From the Vancouver Airport to the Heights of Shanghai.

After I woke up, stiff from sleeping on a bench all night, my neck was numb from the hard side of my backpack. The straps of my computer bag were tangled in my legs, and my right one was asleep. I squinted groggily at my watch. It was extremely early. Tested the leg. Youch. Bit the bullet. Wiggled it crazily and almost screamed at the rush of pins and needles, but managed to control it so not to scare the children who were still asleep on nearby benches. Leaning on their patient moms.

In the bathroom, I lined up with all the Asian women and we all washed up as well as we could. I soaped up a few paper towels went into a toilet cubicle and took care of the real business, washing myself up top and down under, changing into fresh clothes. The only awful part left was how desperately I needed my coffee and how dreadful my hair looked, spiking all over the place, and, to use direct language, grotty.

There is a great hair salon in the Vancouver airport I learned that morning. It cost me about 30 bucks Canadian, not too bad, and they gave me a cup of coffee to drink while they transformed me into a human. When they were done with the wash, cut and coloring I looked like a million bucks. I went back to the fast food area and bought another cup of coffe and another hour of internet. Discovered that Peti and FF (aka fabulous Fred, nee Fred Frank), a geeky PR guy at her company, who, it now appeared, was apparently coming on this trip, were frantically hunting for me. There were at least ten emails from one or the other or both of them. I was to meet them in the United Airlines VIP lounge. If I was still alive.

The VIP lounge is fantastic in Vancouver. Lots of free food. Gorgeous comfortable chairs. They were really mad that I had slept in the airport. Didn’t I know that the company would have reimbursed me for the hotel? How could I have frightened them so badly?

"By the way," Peti, could not help saying, "Your hair looks fantastic for someone who slept in an airport." I think she was suspecting that I made the whole thing up and had actually slept in a nice hotel. Why would I do that? And if so, how would I get reimbursed?

They had been trying to call my cell phone for hours, they kept saying, and why don’t I have a phone that works in Vancouver? Do I think that Vancouver is the end of the earth? Have I never heard of Verizon?

And was I OK? (Implication, was I nuts?)

I played it cool. I said it was no big deal, but it is against my religious principles to pay for an overpriced hotel, (although this does not extend to prepaid situations) so I hoped that the hotels would be covered for the rest of the trip.
They looked at each other. Peti assured me cooly that if there was any trouble she would use her own personal credit card to keep me off the streets.

“Fine,” I said. “As you have pointed out, I am sure the company will reimburse you.”

“They won’t let you sleep in the Shanghai airport.” She hissed.

“No problem, “ I said, “….as long as I don’t have to pay for any hotels.”

She appraised me cooly. To some extent politely. She opened and shut her mouth primly. She was evidently refraining from saying what she really thought. With a certain amount of irrepressible scorn.

Before too long we were on the plane, splayed out in our business class lounge chairs. As I have intimated in previous columns, I sometimes (but not always) fly business class. It is totally great, you are like some kind of paralyzed royalty in these seats. Strapped in, splayed out and plied with liquore and bon bons for the entire duration. In the case of Shanghai (from Vancouver) we are talking thirteen hours. I slept some, watched movies some, ate the fantastic food, (surprisingly better on United than American, sorry frequent flier program but it is true to some extent) worked a little on my computer, slept some more.

Yes, business class was lovely. If you wanted some chocolate or another glass of Kaluah on ice, or a granola bar, or a glass of champagne all you had to do was ask.

Peti was across the aisle and I noticed that she ordered something from the in-flight duty free magazine. She noticed me watching her. “This is for Professor Li,” she said. “In China we always exchange gifts. Did you bring any gifts?”

“Gosh,” I replied. “I have no idea who you set me up to meet. “

She had not sent an itinerary or anything. I guiltily wondered what was in my bag that could turn into a gift. Not much, with the black pants and the Walmart tops that wash out nicely in the hotel sink. And I could not give away my Misook jackets. Espcially if Professor Li turned out to be a man. (He did).

“Don’t worry,” Peti explained in a maliciously soothing tone. “I will handle all the gifts for you. I do not expect my KOLs to know about usual international customs.”

Did this woman hate me? No doubt about it. And, I realized, while luxuriating in my business class seat, I would be entirely at her mercy for the next seven days.
Oh well. I have been in worse situations. You don’t believe me? Keep reading this column until I get to the part where the borderline personality disorder LPN (aka Robbie) came this close to destroying my entire research program, my career, and my current employment.

