The Hotel Domestic Floor

Made it to Shanghai. There were “Typhoon 3” and “Red Rain” alerts today in Hong Kong, which means nothing to me, but given that it was raining buckets — sideways — as I walked to work this morning, I knew there’d be trouble.

Once getting to the airport, boarding was delayed 45, and when finally on the plane we were promptly told it’d be at least 2 hours and to get comfortable. They threw up X-Men 2, and started passing out sandwiches. Also, due to language barriers and a variety of re-bookings, I was in economy, which is just a pure joy when headed to the Chinese mainland. Watching Helen Thomas in a 3-way would be more comfortable.

Of course, once the flight was cleared, the movie was stopped never to be brought back. Was Charles Xavier’s death avenged? What became of Magneto’s mutant army?

Anyway…

Once we got to the hotel, I had checked in, and was in the elevator with my boat anchor of a suitcase and a maddening desire to wash off that sticky sweaty layer of human filth that coats one like Turtle Wax when traveling. The elevator door closes, then re-opens, and the front desk guy runs in shouting “room 3008! there problem!” So after waiting around for 10 minutes, I’m taken to the 21st floor. The Chinese National floor. The hallways are filled with smoke, half the doors are wide open, and inside many of the rooms men are gambling and sucking down every last cigarette within a 20 mile radius. There’s frequent shouting in the halls.

It’s about 94 degrees. At 11pm. There’s air condition controls in the room. They do absolutely nothing, but at least they look promising.

On Saturday, I’m off to Beijing for two days. Going to the Wall comma Great as well as various squares and other places which inevitable begin with “The People’s…”

Monday morning, it’s back to Hong Kong.

The following Monday, it’s back to Shanghai.

I used to live in San Francisco. I think.

And yes, David, pictures are coming.