My brain is expanding.
Not in a good way—not in the metaphorical sense that I’m gaining knowledge—but rather in that my brain is physically getting bigger whilst my skull remains the same size, resulting in a painful throbbing sensation.
It’s 38 degrees in Shanghai, we’ve just spent four hours running around in search of a ride to Guangzhou, and I seem to have eaten something that my stomach doesn’t entirely agree with.
In the absence of any other means of transport around China (the boats we hoped to take along the coast are out of action for a few months), we got a first-class sleeper from Beijing to Shanghai (since no other classes were available). We had a cabin to ourselves, with complimentary slippers, six different dials controlling everything from air-conditioning to mood lighting, and room-service meals.
The train pulled in at about 7am—a little early for my liking—and we headed across town for Captain Hostel, as recommended by our Rough Guide. Our stay in Shanghai was in the region of only 36 hours, so the priority after accommodation was transport out, our next port of call being Guangzhou, about a 1,000 miles southwest of us. With the desired boat out of action, it left only a train (another flagrant abuse of the 80 Ways theme) or a plane (a slightly more acceptable option, given that our only other flight is international).
The famous Peace Hotel was recommended not only for its pleasant rooftop terrace but also as a place to book flights, so we went there first. It was only 8am but already scorching hot (an electronic display in the hotel read 34-38 degrees C), and I was feeling sorry for myself. My head was pounding, and my stomach was churning. The concierge wasn’t open for another half-hour, so we picked up a copy of the Shanghai Daily and set about finding a quiet spot.
Thom decided we should just wander the hotel at random, and so we did. After discovering the roof garden to be closed, we instead settled for a small room on the 9th floor with some ancient-looking chairs. We made ourselves at home, moving chairs and opening curtains, put our feet up, and enjoyed the local news. A staff member did approach at one point to ask, in a slightly aggressive tone, "Can I help?", but a reply of "We’re waiting for the concierge to open" seemed to be sufficient.
I wasn’t the only one the heat was getting to, I discovered. The Shanghai Times ran a number of articles about the temperatures across the country (some of the highest in the last century, apparently), including a story reporting that a llama had fainted during an act at a local zoo and that the bears were demanding air-conditioning, else they wouldn’t perform.
Back in the hotel, the price for our flights was about 1,300 yuan each (about 150 pounds—I can’t find the ‘pound’ symbol on my Chinese keyboard). That wasn’t bargain enough for us to buy it without checking train prices first, so to our dismay, we headed back into the furnace once again.
Another metro ride took us back to Shanghai Railway Station. The intelligent traveller might have made use of arriving at said station to check train prices while he was there, but not us. We emerged from the underground right outside the station with no obvious method of entry. Walking up and down roads, the sun sapping energy with every step, we still had found no sign of an entrance. We stood in the middle of a crowded square, feeling hot and hopeless. The station was right there, but gaining access seemed all too far away.
After being rejected the first time, we got in by queuing with ‘platform tickets’, and then, having no idea where exactly tickets were sold, we were given an escort by a member of the station staff.
One of the great curiosities of China—to me, at least—is the excessive staffing. Restaurants seem to have more waiters than customers; elevators are often manned not only by people inside who push the floor button for you but also by smiling helpers who direct you to whichever lift will arrive next; and in the toilets, helpful people even point you in the direction of empty stalls. My personal favourites, however, are the traffic wardens who stand at junctions, wearing yellow jackets and wielding whistles. Just last night, I was at a crossroads with no less than three such wardens. The roads were controlled with traffic lights and crossing signals that could have been completely autonomous, but nonetheless, three luminous men kept people on the sidewalks with ferocious whistle-blowing and stopped cars that passed red lights with a vicious gaze.
So, whilst I generally regarded it as a little superfluous, I was suddenly appreciative of the Chinese overstaffing as this chap took us to the ticket office and translated for us. Not that there was much to translate—even I could have interpreted the shaking head to mean, ‘No tickets left’.
Weary from several hours of hot wandering and effortful self-pity, I was starting to feel the burn. At least we could just pick up the plane tickets, free from the guilt of an overindulgent purchase due to a lack of alternative. Our last fear—that the flight had sold out in the interim—was alleviated when the Peace Hotel man quoted us the same price, and even getting cash out (which had proved so troublesome in Beijing) proved all too easy.
Checked into our hostel, we dragged ourselves up six painful flights of stairs, where I dropped my bag, fell onto my bed, and passed out.