By GS
June 22, Sunday
The Air Canada Boeing pulled into Capital International Airport under the heavy, gray pollution that suffocates Beijing year-round. Visibility was terrible, but the elderly Frenchman beside me peered out the window intently.
Ten hours of sitting next this effortlessly stylish (the handbag…tan leather!) but awkwardly shy gentleman wasn’t too bad. We never talked because I suspect he was hesitant about his limited English. I had half of a day to ruminate possible icebreakers — “Isn’t the Canadian flight attendant’s French accent terrible?”; “Poor Raymond Domenech…vive Les Bleus!”; “…but our Laura Bush has never posed naked…haw haw.” When I sensed that he was glancing at my Economist, I deliberately paced myself through the story on Sarkozy’s military overhaul. I even took out my Foreign Affairs as conversation bait — he seemed cultivated; disregard my thug, monsieur, so am I! — and yet, neither of us broached conversation.
The jetway spilled us into Beijing’s new $3.7 billion international terminal. Exclusive sneak peak: The roof is a sloping lattice of wooden slabs. Red columns line the train tracks that shuttle travelers to the main terminal. The building was stunningly expansive, impressive, and new, and it visibly drew upon traditional Chinese architectural cues.
The air is just as bad but the city was noticeably cleaner. Olympics sponsorships are everywhere and the excitement is considerable. Bank of China is the official bank. Nokia, I believe, is the official cell phone. Coke is the official drink. 50 Cent and T-Pain, by your faithful correspondent’s estimation, are likely the respective official rapper and R&B crooner.
The traffic is still terrible, because of the traffic. Not like two years ago, when I sat in a car near Beijing University stuck in an awful jam around 6 p.m. — rush hour. The traffic parted like the sea, and Moses, in the form of two cop cars and a black limo, sprinted through, sirens blaring. The driver told me that the area we were in was near the neighborhood where all the high ranking government officials lived. All of the traffic already jammed in rush hour, had stopped and parted to make way for this particular official entourage.
“Are they rushing off to solve a national crisis?” I asked.
“No, it’s dinner time,” was the reply.
Unfettered government privilege aside, the Chinese also appear considerably more hip since I last visited… if only it was possible to look good in this sweltering humidity. I sure can’t. Zhong Guo ren, jia you!
Profound thoughts tomorrow.
