Journal Entry: “There appears to be no sign of western civilization. I am The Outsider; with eyes on me at all times. Eating at a restaurant, I notice wandering eyes glancing up and down directed at me. Some so glaring & blatant, I have wonder if they’re aware that they are staring or if they even care for that matter. My hotel doesn’t want to deal with me, for I don’t speak their language (understandable,) and often wave their hands in an attempt to end our conversation and avoid trying to decipher what I’m saying. The game of Charades has officially become my life.”

Facebook and Instagram, where I found solace, was nothing more than my portal to the Western World. It was a mind-numbing task to keep me entertained while I waited for time to pass. Nevertheless, I could no longer turn to it in my hour of need, as China had banned them along with several other applications and websites. Even with a VPN (virtual private network,) accessing social media was excruciatingly slow and agitating, mostly futile. I was forced to endure my spare time and adapt.

I had almost surrendered to the forceful will of China. The feeling of unwelcomeness, the nearly 100% fortified language barrier, the ignorance to personal space, and the constant surveillance and checking in with police, were tolling. I watched as the thought of exploring new boundaries and traversing into the untouched wilderness caught fire and turned to ash. With the regulations and risk that prowled, it seemed impossible to forge ignorantly like I always had.

Before giving up completely, I made one last ditch effort in journeying East. After all, China held far too much beauty to concede so easily. With the pronunciation of my destination fresh on my tongue, I headed for the Suzhou Railway Station in hopes that I would acquire a ticket for the following day. When I arrived, I must have seen at least 15 ticket counters, each with a line of 15 people. I took a deep breath and chose a line that appeared fast-moving. My anxiety grew, as I closed in on the counter and the realization that they don’t speak English triumphed my thoughts. “What would I do if they didn’t understand me or if they had questions or if I had questions for that matter?” I thought to myself.

When it was my turn, I repeated my chosen destination as clearly and loudly as I could. The attendant looked at me with outward confusion. I changed my inflection several times and even tried saying the word differently. Still, he looked at me with annoyance. I pulled out my phone and placed it against the glass window. He studied it for a moment and, clear as day, said: “Zhangjiajie!?” My face turned blank, as I nodded yes. I swear he repeated the exact words I had said to him. The fact that he couldn’t piece together what I was saying dumbfounded me; perhaps he was just toying with me. He typed on his computer for a few seconds before turning to me to say: there are no trains to Zhangjiajie from this station. He said if I wanted a direct train to Zhangjiajie, I would have to go to the Shanghai Railway Station.

His confidence made me curious because my contact, who speaks Chinese and did the research, had confirmed two trains out of Suzhou to Zhangjiajie. Nevertheless, I didn’t question him because the line behind me had started to grow. One man was so close I could feel his toes touching my heels and his bag jabbing into my back. I turned to him several times as if to make a point that he was uncomfortably close. Even the ticket attendant asked him to take a few steps back. He did not.

After a failed attempt at purchasing a ticket East, I reconciled that I should stick to the major cities where English was more relevant and the eyes less glaring. I had accepted defeat, and, even further, was content with it. I had resources all over the world helping me through China, but with my fate already accepted, I silenced them, rationalizing that it would be best to stick to the cities. One contact, in particular, did not accept my defeat and assured me that there was a train that went to Zhangjiajie from Suzhou. She was the one who did the research in the first place and was the reason I was so confident in going to the train station where I knew communicating with them would be a struggle. She messaged me several times saying that I should go back to the station. She went as far as reaching out to a friend, a Chinese resident, who confirmed the train to Zhangjiajie from Suzhou. She followed up with a screenshot including a Chinese sentence, the train number, the train time, and the cost. She exclaimed that I should show this to the ticketing agent and assured me I couldn’t go wrong.

I glanced down at my phone, reading the time 21:15, but I had already made up my mind. After all, I was tired and ready for bed. Then it dawned on me: what am I doing? I had 45 days left in China, and I was about to throw them all away because things got challenging. I mean, my short experience in China had been the toughest yet, due to the non-avoidable language barrier and lack of willingness on their end to work with me, but was it enough to tame me and send me back to the city? I thought to myself.

I looked over at my phone again, 21:18. The small manifestation of motivation crept through me and pushed me out of bed. I told Ryo that I would run to the train station one last time. It was close to a six-kilometer round trip but, by the time my shoes were on, I was more than thrilled to find out if the journey would continue or end within the city limits. Her confidence gave me confidence, and I was ready to face the ticket counter once more.