I was thinking about some of these things when I must have fallen asleep again and when I came to, we were about to land. It is fun to watch the descent of an airplane on the little TVs in business class. You can even push a button and see the whole thing from a camera under the belly of the plane while diving into Shanghai.
When we landed, with a little bit of a clunk, but I have felt worse, finally rolling down the runway with all the wheels n contact with the tarmac, my brain was buzzing with fatigue. But the good thing about Business Class is that it does not take all THAT long to get off the damn plane.

The airport had a lot of glass and the sun was glaring through. When we got through customs we had to wait for Peti’s luggage. She was shocked that I had not checked bags. I just grinned at her, ha ha. I could tell she was pissed at my parsimony in packing and the freedom which which I can move.

Here is how to travel to China for a week with nothing but carry on bags. Go to New York and Company and get three pairs of their black knit pants. Go to Walmart and buy three soft black shirts. All of this washes out in the sink in your hotel room and dries overnight. Then go to the best Department store in town (Neimann Marcus or Saks, depends on where you live) and buy three Misook jackets. Only Misook, nobody else. These knits are often washable and look good if you eat too much on the trip. Of course, if you are doing last minute shopping, in which case you might pay full price, they are each 450 dollars on a good day, but on sale (such as right after Christmas or when a season changes) you can get them for 271. Trust me on this. And get them now if they are on sale, in case somebody invites you to China at some point. You don’t believe that is possible? Look at me!

Add one cheap black sweater, then a stunning set of real pearls and a silver pendant, a butterfly pin from Walmart and you are done. Wear a comfortable but semi dressy pair of black shoes and pack some black socks and any color of underwear, (preferably a cotton and spandex mix which is not easily stinky but dries a little more quickly in a hotel sink than 100% cotton, and you are ready to fly.

And you will be dressed correctly for everything from the airplane (it is all very comfortable) to the academic talk at Peking University, to dinners out….whatever.

Trust me. Please trust me. I know nothing about love, but they ought to give me a PhD in world travel. This all fits in a carry on with room to pack the STUFF YOU MIGHT BUY IN CHINA.

Which could, by the way, include your pearls, mentioned above. Shanghai is heaven for buying beautiful (and genuine) pearls at 8:1 discount.

Three pairs of pants and three shirts for one week? Calm down, I guarantee if you buy exactly what I just told you to buy it will dry overnight anywhere in the world, even Copenhagen. I fly all over the world with this algorithm and I haven’t checked a bag in ten years.

Unfortunately, when you travel with mortals, you may end up having to wait a very long time for their bags to show up.

I was exhausted, wondering why I had gotten myself into a situation where I was dependent on some hostile fashionista with control issues, and could not simply hail my own cab to the nearest hotel.

Peti stood cooly by the baggage pickup, making calls on her international cellphone, braying out pointed greetings to each person she called, so that everyone around her would know how important those on her receiving end were: Hello Professor! Good morning Governor! How HAVE you been, Duchess?

Eventually we dragged our bags out of there and as soon as we passed the scary militarized customs people where I was told “Welcome to China” in English, I was surprised to see that all the signs in the airport were in both English and Mandarin. We were greeted by three young, English speaking tour guides. Peti, I was to learn, never travels without handlers to make everything easy. Peti does not do anything by halves. Regardless of the cost.

We were relieved of our bags and led immediately to a white van with all the seats covered in spotless fitted white sheets. I felt hot and greasy and embarrassed to sit on these clean cloths. We drove for an hour past thousands of tall tenement buildings, leaning haphazardly left and right, seemingly out of plaster board that was wilting in the humidity, (have I mentioned that summer is not the best time to travel to China?) colorful laundry was hanging on lines between the balconies. Have I mentioned that the Western stereotype of Chinese people wearing black is 100% incorrect in the 21st Century? You could not find a black garment on any living soul in Shanghai. Except me.

Thestreets were full of European cars and bicycles, everybody was weaving in and out of each other and tailgating in terrifying (and mystifying) maneuverings. I close my eyes, cognizant that this situation was beyond my comprehension. For a while I fell asleep and when I woke up we had a sudden view of Shanghai proper. It looks like something from a 1960’s futuristic comic book. It is incredibly interesting and beautiful.

Then we arrived at the hotel. I had to wrestle my bags away from one of the tour guides just before she was about to transfer it to a uniformed attendant. I do not like losing control of my luggage, especially wheI need a shower and a change all that much.

And when I am all that that tired and that crabby.

Peti glared at me disapprovingly and I pretended to pay no attention.

We were whisked to the concierge floor. The understated and elegant, cool concierge floor.

A quiet spoken lady at a mahogany desk did some negotiations with Peti in Mandarin and we separated, each following a different man in a tuxedo.

