scenery on this mountain, I had, before we parted, encountered a giant crevice, worn by a hidden waterfall, which demanded a certain adventurousness to climb down to and explore. I was not the first to hike down to it, but I was perhaps the first to camp for three nights and two days under awnings of sloping rock and stone, without need for a tent. I had been aching for solitude and reflection and thus took refuge there until April.

I enjoyed the range of different meals I had learned to cook on the road: oatmeal, rice, bacon, noodles. I wrote and meditated. Occasionally, hikers would take notice of the young man sitting casually beside the river bed below them. I would invite them down to take pictures, show off my encampment, and offer them tea or food. The water was probably clean enough to drink, though I never did so without first boiling. I did, however, wash clothes in the stream and dared to bathe in the freezing cold waterfall that intoned a perpetual background hum.

I certainly considered this time a chance to rest and rejuvenate before continuing to Shangri-La. Of course, I did not not then that within just a few days I would again set foot on American soil. I did not know that the precious moments in my neat, secluded base entailed their own secret series of personal "lasts".

•

Morning, April 2nd. I had just taken a badly needly shower in an actual hostel. I breakfasted with a friendly and highly interesting Estonian man who had been traveling in China for some time and spoke decent Mandarin. He enjoyed the mountains as a setting in which to translate ancient Estonian myths into Chinese. He would be the first to do so. We talked that morning of studying Mandarin, of the nature of travel, of the rocky relationship between China and Tibet. Daybreak over Yulong snow mountain radiated with its usual brilliance.

I was set to leave that morning for Shangri-La if I could quickly reorganize my flight back to America. This hostel was mired atop Tiger Leaping Gorge and so finding Internet meant asking the head of the household if I could borrow his personal laptop. I checked my email, looked up my itinerary, and, from that point on—that is, until stepping across security at Hong Kong International Airport—was dancing on pins and needles.

My dad and I were aware that we had purchased a round trip ticket. We were also aware that for a mere $100 fee we could change the flight date from what we, in September, had tentatively set it to—April 2nd, 2012. A call to my airline, Cathay Pacific, revealed what we were not aware of: We could only change my flight to a date within a six month period since I first landing in Beijing. If we wanted to push the date beyond six months, the fee would skyrocket. Essentially, staying in China for six months and staying in China for six months and one day meant a $700 difference. When was the latest possible flight out of China before my six months were up? April the third. Everybody agreed that my staying in China until April 15th (the date I had wanted to come back) was not worth $700, and that changing my flight and subsequently catching it was paramount.

A question for my readers: what are the logistics for transporting an 18 year old and his 40 pound backpack down a gaping gorge, down the Tibetan plateau, through a swamp of Chinese airline bureaucracy and across the gloried Hong Kong border—in 24 hours?

I can tell you that it begins by changing the flight out of Hong Kong from midnight April 2nd—what it was originally set for—to the afternoon flight on April 3rd. This is easier said than done. We were not even sure there were available seats for said date. Additionally, I quickly learned that Cathay Pacific had recently been undergoing a system change which funneled a huge amount traffic to their customer service lines. Each time either my dad or I attempted to call them, we were forced to wait more than half an hour. As one might imagine, calling them quickly ate up my phone card, such that I was forced to borrow a phone from a fellow hosteler. A young couple was nice enough to donate their iPhone, and were, fortunately, catching the same bus back to Lijiang that I was. At 4:00 in the afternoon the bus departed, and since I was one of the last individuals to buy a bus ticket, I received an aisle "seat," i.e., no seat at all. I am sure the register was not not lying when it said the bus had enough space; there was, however, a 300 lbs+ American man irrefutably assuming two side by side seats. This was a bus full of foreigners, do remember.

