China Trips - Chapter 5 - Touchdown in China

I arrived early at Melbourne Tullamarine Airport, traveling lighter than I ever had before. I had packed only the absolute essentials—just enough clothes and toiletries to get me through the first few days. My plan was simple: leave plenty of space in my nearly empty suitcases so I could fill them with souvenirs and things I’d find in China.

Check-in was a breeze. Before long, I was through security and sitting at the gate, waiting for my Cathay Pacific flight to board. My route would take me to Beijing, with a few hours’ layover in Hong Kong.

This time, I was traveling alone. My daughter wouldn’t meet me in Beijing until the next day—she was flying in from Japan—so I had enough time to get myself settled before she arrived.

The first leg to Hong Kong was by far the longest stretch of the journey, but to my surprise, it didn’t feel that way. Since it was daytime, I stayed wide awake, making the most of the in-flight entertainment. There was a great selection of movies, and I watched one after another, grateful for the distraction and the chance to pass the hours without constantly checking my watch.

Hong Kong airport was familiar territory. I’d been here a few years earlier, not long after COVID, on my way to Japan. I still remembered how eerie it had felt back then—like passing through a ghost town. Nearly every shop had been closed. The only places open were Duty Free and a single Starbucks, and the few passengers who were around moved through the terminal in hushed, uncertain silence.

This time, it was completely different. The airport was bustling with travelers, bright lights, and the steady hum of conversation. Every shop and restaurant seemed to be open, their displays overflowing with souvenirs, snacks, and steaming bowls of food.

After wandering for a while, taking in the change, I decided I couldn’t leave without trying something. Even though I was still fairly full from the in-flight meal, the sight—and smell—of freshly made noodles was impossible to resist. So I picked a small noodle bar, ordered a bowl, and sat down to enjoy it, feeling like the trip had truly begun.

The flight time to Beijing was much shorter than from Melbourne to Hong Kong, yet somehow it felt longer. There was a restless anticipation building in me—the thought of setting foot in China for the very first time. I wondered what kind of experience I would have, what impressions would stay with me. Thought I had never set foot in China, something about the descent felt strangely like coming home.

I am a second-generation Chinese descendant born outside of China. Both of my grandparents had left their homeland and migrated to another country, where my parents were born. In some way, this trip felt like tracing the threads of my family’s history back to where it all began.

I was sitting in a window seat, so as the plane began its descent, I was presented with a view of endless lights spread out beneath me. They were mesmerising—thousands upon thousands of tiny points twinkling in the darkness, like a vast constellation laid across the ground. Beijing looked enormous, almost unfathomable in scale, and for a moment, I felt small in the best possible way.

As we taxied slowly toward the terminal, it felt as if time was stretching out, making me sit with the anticipation I had carried for months. Each minute felt like an extra moment to reflect on what it meant to arrive here. This was the country my grandparents had left behind, the place that had shaped generations before me, and now here I was, tracing those roots back to their beginning.

When we were finally allowed to disembark, I felt a quiet sense of significance. Though I wasn’t yet literally stepping onto the soil itself, stepping out of the plane felt symbolic—a crossing of an invisible threshold. After all the stories I’d heard growing up, and all the images I’d carried in my mind, I had finally set foot in China.

The walk to immigration was quite long, typical of almost every large international airport. Before you reached the immigration counters, you had to stop to be fingerprinted. For me, the process was smooth and straightforward.

My daughter, who arrived the next day, didn’t have the same luck. According to her, the fingerprint machine wouldn’t capture her prints properly, so the staff simply waved her on toward immigration without completing the step. She was quite concerned that when she reached the counter, they’d send her back to repeat the process, which would have meant rejoining the long queue all over again.

When I arrived, the line for immigration wasn’t terribly long in terms of how far it stretched, but the process itself moved slowly. I queued for almost an hour and a half before finally reaching the desk. My daughter ended up standing in line for more than two hours.

It struck me how much patience international travel demands, especially in those first hours when you’re tired, eager to get out into the city, and instead find yourself inching forward in a hall full of strangers, each of you carrying your own story and anticipation.

On our trips the following year, we were prepared for the long immigration process. This time, as soon as we disembarked, we picked up our pace. It felt almost as if we’d been coming to China for years—we knew exactly where to go, and we didn’t hesitate.

We passed groups of passengers who had left the plane before us, quietly overtaking them as we navigated the familiar corridors toward immigration. By the time we reached the fingerprinting station, we were the only ones there.

After scanning our passports, the staff looked up and said, “All good—no need to fingerprint.” They already had our details on file. It was a mix of relief and mild unease, knowing that somewhere in the system, my fingerprints and personal information were stored, ready to be matched.