Cash in pocket, I raced toward the train station. The fall weather had struck China a week earlier, so the air felt refreshing and eased the tortures that running had so graciously invited. I made it to the ticketing office doors by 21:45 only to see a large sign covering the handle: Ticketing hours 07:30 – 21:30. “Fuuuuu****k,” I exhaled quietly. I searched the entire railway station looking for an information center or employee that might be able to point me in the right direction, even though I was confident that I was too late. I searched for several minutes with no luck and, eventually, wandered back toward the South Gate where my path home awaited. On my way back, I noticed an identical ticketing office. I thought it might be the same one until I saw a sign reading: “North Ticketing Office,” hanging above the corridor. I thought for a second before making the decision to go check it out, just in case they were open.

I kept my expectations maintained and approached the escalator. As few inches at a time became visible, I could see that the office lights were on and the doors open. “Could it be?” I thought to myself. I raced up the escalator and made my way into the giant room. There, I saw a lonely ticketing booth occupied by an attendant. The line was three people deep, and I was quick to become the fourth. This time, when it was my turn, I didn’t speak; rather, I slid my phone up to the glass window and looked at him intently. He looked at my phone, back at me, and then onto his computer. A few moments went by, then he turned to me and held up his index finger (he was asking if I only wanted one ticket). I nodded with hesitation, as not but several hours before, another attendant told me there were no trains to Zhangjiajie. He slid the computer screen toward me, pointing at the price. A sense of relief came about, as I handed over my money. He had my money but continued staring at me. “PASSPORT?!” he questioned. In the back of my head I knew there was a possibility that they would need my passport for the transaction, but since I had booked several bus tickets without it, I figured I wouldn’t need it. I was wrong.

He slid the money back under the window and, the best he could, said: “no passport, no ticket.” I was frantic and explained how I had left my passport at my hotel and how I really needed this ticket. I even tried to show him a picture of my passport from my phone, but he stood by his original “no” and warned that there was nothing he could do. He said I would have to find the Police Cart if I wanted more help with purchasing a ticket.

Now, the last thing I wanted was to find a police officer, as I was heavily warned always to, at all times, keep my passport on my person. I read about random spot checks and the penalty associated for those caught without it. And to think I was going to approach a police officer so I could tell him that I didn’t have mine?? To me, It sounded more like a trap than an act of goodwill.

I left my place in line anyhow and searched for the police cart. Two steps outside of the door was a police officer on the phone; I patiently waited for him to finish his conversation hoping that he spoke a little bit of English. As it turns out, he did not. He slid his phone into his pocket and blabbed a bunch of Chinese at me, barely letting in a breath. I pleaded that I only spoke English, but it didn’t seem to get through to him. I motioned to the counter and waved him to follow me. He had a smile on the whole time and didn’t appear to be bothered by my interruption. His teeth were missing and his uniform, old and tattered, but I felt comfortable with him because he seemed to be the only person who didn’t mind working with me in trying to figure things out.

When we arrived back at the counter, they exchanged words in Chinese. Some, I understood clearly. “He doesn’t understand,” I heard the police officer say, as he pointed at me with pity. The ticket attendant, trying to follow protocol, argued as if he was going to lose his job. I found it ironic that the police officer was encouraging a break in the protocol that the government had created.

After some back and forth, the ticket attendant finally accepted the picture of my passport and money, in exchange for a ticket to Zhangjiajie. I thanked them both with exaggeration and did my best to convey how grateful I was for what they had done. After all, I was considerably grateful for not having to come back the next morning or to have to run all the way back to my hotel to grab my passport. My faith in Chinese people became restored by the police officer’s actions and ability to understand what it can be like as a foreigner in a country without the advantage of words. Honestly, I could’ve hugged the man!

As I walked back to my hotel, I could feel the life sliver back into my veins and, once again, I felt its rejuvenating effects take hold. I smiled for it was the pure essence that shaped who I was and had set me apart from other weary travelers in the past. The thought of a new adventure or journey was my lifeblood and the cure for ordinariness. The seemingly normal train ticket was the difference between visiting a country and experiencing it; seeing its culture and being a part of it. It was a ticket into the unknown that would inevitably lead to more unknown and more adventures.