Thus I sat in my convenient hiking chair, in the middle of the aisle, as two rows of mostly white tourists enjoyed a perfect view of me and my minor crisis. More often than not, the line would sit busy for an implacably long time, and suddenly I would hear an all too welcome voice from a service representative; then the line would die completely because we were in the mountains and the network was unreliable. At one point, I finally got through to an actual person at Cathay, and immediately afterwards, my own phone began to rang (I could still receive calls, after all): it was Eleanor asking where I was and how I was doing. Then not two seconds later the Chinese bus driver began barking unintelligible Mandarin at me while thrusting his cell phone into my lap. The old Australian couple beside me was simply cracking up at this point. I quickly answered his phone to learn I had accidentally taken my hostel room key with me (I would give it to the bus driver moments afterward), told Eleanor I would call her back, and prayed the representative had not hung up. Much to my relief she did not, and it certainly seemed as though I deserved some kind of reprieve. But this was wishful thinking: before I could make the necessary inquiry, the couple's iPhone also ran out of minutes. My haste was in vain, and after ruminating in disappointment for a short while, I stood up on the bus and a public announcement asking for someone's phone. I received half-answers and indifferent glances. I resumed rumination.

There was a rock slide. We became one bus among a long line of vehicles backed up as construction teams worked to clear a path. Fortunately, a second wind caught one of my fellow bus travelers during the half-hour wait, and I was tentatively offered a phone so long as I didn't abuse the minutes. I thanked the lady profusely and not long after we resumed travel I connected with a service lady. I can tell you: her voice should have been accompanied by the music of harps. She utterly banished my misgivings about rescheduling a flight and easily acquired the afternoon ticket out of Hong Kong. She emailed me my itinerary and ensured I could pay the changing-fee at check-in. Witnessing such, the people on the bus nearly clapped for me.

Now I simply had to get to Hong Kong.

It was after seven when we arrived in Lijiang and I immediately took to finding a travel agency. My broken Mandarin was enough to communicate exactly the flight I needed and exactly what time parameters I needed it within. The service representative had changed my itinerary to: 10:00 A.M. from Guangzhou (which sits below Hong Kong on mainland China) to Hong Kong; transfer in Hong Kong and leave for San Francisco at 2:00 P.M.. An agency was able to give me a flight from Lijiang to Guangzhou at 8:40 that evening. It was perfect—so long as I could catch the flight in time.

A young man who spoke a few words of English worked for the agency and was asked to give me express transportation to Lijiang airport. He booked it. There is next to no danger of receiving a speeding ticket in China; one simply "floors it" at his or her own risk. And when there are tractors on the national highway chugging along at a top speed of 15 miles an hour, let me tell you—there is risk.

We arrived at the airport thankfully unscathed. It was nearly 8:10—the last possible moment for checking in. He bought me my boarding pass and...needed to be paid. I, at this point in my travels, had less than 600 RMB cash. Thus it came down to my credit card, which the airlines—much less my taxi driver—would not outright accept. An ATM lay at one end of the lobby. I ran to it, inserted my credit card, rummaged through through protocol and found I needed a pin. A pin. I had needed no such pin using this card earlier in my travels. The blinking cursor utterly mocked my expectations. These four numbers—these four unknowns—thrust up a wall beyond which "my" flight departed without me. I completely lost face and my friend returned the boarding pass. We meandered to the ticket office and inquired after other potential flights.

•

"Nothing?" I couldn't help but exclaim. My friend had long since returned to Lijiang, leaving me to do bureaucratic battle with the one ticket lady who could actually speak English.

"I'm sorry, but there simply needs to be some combination of flights that can take me from Lijiang to Guangzhou in fifteen hours. You're telling me there is nothing?"

She shook her head. At a certain point, she just resumes her normal work, and I am helplessly stranded.

"What about Hong Kong? Is there there anything that can take me to Hong Kong before two in the afternoon tomorrow?"

This sparks some interest. She makes a few phone calls, searches online.

"I'm sorry sir, but there is nothing. All the flights are either too late or already booked."

Deadening silence afterwards. I call up my last resort.

