Nanning: Arrival
I throw five hard boiled eggs into a plastic bag. That’ll get me to China, I think.
I have a lot of internal weather. Yesterday, in a fit of that, I packed up everything I own except my stuff for this trip. So I have to remember where I put my sandals, and I never locate a hairbrush.
I should be fine, though. I’m going with Jia to Southeast China to rock climb, explore, and see her distant relatives. If I need anything, I’m sure I can find it there. I’ve got a laptop– half my total carry weight, but I need it for work– and a stash of herbal teas for when everything on offer is caffeinated.
Travel is like hurling yourself into water. You won’t be prepared. You just do it, and then you don’t have many choices. You do whatever comes next.
In Nanning, the sky is bone broth white with no aspiration to another color. It’s sub-tropical, eighty degrees and muggy, and I’m short on sleep. Some combination of this, and something flu-like I brought with me, means I’m light headed.
I can’t tell what’s weather and what’s smog, but I’m sensitive even in the Pacific Northwest to the difference in air quality between downtown Seattle and woodsy Snohomish, so I get a mask just in case, and feel better about it.
Other than that, Nanning is lovely. Every street is tree-lined, and long parks with water features and gazebos thread between skyscraping residential complexes.
We spend most of a day wandering in a botanical park. It’s stunning: hanging bromeliad gardens, ascending orchid greenhouses, blooming snapdragon fields terraced by hue.
We’re staying at the apartment of Jia’s mom’s friend. She and her son picked us up from the airport around 1am here time (we’re 15 hours off) and drove the long way into the city. All I had time to notice before crashing on the bed (wood with an inch of foam, I forgot- this is standard in China) was a lot of dark, carved wood and a huge, gurgling fish tank as a half-wall by the doorway.
By 3pm I’m crashing again, walking back through the city streets. We make it back mostly on memory, an hour or so, figure out the kick-and-pull to get the door to open, ascend. Drenched in sweat from the humidity, I manage to shower before collapsing on the bed.
But the day is not over. We’re supposed to go to dinner at six with Jia’s uncle. “It’s gonna take hours,” she warns.
I’m still pretty deep in my sleep-daze when I wake to conversation. My Mandarin is patchy and everything is too fast. “It’s time,” Jia says, so I stand and our small group walks out the door.
Our host’s son drives, taking regular pulls on his vape and arguing with his mom about which roads to take or lanes to occupy. Jia and I nod between sleeping and waking in the backseat.
At the door to the restaurant, a man waves. Jia’s uncle- “ni hao, ni hao,” hands are clasped, and we follow him to the elevator. A server greets us as we emerge, leads us down a hall to a private room. The door opens on a family scene: a couple of kids running around, adults chatting in chairs that ring a sitting room. Relatives! “Jiajia, do you remember …?” We are waved to chairs and encouraged to eat from the plates of fruit.
I’m not following anything. Glassy-eyed, I watch a giant rotating table slowly populate with food in the adjoining room. Two or three servers use a special door. More family arrives, a couple of boys turn on the wall TV. Somebody is watching a video on their phone. Jia is pulled into dozens of photographs: this group of people, turn here, now with these flowers! She hasn’t been here in years.
After a while, we’re moved to the table: two specific seats picked out for us. The kids run back and forth between the sitting room and table. A girl about twelve grabs bites of roast duck every time the auto-rotating tabletop goes by, standing to reach and smacking her lips. Servers spin the table to place dishes in a specific order, directed by a woman with a lavalier mic.
Fruits are put on my plate, so I peel and bite a fleshy mangosteen, attempt (as shown) to peel something like an apricot, drink a yellow flowery tea. White liquor appears in pitchers with thimble-sized goblets. I successfully evade this but am pressed with a thick, soupy hot corn drink.
Hospitality culture is very strong, and I’m impatient with myself for melting into my chair. I didn’t get my run in, or I’d be a champion eater! As is, I’m so tired I can barely try each dish. I escape to the bathroom that’s part of this private dining, and splash cold water on my face. I try to converse with the cousin seated near me, but we fail to communicate.
The food is delicious, and second helpings are not optional.
After dinner, we retire again to the sitting room. More photos. More chatting. I fade through levels of consciousness. Jia gamely poses and converses with generous relatives whose names she can’t remember. They give her tea and offer advice on our trip. It takes twenty minutes to move from the chair to the door, but eventually we make it to the hall, the elevator, uncle is smoking as he waves goodbye.
Next: Beihai
