Ah, Beijing

We arrive exhausted and wrinkled in a city made completely invisible by a shroud of haze. Smokers in the airport at every corner. Nowhere is there not a crowd. Our connecting flight to Mongolia is scheduled to leave in seven hours and we decide to head for the gate now and maybe settle in, sleep in shifts. I ask a security guard where the international transfers need to go, and she points to a giant sign in front of me that reads, “International Transfers.” Before you judge me a dumbass, dear reader: we follow the sign for about a quarter mile inside the airport, to a large counter. I ask the woman sitting behind the desk to forgive me for interrupting her personal cell phone call, and that we’d like to know which gate we need to be in for our Miat Mongolia flight to Ulaanbaatar. “This is international transfers for China Air only,” she says, and continues her phone conversation. Oh, I say, looking up at the large, authoritative sign above her head that reads “International Transfers,” giving no hint that there could possibly be another area in the airport that served the same function. I look back down to her. She says we need to backtrack almost the entire way we had come and get in line at counter #1 near the security gate. We find the area and of course, none of the counters are numbered. In the end, we manage to find the appropriate queue, called, “Transfers–Diplomatic Passengers.” We pinch ourselves for missing something so obvious.The guard who processes us is nice enough. Next to his name, there’s a gadget asking us to “Please rate my service”. There are 4 buttons, ranging from “Very good! =)” to “Poor =(“. No idiot am I, I make a grand show of pressing the “Very good!” button, being sure to make eye contact with him as I do so.Our line for “international transfers” bleeds into the same exit as all the other lines, that is to say, the airport lobby, which is an absolute crush of irritable human beings and their irritating luggage.The airport is decor is Socialist Lite: blocky, built for automatons, but with a hint of China’s former splendour- gold lettering, the occasional sculpture, etc. I ask an information officer where we should wait for our flight to Ulaanbaatar. She points us to Customs. Another endless line. When we finally reach a counter, the guard asks for our boarding passes, which of course we don’t have. He informs us we first need to check in at the Miat Mongolian counter, which we’ll easily find, he says, because each station has monitors with the airline’s logo! We trudge back half way across the airport to the check-in stations. “Miat Mongolia?” I ask at the information desk. The woman stares at me as if the two words I had just strung together couldn’t possibly have been a part of her vocabulary. “Miat Mongolia? Ulaanbaatar?” I ask another. Same reaction. Quickly losing hope, I try once more. This clerk points to the China Air counter. “No no,” I say, “Miat, Miat Mongolia.” She walks over to ask a colleague. “You’re too early. Come back in four hours,” she says….We idle the time in a large restaurant on the second floor, where the dozen or so young women on staff fight over who gets to hold Augie. He takes in the attention like a star….We pass through security and make our way back to the check-in counter. To our relief, the monitors now display “Miat Mongolia”. It’s still about 3 hours from departure, but a number of passengers have already begun to queue up. Four lines have formed: the first faces a monitor that reads “business class”; I join the next line, which, like the next two, face a display called “economy”. We wait here for nearly 2 hours before the Miat clerks file in to start issuing boarding passes.  The five lines now stretch back across the hall. What happens next is stunning.The head clerk walks up to the monitor that reads “business class” and turns it off. He walks up to my line’s monitor and changes it so it now says “business class”, calmly tells us we’re in the wrong line and beckons the business class people to step up in front of us. Maybe I am too tired, or maybe the audacity of the move still hasn’t sunk in, but all I can do is stare at him, then at N, then at the people behind me. I see N’s skin start to go red, first the neck, then her face. I’ve seen this buildup a few times before and defensively take a step back. She storms over to the guy, Augie in one arm, her purse in the other. This man is about to learn a very important lesson. Never fuck with a tired woman holding a tired baby.”You just eliminated an entire line of people. We’ve been waiting here for 2 hours!” I admire the guy for trying to get a word in. I wonder if this is what’s needed to bring down the bureaucratic regime in China:  a few planeloads of nursing mothers, strategically dispatched to a few key ministries. Seeing the hopelessness of his situation, the clerk finally asks a colleague to open another line. The people in our line are so happy they almost applaud. “I think my wife just guaranteed our luggage will end up in Siberia,” I whisper to the man standing behind me.With boarding passes in hand, we get back into the customs line. Another long wait. At the counter, the man asks for the departure card we were handed on the plane. I give him the card, which he promptly hands back to me, saying I need to use pen not pencil, as I had done. I tell him I don’t have a pen. He points to a table with a stack of empty departure cards and a pen hanging by a string nailed to the table. We step out of line and walk over to the table. What is connected to the string is only the plastic pen casing. No problem, as a  sympathetic passenger in line hands me her pen. Ha! Card now complete, we go back to the same guy. I hand him the card, which he promptly hands back to me. “You each need to fill out one.” I look around for the hidden camera that is recording this for China’s Funniest Videos. The flight attendant had told me quite clearly that only one departure card was necessary per family. I decide not to raise this point now, nor ask him why he couldn’t tell me that the first time, when I handed him the single card. It takes all of my self control not to press the “Poor =( ” button. For Augie’s card, we enter baby as occupation, and let him sign his own card.Finally reach our gate. I help N and Augie settle in and head back to a Coffee Time stand for a needed pick-me-up. Not having bothered to change currency, I ask the young woman behind the counter if I could pay in U.S. dollars. “Yes!” she exclaims. “Yes!?” I exclaim. “Well then I’ll have a large double-shot latte,” I say. Blank stare. “Number 4,” I clarify. The total comes to 24 yuan. I hand her a $10 bill. Her face crimps into a confused look as she stares at my money. She calls over her pimpled coworker. They call over the manager. Deep discussion ensues. The manager hands me back the bill. “Too old, can’t accept.” Of course she can’t. “Hey, by any chance, are you related to the guy at the Miat Mongolian check-in counter?” I ask.

• Why are we going to Mongolia? (0)
• Preparing for Mongolia (0)