These Pillows?

I arrived in Beijing at 11:30pm Sunday evening.  My flight on American Airlines had been more tolerable than expected, which means the food was decent and I actually managed to sleep a little.  Basically I got two hours of sleep, in ten-minute increments.  I don’t usually sleep on airplanes, except on the tarmac.  For some reason the comforting hum of a 747's engines on pavement always lull me directly to sleep.  Of course I'm wide awake the minute the wheels leave the ground.

It was hot and humid and mosquitos sampled the new arrivals on the train to the terminal, as if wine tasting.  "California, anyone?"  I slapped them away sluggishly, still in a stupor from the long plane ride.

We weren’t the only plane arriving so late, so it was a mad rush to see who could get to immigration first. Well rush may be an overstatement given our dubious speed. In fact it was kind of comical - a mass cluster of travel zombies hebetudinously lumbering to get to the immigration line first, our eyes clouded and vacant, our thirst for sleep rampant.

Twenty minutes later I was through the visitors line and collected my bags from the carousel.  This was the part I had been dreading.  I had three bottles of wine in my suitcases, not to mention various sundries (got to have my Triscuits) and I was concerned about going through customs.  I shouldn’t have been.  There was no one there.  I could have brought three cases of wine and some vegetables, maybe even a blowtorch, and it wouldn’t have mattered.  Hmmm, note to self, always arrive around midnight.

Russell and our driver were waiting for me.  It was good to see them, especially Russell.  I had to stifle tears, like a sneeze in a quiet room.  It’s amazing how much I pretend I don’t need him when he’s not around, childhood habit I guess, but then how easily my resolve dissolves when I see him.  I noted the driver wasn’t wearing a uniform, or a cap.  Hmmmm.

The trip into the city center took 45 minutes, even though it was the middle of the night.  Our apartment building was located in the city center, in the most fashionable part of town called Sanlitun.  Our building was across the street from aptly named, "Workers Stadium."

The lobby looked like a W Hotel.

Nice lobby.
Where are the apples?

This the elevator bank.
Note how the floor matches the ceiling.

Russell took me on a grand tour of the one bedroom service apartment, proud of his selection.  It was brand spanking new.  You could still see the red grease pencil marks of the tile-layer on the walls of the bathroom.  The bathroom was nice, glass shower, marble bath, lots of chrome, no cabinets.  No cabinets?

Nice Sink.
Where's the linen closet?

At least there's a bath tub.

He showed me the ridiculously small washing machine which holds about a shoe box size load, the well hidden refrigerator which looks like a pantry closet and the complete lack of storage space.  He showed me the balcony with our two industrial size air conditioners.  “Two?  But it’s only a one-bedroom apartment?  Actually it’s barely one bedroom, separated only by a sliding pocket door and entertainment center.” 

“Yes, two”, he said.

No oven.  One pot.

Is that a Betty Crocker Ready washing machine?

And the dryer is?....

But the place had nice furniture, all dark wood tables, purple velvet couches, shiny chrome desk, and bamboo floors.  And he had bought some roses that had no smell but brightened the room.

At least there's wine glasses - the necessities.

Purple everywhere.
Thank you Prince.

TV in marble.

A room with a view.
Not bad.

He explained how he had to buy everything in the apartment except the furniture.  I thought maybe my sleep deprived mind had heard him wrong.  “What do you mean you had to buy everything, what do you mean everything?”  I thought this was a “service” apartment.  We already own all this stuff twice over now – in LA and sitting on a dock in Tokyo.

“Everything, “ he replied proudly. 

“Show me,” I said yawning, beginning to fade.

He showed me the two wine glasses (priorities), two plates and two sets of flatware, the humidifier, (humidifier?) the bath towels, the one pot, (what can I make with only one pot?) and the fluffy down comforter, bottom sheet and two pillows.  He'd made the bed and was as puffed up as the pillows.