"Can you check if there are any flights to Shenzhen? Maybe I could take a bus or subway from there..."

Shenzhen is actually closer to Hong Kong than is Guangzhou. I would not be able to fly out of this city, but there might just be enough time to take ground transportation. She conducts a search, and when her face lights up, so does mine. Clearly there is something.

"Umm, a flight leaves Kunming for Shenzhen at 8:00 tomorrow morning. It arrives at 10:20."

This invigorated my hope some, but it still left the issue of paying for the flight. I could not buy the ticket there; nor could I even give them my credit card. She mentioned a flight from Lijiang to Kunming leaving very soon. I had to risk it; I gave them nearly all my large bills, which left me with less than 100 RMB and a ticket to Yunnan's capital.

•

Upon arrival, my first task had to be calling my father. There was a chance he might know the pin. My phone was dead however, and the Kunming airport telephones require a calling card to use. The availability of tickets to Shenzhen was a moot point if I could not pay for one.

It was here that luck smiled upon me: the face of a friend materialized from the crowds of busy travelers. She was the Californian girl I met and knew for but one night at Fabrizio's Italian dinner in Dali. She was meeting her boyfriend and could offer a place for me to spend the night as well as an Internet connection to make international calls with. It was 2:00 in the morning, and the airport was closing down—set to open again in three hours. We arrived at her apartment and I immediately got on the line with my dad. This brought the pin, this brought a clear plan of action, this tied together the final tendrils of hope I needed to forge a clear route to Hong Kong.

I marched into the airport at 5:00 in the morning. I tried to give them my credit card to buy the ticket—they would not accept the card, nor even asked for the pin; I attempted the Bank of China ATM, successfully entered the pin, and discovered that I was restricted to making inquiries into my balance; I asked the information desk to check the reservation my dad tried to buy for me online—they claimed it did not exist.

They strung me along until 6:30 that morning—dangerously close to my 8:00 flight—when one lady finally gave in. I have learned that in these situations one must deliver an unspoken ultimatum to his potential benefactors: find me a loophole, or I will inquire after you until I miss my flight. I essentially had to let her know she was my absolute last resort—which was true. This saintly woman delivered me to a special desk which accepted my card and pin for an extended price; she then took me past the long lines to check-in, deposited my baggage, and showed me to security.

Once boarded, I immediately dropped off to sleep, and awoke two hours later to the muggy, coastal weather of Shenzhen.

Purchasing a special bus was nearly the only guaranteed way of airport-hopping within an agreeable time limit. The bus, which moved painstakingly slow across the China's border, delivered me to Hong Kong International Airport at 12:40 in the afternoon, which allowed just enough time to catch my 2:00 flight. I successfully checked-in, and unstrapped my pack for the last time before donning it once more in America.

Just before boarding, a call from my dad revealed that my sojourn was but half the battle—he himself had been on the line with Cathay Pacific for two solid hours (not including on-hold time) entreating them to not cancel my flight. Because I missed my initial transfer flight from Guangzhou, this would have been a serious possibility. He ended up having to pay another $100 in fees, without even knowing if I was going to make it in time.

All told, we came deathly close to losing nearly a thousand dollars, and, in succeeding, saved roughly $350. And that's not all. Staying awake for nearly twenty four hours straight meant that I was sleeping when everybody in California was sleeping: arriving in Santa Rosa, I dealt with next to no jet lag. April 3rd was, quite literally, a long day for me, having experienced it once on each hemisphere.

It was only after stepping on that plane that I could clearly and securely behold the idea of returning home. I did not have the luxury of digesting the significance of that moment for days beforehand, as I originally thought I might. It was a shotgun homecoming.

Six months to the day, I again careened over the Pacific, my thoughts dancing just excitedly across that feathery white expanse, laden with expectation, this time not for the great Road, but that slow, sober harbor, Home.

Chris Stasse
Santa Rosa, California
USA

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