It appears after a long day of waiting around for something to happen, I’ve finally gotten my wish. Our train departure back to Beijing was early afternoon and the day was drizzly and chilly so we had a late breakfast, hung out in our rooms and the cozy little library room on our attic floor of the hostel and then met up again for lunch in the dining room – also an agreeable hangout spot, even though plates came in paper bags, cutlery needed to be requested and the coffee was instant.
We got to the train station in plenty of time but found ourselves in the wrong part of the station so even though we had already gone through a security check we needed to do it all over again. On top of that, before boarding our train, each piece of our luggage was subject to a rather thorough search, including the opening of our toiletry bags and a rifling through of all our personal objects, including underwear.
Emily had her hand sanitizer confiscated, the ultimate irony, since there is no soap available in the train toilets. Fortunately, mine was not found. Most certainly, people were left behind because the train departed some minutes early and there were many people behind us in the queue, having their personal effects strewn about. I’m not sure what all the security is about, but the Capitol of China always receives special deference and rules. It’s inscrutable. Nobody ever knows why. At least foreigners don’t.
Upon finding our seats, we found an elderly gentleman sprawled across the two of ours, gnarled hands with a wooden bauble bracelet on the left, clinging to a rather large stick. His mask was (and has remained) under his chin because he alternates between cackling apropos of nobody and spitting loudly into a plastic container, where he appears to be collecting his throat juices. He summons the sputum from the deepest spasms of his throat and horks it out with a noise that matches a camel in heat and that would have offended the deepest of sensibilities pre COVID, but now provides terror for those around him.
We showed him our tickets and he only laughed, waving us toward the rest of the car, which we were happy to avail ourselves of. He has a rolly, metal structure, the kind used for carrying groceries as his suitcase of sorts. He has multiple bags and water bottles, a red fold-up stool, and a scarf all bungy-corded to it. It was perched beside him, blocking our way. After a lengthy discussion with the train attendant, we removed ourselves and sat several seats away until the train started filling up at other station stops and we were forced to return to our original seats. He had since moved across from our seats and I can see him perched on the edge of his seat, blue unshod sock on the seat beside him, his hands clasped around his knee. He’s wearing a camoflauge baseball cap and all-around, he looks rather well-groomed and dressed considering the sounds emanating from him at regular intervals. I’m guessing he has some dementia or perhaps mental illness, and I would find him quite enjoyable because he’s fairly jovial and spunky. It’s just the regular sputum spewing.
| Our fellow passenger with spittoon, stick and luggage |
At the last stop I decided to brave the bathroom. I’m never sure what to do in a Chinese bathroom with a western toilet. Almost always the seats are left up because people here are used to hovering over seats, probably because squat toilets are normal here. I’ve taken to not putting the toilet seat down either because I’d rather hover than sit on a dirty seat anyway. That said, it’s different in a unisex bathroom that has been used a myriad of times before I make my entrance.
So suffice it to say, the bathroom is dirty, the toilet seat is up, the rim of the toilet is riddled with urine as is the floor. But I am prepared. I am wearing my mask so as to smell nothing and because, well, COVID. I have brought in my own toilet paper because even when facilities do provide toilet paper, they run out quickly. I also have my non-confiscated hand sanitizer.
Apologies for the forthcoming details, but its’ not a story without them. I hover over the seat, making sure I am positioned low enough (because I’ve made that mistake before), and I begin my stream. Just as I’ve started, the train lurches and I feel wetness. On my pants? My underwear? I can’t tell. I gently reposition and finish the job, hoping I’ve only imagined this not-new-to-me trauma.
No, unlucky again. It’s my underwear. It’s soaked. I had neglected to pull it down far enough (because I didn’t want it touching the toilet bowl, which was shimmered with pee) and the lurch had caused me to miss the toilet bowl aim and soaked through my panties instead. Oh, lord.
I sussed out the situation, still hovering, I sighed and pulled up my underwear, but quickly realized they were wet enough to saturate the pants I was wearing, the offending aroma would also be all around me and my fellow passengers, and I would be in an uncomfortably wet pool for the remaining two plus hours and then a taxi ride home.
Normally, I would have thrown out the underwear and let it go, but it’s a great, quick-dry pair (but not quick enough!) that I am rather fond of. Fortunately, I had just enough toilet paper left to wrap up the panties. But first, I had to take them off.
The train, by this time, was at full speed, and I was in a snug toilet facility with people waiting outside to get in. Already two times people had attempted to open the door, even with the sign clearing showing it is in use.
Okay, you can do it, I told myself. One pant leg at a time. I wrestled one leg off while balancing on the other Birkenstocked foot. Then I pulled off the one side of the underwear. Easy enough. I was breathing heavily, and my balance was faltering. I leaned my head into the corner of the wall as I attempted to slither out of one side of the wet panties.
One leg accomplished. Almost. First, I had to re-put on that pant leg before I could tackle the next. Somehow I had turned it inside out in my ministrations so with full weight of my body on my head in the corner, I right sided the pant leg and leveraged it back onto my leg.
On to the next side. Leg off. Final side of underwear off. Pant let back on. Done and dusted. I wrapped the underwear in the remaining toilet paper, the package looking like one of those giant winged period pads women wear at night and wrap in copious amounts of toilet paper to disguise in the bin.
So out I came, as discreetly as I could and slunk back to my seat, sliding my sodden underwear into my backpack alongside my iPad and jean jacket.
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| A view of the toilet and our friend’s luggage |
The spitting man across from me gave me a sprightly smile as I commandeered myself into my seat and dear Don got to hear yet another story of Leah peeing her pants.