We meet the lurch and pitch of turbulence. I feel the bucking of the aircraft, the kick and shift of the whole cabin, the way the panels shudder, as the wind buffets us time and again. I hold fast to the armrests and try to breathe slowly until things calm down.
Then we are closer. Across the aisle, someone raises the blind to blazing sunlight and I see the wrinkle of mountain peaks covered with snow.
We begin our descent.
As we’re coming in to land, I peer out. It’s as though everything has been smothered in grey, dusty gauze.
Through Immigration and Baggage Reclaim, we exit and find the car that has been booked to take us to the hotel. The air is warm and humid. People throng the pavements, pulling luggage, talking loudly. Tom lights a cigarette as the driver heaves our cases into the boot, signalling to us to get in. Tom holds up his fag and the driver nods. Tom sits in front and the driver lights his own cigarette. In the back I open the window. There are no seatbelts. Policemen are monitoring the taxi rank, chivvying the drivers, shouting and waving to passengers in the queue to use both lines of cars. There is an air of urgency about it, as though it is imperative to disperse people as quickly as possible.
We speed through miles of high-rise developments along the expressway into town. Trees – palms, ginkgo and feathery ailanthus – line the roadsides. Taxis, coloured bright green, swerve in and out of the lanes, around scooters and bicycles and large SUVs in black or white. I taste dust, brassy, in my mouth. Everything looks strange, foreign.
It’s a relief to reach the hotel lobby. The air-conditioning is on. The foyer is spacious, with glinting marble floors and red leather couches and huge Chinese porcelain vases, elaborately decorated. The walls are lined with gold brocade wallpaper.
We are greeted in English by the Chinese receptionist. Behind the desk a wall fresco in 3-D shows tiled pagoda roofs and stands of bamboo. At each end of the desk there are plinths with bonsai trees arranged among miniature landscapes made of pinnacles of limestone rock.
‘Welcome to Chengdu,’ the receptionist says. She pronounces it Chungdu. She is Chinese and wears a badge that reads Melanie; her English name. I remember Lori’s blog, how her Chinese friends all had English names.
‘May I take your names?’ Melanie says.
‘Maddox,’ Tom says.
‘And if I could take a copy of a credit card, please.’
