Eight hours in Nanjing - Episode I

The city of Nanjing sits about 175 miles northwest of Shanghai and with roughly 5 million inhabitants, it is average by Chinese standards. I went there yesterday, armed with nothing more than four phrases written in Chinese (historical sites) and a couple notes on when the trains should be leaving (from and to Shanghai). No maps or guides, no purchased tickets, no itineraries – just a wherewithal to see the city I read 200 pages about three months prior (The Rape of Nanking; well-written and sobering).

I take the subway line #2 to the train station and am blanketed by the smell of warm pee and the sights of excessive amounts of people coming to and from. I think the trains are in the building next to me. A sign with some Chinese characters and “ticket office” adorns the front of a separate building. The ticket room is smoky, but bright, and there are seven lines, each with a neon sign above it written in Chinese characters. I look to the schedules and posters on the wall, but there is no comfort to be found as everything is in Chinese.

With no English anywhere in sight, I go with the universal language – “pick the shortest line.” It works. After waiting a few minutes, I get to the front of the line and the clerk glances at me with a rushed face, like the last thing he needs is this startled foreigner on the other side of the glass. I agree with him. And I point to the Chinese characters for “Nanjing” and then write “9:45,” the time I think the train leaves. He nods and types on his computer, then gives me the 93rmb (about $13) ticket, and points up.

Now I have a ticket, but I’m not sure where to go. Anyone resembling a train station employee gets my ticket in their face along with a hopeful look that they can point me in the right direction. This gets me nowhere. I see some travelers going into a building across the street. It looks like a safe bet and it is. The clerk at the entrance stamps my ticket and I’m in. I put my bag through some sort of x-ray machine, but I do not have to get naked like you do at the airports these days.

I see signs with my train number (D414) pointing to a waiting room, where I meet the rest of my fellow cattle who are making the trek to Nanjing. I sit and try to figure out what my ticket says using my pocket Mandarin guide, when the girl next to me says, “Do you need help?”

“Where do I start?” runs through my head. But the words come out more like, “Yes.”

“You stand-up, you no seat,” she says while pointing to her ticket, which clearly shows a car and seat number, something that is absent from mine. Because the train is full and I booked my ticket so soon before leaving, I have to stand for the duration of the trip. At this point, I feel thankful that I even got on the train at all.

This train must have been one of the fastest I’ve ridden. It’s modern and comfortable, even if you don’t have a chair. The bad news of having to stand is balanced by the good news that comes with the conductor’s announcement: the train’s next and only stop is Nanjing. I’m on an express and it takes us less than two hours to get there. “Standing” isn’t so bad, especially since I sit on the floor most of the trip next to a couple other Chinese guys.

We arrive in Nanjing and my first priority is to buy my return ticket on the 8:09pm to Shanghai for that night. There are several older women selling city maps and I purchase one for four kuai (about $0.50). Most of the writing is in Chinese, but I’m still thankful to have it. Then I navigate the subway system (which is thankfully similar to Shanghai’s) and get off at a stop that looks like it might be their version of Walnut-Locust or Grand & State.

When I get above ground for the first time, I see I guessed well. There are tall buildings everywhere and a bunch of advertisements, one of which bears the likenesses of Tim Duncan and Chauncey Billups. I collect my thoughts while eating KFC.