“These pillows?” I said inquiringly, slowly sinking down onto the comforter.

“No, don’t do it,” he warned compassionately.

“This comforter?, this one here, with no bottom sheet?,” sinking still lower, crawling towards the pillows.

Tour over.

Beijing Bound

So I guess Beijing it is.  Russell hired a driver.  Russell is enamored with the idea.  He described how the driver, who looks like an Asian baby Huey, picked him up from the airport, in the middle of the night, carried his luggage, and insisted on opening his door.  Russell thinks of himself as gentry now.  The driver speaks no English.  I’m not sure that’s not a good thing.

I asked if he wore a uniform.  Russell said no.  “Well that has got to change” I commented.  “When I come, I expect him to wear a uniform and cap, yes a cap,  AND,” I added with enthusiasm,  “address me as Madame.  No wait,” I countered excitedly, “Mylady.  Yes, mylady.  That will work.” 

“You’re kidding, right” He remarked dryly. 

“Of course I’m kidding.,,about the mylady part.”  I smiled innocently.

So after madly trying to see everyone I know back in LA and hike all my favorite trails, I packed up my worldly possessions except for my beloved Ranger, who can’t come over until Russell has his work Visa – a major undertaking, and flew back to Beijing.

I can only stay for 30 days.  Russell is not allowed to bring any of his “personal affects”, personal affects being me, Ranger and household goods, until he has been fully certified and approved by the People’s Republic of China.

This requires amazing feats of bureaucracy and herculean patience.  We went to the Chinese consulate four times in two weeks and we hadn’t even left the country yet.

Americans are not allowed to work in China without a bachelors degree or higher.  No dumb asses are allowed.  I guess I can never work there; I only have an AA degree, in Fashion Design, no less.  You are required to bring your original college diploma.  No kidding.  Russell’s original diploma is in deep stasis, otherwise known as storage.  That meant we had to order a certified copy.  Researching this turned out to be somewhat interesting.  UT’s website is actually quite helpful and efficient.  But they asked if we needed an apostille as well.  What the heck is an apostille? 

Apparently, an apostille is occasionally required by foreign countries.  Basically it’s a higher certification – it means the Secretary of State has signed it, therefore vouching for the document’s authenticity.  I asked Russell if he needed this.  He checked with his Chinese counterparts they said he did not.  They were wrong.

Friday afternoon, the last business day before Russell was to fly to China, (nothing like waiting until the very last minute) the consulate would not certify his newly acquired college diploma without an apostille.  We were redirected to an office in Downey (an hour away), and then back to another office in downtown LA, about ten minutes from where we were now, to acquire the proper Secretary of State stamps.  They had to be done in order.  The consulate office was closing in two hours.  It would take us four, fighting traffic every inch of the way, to accomplish just the stamps.  “No, your wife cannot process the documents for him. Of course not – are you stupid or something?” their tone seemed to imply when Russell explored this concept with the irritated Chinese woman behind the glass.

We would have to come back to the consulate office Monday morning when they opened at 9am to get the final accreditation.  Russell’s flight was at 11am.  Nothing like waiting until the last minute.  UGH.  I was not happy.  I still had to come back again to pick up my Chinese Visa later that week.  No they cannot check to see if it’s ready early.  Don’t be silly; are you stupid or something?  The Chinese are not nice.  But Russell boarded his flight with the appropriate documentation.  Thank goodness.

In addition to an apostille, (that words just makes me sound smart,) we both have to have full-on medical examinations.  No we cannot get a health certificate from our General Practitioner.  Don’t be stupid.  We both have to be fully examined, read: full body cavity search.  Well almost.  The exam includes a fully body MRI scan, and an EKG, in addition to the usual blood work, listening to your heart, taking your temperature, and sticking out your tongue.  Geez.  I am not looking forward to that.

They didn’t ask Russell to bend over and cough.  I hope that means they won’t require me to put my legs in stirrups and I don’t mean the equestrian kind.