Taxi!

A common theme of life in China is that nothing ever goes the way you planned. Everrrr. Take my taxi odyssey today, for instance. A new PiA teacher, Paul, had just arrived in Hangzhou, and I—wanting to be a good hostess—decided I’d show him around my new home sweet home.

Which necessitated a few taxi rides. Harmless, right?

So, fresh from a relaxing cup of coffee at the West Lake Starbucks, Paul and I pile into a taxi headed for our university, Zhe Gong Da. Feeling confident in my ability to say the name of my own college accurately, I nonchalantly tell the cabbie, “Zhe Gong Da.”

Yep, sound like the perfect tones and pronunciation to me.

The cabbie repeats what I’d just said, and I assure him that he understood my impeccable Chinese. All’s well. So, Paul and I are gabbing away in the backseat about life, literature, and the like while the cabbie drives on.

And on.

Wait…none of this scenery looks familiar.

I figure he’s taking us on a new route. That’s legit—I need to get to know new parts of Hangzhou, anyway.

But, then he pulls into the East Hangzhou Train Station and turns off the meter.

…Uh…

The East Hangzhou Train Station is on the completely opposite side of town from Zhe Gong Da. Not even close.

“Where is Zhe Gong Da? This is not Zhe Gong Da! This is the train station!” I start scribbling the characters on my hand to make myself understood.

“Zhe Gong Da?? You didn’t say Gong! You said Dong! Aiiyaaaaa” cries the frustrated cabbie in an accusatory way.

“Aiiyaaaaa!” I cry in response (mostly because it’s a fun sound to make, but also because I was frustrated and humbled by the fact that my tonal pronunciation was obviously not as awesome as I’d thought).

So, a 10 minute cab ride turned into a 35 minute, and infinitely more expensive, ride. But, Paul and I finally make it to campus and wander around amidst the imposing academic buildings and carefully manicured Chinese landscapings before deciding to head home.

Which required another taxi. Our next stop? The Grand Hyatt Hangzhou, where Paul dropped off his luggage before heading out on the town.

I’m determined to redeem myself here.

I had been practicing the tones for “Hyatt Hotel” for about 3 blocks before we got into the taxi. But, just to make sure he reallllly understood me, I handed him the Hyatt’s brochure with the hotel’s name and address written in Chinese characters. He nods and whips the car around a corner, seemingly in hot pursuit of the Hyatt.

Seems promising.

…Until the wayward cabbie drops us off on a different road, makes up some excuse about one-way streets, points in the general eastern direction, and tells us to walk that way one block.

A little peeved that he didn’t take us directly to the Hyatt, we start to walk.

Only, there’s no Hyatt.

Maybe he meant two blocks. So we keep walking. Nope, not a hotel in sight.

Finally convinced that the cabby either A) didn’t know what he was talking about or B) decided to pull a fast one on the laowai just for fun, we turn around and start wandering blindly down the street, asking random passersby if they know where the Hyatt is. Of course, no one does.

So we wander. In the rain. In the windy rain. So windy, in fact, that our umbrellas start flipping inside out and we feel like we’re going to get carried away Wizard of Oz-style. A sitcom writer couldn’t have come up with a more pathetic sight.

But, we finally find a shop owner with knowledge of the fabled Hyatt, and reach our destination. After reuniting Paul with his luggage, we leave in search of our final cab to take us home.

Surely nothing will happen this time. The Chinese believe in good karma, right?

After waiting for a taxi at the height of rush hour for about 30 minutes, we finally manage to wave one down. After running through the sloshy, wet rain in pursuit of the cab (and awkwardly kicking off a drenched, slippery flip flop in the process), we tumble into the car and give the cabbie directions for home.

Ah, an end is in sight.

So, we’re driving through Hangzhou’s quiet, dark Buddhist hills outside of town, tired and ready for some food, when all of the sudden the cabbie lurches the car onto a sidewalk on a deserted stretch of road.

Thinking he must have misunderstood my directions (wouldn’t be the first time), I tell him that the house is farther up the road.

But then the guy goes nuts, turns off the car and the meter, and wails, “I can’t take it anymore!” and jumps out of the cab.

…Uh….

What can’t he take anymore? Our annoying English conversations? His dreary life as a cabbie? Life, in general? What kind of dramatic fit were we witnessing?

“Oh…he just had to go.” Paul realized.

I turn around and peer out the back window. Yep, there was our cabbie, about 100 yards away, relieving himself and not even trying to hide it.

All Paul and I could do was laugh. Ooooh, China.