Some of you China veterans will likely scoff with derision at the tale that follows, but I hope my story will save others from the clutches of "train station hell". My wife and I recently moved from Shanghai to Hangzhou, and it happened that we, who are normally inseperable, had to travel alone.

As any one who knows the bliss of having a native Chinese spouse can attest, you tend to get a bit lazy about figuring stuff out that your spouse can deal with in an instant, especially things you don't do often. Train travel was such a one for me.

I arrived at the station bright eyed and bushy tailed last Saturday, and quickly found my way to the long queues of travellers buying tickets. To my happy surprise, it was not nearly the feeding frenzy I had encountered the last time we'd travelled by train, during one of the national holidays (as a side note – never, ever go near a Chinese train or bus station during a national holiday if you value your life and sanity!).

Then hit problem number one. Which line to queue in? There seems to be a dictum in China that train stations are not to be made accessible to foreigners. In stark contrast to the roads and airports, there was not one iota of pinyin or English anywhere. Several of the lines were clearly marked differently, and some invitingly shorter than the others. My mind raced through all the possibilities:

"Could there be a separate line for those buying first class tickets?"
"Was the one with no customers perversely for foreigners only, who had no way of knowing how they were being thus honored and accomodated?"
"Would one of them send me on a nightmare journey to Outer Mongolia or beyond?"

I asked one of the security guards in broken Chinese, and he pointed to what must surely be the longest line in the place, which struck me as odd, because it was labelled the same as most of the other queues. I guess that's what passes for light humor in a guard's long day of drudgery.

Finally I got to the window, and was delighted that one word, "Hangzhou", seemed to grant me instant access to happiness. 54 RMB later I had my soft seat ticket in hand (thank goodness the ticket agent was merciful enough to assume a foreigner would want to have his own soft seat for the ride!) and the added satisfaction of seeing the train number started with a "D", a sure sign, according to my wife, that I was going to get the nice express train.

Now problem #2 hit. Where was the train? I wandered over to the gateway that led to the central area that seemed likely to be the home of the great lumbering beasts. I showed the attendant there my ticket, hopeful that the friendly looking lady would confirm I was headed in the right direction. To my dismay, she just shook her head and pointed in the opposite direction, mumbling something that I was sure was just beyond my comprehension, locked in the dim recesses of my mind where most of the memories of my year of Mandarin tutoring reside.

I wandered vaguely in the direction she had pointed, scanning my ticket once again for some clue that would connect it to a portal leading to the great hall of beasts. I noticed a nice big 13 on the ticket, and saw there were also numbers all around the station, looking rather promisingly like the gate numbers at an airport. With bouyant heart, I walked briskly over to the gate marked 13. Only to discover that it hid an entry to a locker area and bathrooms. Good fortune was with me, though, and the locker attendant, after sheepishly being shown my ticket, pushed me toward the waiting room marked VIP. Ah, now this was fine treatment!

But my pleasure in the VIP waiting room was short lived, for waiting is an activity not likely to lead inevitably to transportation. Still I wondered, "Where are the trains?" There was a board in the room, which even my slow mind was able to connect with a list of departing trains, accompanied by track numbers and boarding status. So, at least I would know when I had missed my train, I thought.

I now picked this tense moment to commit one of the stupidest manuevers I've ever been caught at in a long life of bonehead mistakes. I lost my ticket. Couldn't find it anywhere – my bags, my pack, my pockets, my jacket - not inside my shoes, nor in the nethermost recesses of my mouth or sundry other orifices. I was desperate. I went up to the VIP lounge desk, thinking maybe I had left it there when I'd proudly shown them my right to occupy the honored waiting room. Not there either. The attendant motioned for me to wait. Apparently she was going to help me look for the lost ticket. She proceeded to calmly walk over to where I had been sitting a moment before, reached down under the seat and grabbed my ticket, handing it back to me along with what remained of my pride and dignity.

I sat back down, hoping after all this, the mysterious path to the fabled train would make itself clear to the humbled neophyte. I was not disappointed. A few minutes later the attendants got very busy and proceeded to open up an exit from the VIP room, shouting something about Hangzhou and motioning to a different entrance into the bowels of the train station. My heart leaping with joy, I gleefully donned sheep's clothing and followed the flock to the promised land. A few twists and turns later and lo and behold – The TRAIN!

Almost running with relief, I located and boarded what I had by now successfully decoded as MY car, and proudly occupied MY designated seat, leaving MY luggage rudely to block the ingress and egress of my fellow passengers, as any smug veteran traveller like me would. I was on my way.
 

Related Links
How to Buy a Train Ticket in Shanghai
The Adventures of Train Travel in China
On the Train with a Toddler

Warning：The use of any news and articles published on eChinacities.com without written permission from eChinacities.com constitutes copyright infringement, and legal action can be taken.