I knew that I was so tired I would soon crash, and I let my tuxedo’d Lothario have my backpack. Not my computer bag, mind you. Since 2001 when Kane Gilliam from UCLA carried my bag in gentlemanly fashion and accidently left it in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel in Orlando, Florida (that is the hotel where they keep ducks in a VIP suite and send them to the lobby twice a day for a stroll on the waterfront) I have never allowed any man (or anybody of any sexual persuasion) to touch my computer bag.

And furthermore, I only let go of the backpack because it was obvious I would have this guy in sight until I got to my room. Since we were sharing the elevator and what could happen on a VIP floor?

And besides I was that tired.

In the fabulous intricately tiled elevator, which was, in an of itself, a work of art, this guy who was with me, my baggage guy, kept calling me Madam and asking me if there was anything else he could do for me. In English. “No thanks,” I kept saying, because I did not know what the possibilities were. But I was too tired to eat or get a facial or anything. Although maybe a cup of tea, but I was scared that in a place like this it might cost an arm and a leg.

In my huge, unbelievable cavernous room that was larger than any studio apartment you could get for 750,000 bucks in New York City, there was a living area with a couch that looked comfortable enough to sleep on. Forever. And there were two chairs and a desk and an HDTV (no, not a SONY or a SAMSUNG or anything else I would recognize, the letters were in Mandarin)but it worked great and had true colors and a sharp image, I tried it out practically as soon as I got rid of my bag-carrying friend in the tuxedo by handing him a five dollar bill and yelling “got to take a shower now, thanks! Goodbye! Bye bye! Thanks. Bye! Bye now!”

I was sinking into the couch, willing to suffocate in it, wondering whether I should set an alarm in case I would not wake up in time for dinner (6PM mandated by Peti, meet in the “Red Rose” restaurant in the lobby) and wondering if there was an alarm here, the TV had BBC news (in English) and I learned that there had been a tornado in North London, and that the neighbor of a woman whose home had been destroyed was being interviewed. “I invited her right in, I did.” She explained. “and I gave her a cup of tea, didn’t I?”

Tea seemed like such a sensible idea and I yearned for tea at that moment, in distant Shanghai. (Never had asked for it in Business Class when it might have magically appeared, but it has always been my experience that any hotel that is two star or better has a little pot where you can make some free coffee and usually you can boil water in it and they have a few nice tea bags there for you also. Ha. Try that in a five star hotel. Nada.

I hunted around the room, now realizing how incredibly fabulous the decor was. But no teapot. No basic amenities of any kind.

Granite counters in the bathroom which was big enough to be the entire hotel room. A bed to die for. Not king sized, twice that size (emperor sized?) with a pillowtop mattress or whatever it was and silk sheets and a scent like oranges coming from somewhere but that was not clear. I was about to fall over onto it when the doorbell rang.

“Who is it?” I called through the peephole. I could see another guy in a tuxedo.
I could not quite make out what he was saying, so I opened the door. What the hell? This was a five star hotel.

“Yes?” I asked, almost faint with the most overwhelming fatigue I had ever…..

“Good afternoon madam." The man in the tuxedo smiled. He was Chinese, but taller than most Chinese people I had seen that day, those who had been acting as customs officers, fasttrack business class airlines facilitators, van drivers, tour guides, doormen, VIP suite greeters, VIP suite front desk clerks, or backpack porters.

“Good afternoon, “ I replied as politely as I could considering the fact that I could barely see anymore, was not sure it actually was afternoon there, and I was not entirely sure whether there was one guy standing there or two. “Who are you?”

“Ahhhh. Madam. I beg your pardon.” His accent was upper class British. I would know about this, having been a fan of “Upstairs Downstairs” but wasn’t this Red China? Or whatever they call it? People’s Republic?

“Would you like a cup of tea?” he asked me.

“Wow, “ I said. “And who are you again?”

“I am your butler.” Did he bow or was I dreaming? One thing I was not dreaming, he was wearing white gloves. I could not take my eyes off his white gloves. My butler? Yikes.

"But I am from Oklahoma, I said."

“Would you like a cup of tea?” he repeated politely.

“Sure,” I said, feeling a little guilty. I mean I didn't want to hurt his feelings. “But can I ask you a question?”

“Certainly, madam,” he replied.

“Are you a member of the Communist party?”

“Of course. We all are.”

“Gosh,” I said. “I have never been served tea by a communist butler before.”

“The tea that I can offer you, however, is fantastic.” he said, seductively.

So I had some very nice Earl Grey, as dark as coffee, the way the English drink it. And I figured this must be the heights of Shanghai.