We continued on to join the immigration line, which was refreshingly short—fewer than ten people ahead of us. Just as we were settling in to wait, an officer opened a new counter and gestured for me to come over.

I was second in line. The process moved quickly this time—no fuss, no delays. The officer asked a few standard questions: How long would I be staying in China? What was the purpose of my visit?

Satisfied with my answers, he stamped my passport, and handed it back with a smile. “Welcome to China,” he said.

My daughter was already waiting for me on the other side of the barrier. And that was it. In less than thirty minutes, we had cleared immigration.

It felt almost effortless, as though this place that once seemed so intimidating had become familiar.

On my first trip in 2024, after I finally cleared immigration, I realised I had no idea where to go next. There were brief signs in English, but none felt completely clear to me, and there were no other visitors nearby I could tag along with. I stood there for a moment, scanning for clues about where to collect my luggage.

In front of me was a lift with a sign pointing down to baggage claim. Next to it, a set of stairs descended to the same level. I decided to take the lift and pressed the button for the ground floor.

When the doors opened, I stepped out—and immediately knew something wasn’t right. Instead of baggage carousels and crowds of weary travellers, I was standing alone on the platform of an empty train station. There wasn’t a single person in sight, and no train waiting.

A little unsure and more than a little confused, I decided I’d better double-check before committing to whatever this was. I got back into the lift and rode up again, just to confirm whether I actually needed to take a train to reach baggage claim.

Taking a train for an airport transfer wasn’t exactly foreign to me—I’d done it plenty of times in Japan and Hong Kong. But in that moment, it was hard to shake the feeling that I’d taken a wrong turn somewhere.

When the lift doors slid open on the upper level, I was greeted by a small crowd of passengers waiting for the lift—the same people who had been on my flight. I recognised a few faces immediately.

I felt a flicker of embarrassment at the idea of joining them again, as though I’d been caught sneaking off in the wrong direction. So instead of getting back into the lift with everyone, I stepped out and headed for the stairs.

I had a new plan now: follow the group. Surely we were all heading to the same place—to collect our luggage and finally leave the airport behind.

As soon as I stepped onto the train, my phone rang. For a moment, I just stared at it, bewildered—who could possibly be calling me here?

The number was unfamiliar, but I decided to answer anyway.

On the other end, a woman started speaking rapidly in Mandarin. I caught just enough to understand she was the driver who was supposed to pick me up, but everything else blurred together in a stream of words I couldn’t follow.

I interrupted gently and said in English, “Could you please repeat that in English?”

She switched to broken English—still halting, but much easier for me to piece together. She explained she had already been waiting for more than two hours and that there would be an additional charge, a few yuan per minute, because of the delay.

I tried to recall if there had been any conditions like that when I booked the service. Maybe it was buried in the fine print I never read. At that point, it didn’t really matter.

I told her to please wait for me, that I was on the train heading to collect my luggage and it wouldn’t take long to get through customs.

In the back of my mind, I was already thinking I’d sort out any extra charges with the booking agent later.

For now, all I needed was to get to the hotel without any more complications.

It was wishful thinking to believe everything would be simple. The real drama began as soon as I got into the car and we left the airport parking lot.

After collecting my luggage, I finally spotted the driver waiting for me, holding a sign with my name on it. Baggage claim and customs were surprisingly fast—my suitcase was already making its rounds on the conveyor belt when I arrived. Since I had nothing to declare, I walked straight through the Nothing to Declare exit without anyone stopping me.

The driver picked up my luggage, even though I tried to decline politely. She insisted, saying, “Follow me,” before taking off at a brisk pace.

I struggled to keep up, distracted by my need to find a shop selling SIM cards. I barely had a chance to ask about a SIM card—she was already disappearing into the crowd ahead of me.

At that speed, I couldn’t properly scan the area for any signs advertising SIM cards. By the time I caught up, we were already well past all the shops and kiosks.

At the entrance to the parking lot, she turned to me and said, “Wait here,” explaining she would go and get the car.

Feeling obligated, I stood where she left me, luggage at my feet, already realising this wasn’t going to be the smooth arrival I’d imagined.

Once the car started moving, she began speaking in Mandarin again. I gathered she was trying to confirm the hotel, but I didn’t recognise the name she kept repeating.

I insisted my hotel was the Sunworld Hotel, and I even mentioned the area—one of Beijing’s most famous shopping districts, the kind of place anyone living there would surely know. Still, she shook her head and kept repeating a Mandarin phrase that sounded nothing like ‘Sunworld’. A sinking feeling crept in-had I been scammed by the driver, or worse, had the hotel never existed at all? I was quite anxious, if something happened, I could not reach anybody. But then I reasoned myself to keep calm, I booked both through a reputable booking agency that I had previously used without any problem. This could not be a scam.

I’d printed my itinerary with all the details—hotel name, address, reservation number—but when I was on the plane, I’d taken the folder out of my backpack and put it in my carry-on suitcase. Now the carry-on suitcase was locked in the car’s trunk.

I had also emailed the itinerary to myself as a backup, but without internet access, I couldn’t open it.

Even if I’d reached the details, they were in English-and likely just as useless.

I searched my mind for a solution, any way to break the stalemate.

In the end, I decided to tell her as best I could to just take me to whatever hotel she was talking about. I reasoned that once I arrived there, if it turned out to be the wrong place, at least I’d be able to talk to the hotel staff to help me sort it out.

While I was hatching this plan, she picked up her phone and called the booking agent. Then she handed the phone to me.

To my relief, the person on the line spoke better English, though he still didn’t sound entirely certain whether the hotel she kept naming and the hotel in my reservation were actually the same place.

I was too exhausted to keep arguing in circles. I just said, “Please tell the driver to take me to the hotel she’s thinking of. I’ll deal with it when I get there.”

Finally, we were getting somewhere.

As we pulled onto the main roads, I couldn’t even appreciate the view of the city. All I could think about was what would happen next—what I’d do if we arrived and it was the wrong hotel after all.

It was almost midnight. The thought of still needing to sort out another ride to the correct place made me feel like this night might never end.

We pulled through the hotel gate, and as soon as we passed the entrance, I finally saw it—the name of the hotel, clearly written in big letters in English.

To my enormous relief, it was my hotel. All that stress and confusion, and we’d been talking about the same place the entire time. With my limited Mandarin, I did not understand the translation of Sunworld in Mandarin.

It was the language barrier that had turned a simple drive into such an ordeal.

I learned my lesson right then.

On my next trip, when I booked hotels, I made sure to screen-capture everything—the hotel name in both English and Chinese, the address, and even photos of the entrance. It made things so much easier. Each time, the driver knew exactly where to take me. No confusion, no misunderstandings.

I also started the habit of asking the front desk for a hotel card with the name and address printed in Chinese, just in case I ever needed to show it to a taxi driver or ask for directions.

It was such a small thing, but it made all the difference.

After I finally checked in and got to my room, the very first thing I did was test the VPN. I connected to the hotel Wi-Fi and held my breath.

It worked.

I could send and receive messages on WhatsApp, Google Maps loaded perfectly, Google Translate was ready, and even Facebook opened without any issues. At last—one thing was finally going right.

Feeling too excited to just sit in the room, I freshened up. Even though it was well past midnight, I decided to take a short stroll outside.

Once I stepped out of the hotel, I picked the direction that looked more lively, with bright lights glowing a few blocks away. It turned out to be the right choice. After walking only two blocks, I found myself standing at the start of the famous Wangfujing Street. The first place I’d set my foot on from my list of must-see places. It was a place I’d only seen through a screen. Now, standing here with the summer’s cool air brushing my face, I could not believe that I was actually here in person.

The shops were all closed bar a couple of snacks shops, but the enormous LED screens lit up the sky, playing animated ads in an endless loop-just like I’d seen on YouTube. It casting the street in a surreal glow. I walked past rows of pop up stores shaped like miniature buses I’d seen so many times online. Even though they were dark and shuttered for the night, it felt almost unreal to be standing there seeing them with my own eyes.

I didn’t venture too far. On the way back, I stopped at a snack shop to browse.

The snacks were surprisingly familiar—most of them were the same brands and packages sold in Melbourne. I wandered over to the drinks section and spotted something that made me smile: a White Rabbit drink in a cute plastic bottle.

White Rabbit was one of the sweets I often had in my childhood. I could still remember the chewy, milky candy, shaped like little cylinders and wrapped in waxy paper with a thin layer of edible rice paper inside. Finding it here, transformed into a drink, felt like a little gift from the universe.

I had to try it.

I grabbed a bottle and went up to the counter. I couldn’t use Alipay yet because I didn’t have a data connection, so I asked if I could pay in cash.

The shopkeeper nodded—yes, they accepted cash. My first cash transaction in China.

I opened the bottle as soon as I stepped outside. It was sweeter than the candy itself but had that same distinct, familiar White Rabbit flavour. It was surprisingly addictive.

Back in my room, happy and content, I started planning my next move.