China Trips - Chapter 8 - Train from Beijing to Jinan

We quickly collected our luggage from the hotel lobby and checked out, both of us still riding the fragile relief of having a ride at all. This time, when I opened Alipay and ordered a Didi to the train station, it worked beautifully—just as it had all those other times I’d taken it for granted.

Sitting in the back seat of the car, finally safe on the way back to the hotel, we began piecing together what had just happened.

It didn’t make sense at first. Alipay had been working only minutes earlier. I’d used it without any issue to pay for the hand creams we’d picked up as gifts. The transaction had gone through perfectly.

I thought back over the morning, retracing each step in my mind. And then it dawned on me.

Google Maps.

It had loaded right away when we checked whether the hotel was close enough to walk. But in China, Google Maps doesn’t work without a VPN.

A slow, dawning realization spread between us.

Somewhere between leaving the gift shop and reaching the main street, I must have switched on the VPN—maybe to look up directions, or to translate something, or simply out of habit. I couldn’t remember doing it, but it was the only explanation that fit.

VPNs let you slip past the Great Firewall, unlocking the apps and sites you can’t normally reach. But the same technology that let Google Maps function also blocked Alipay—and Didi—from knowing where I was.

All that time, the VPN had been the invisible wall between me and the help I needed.

From then on, I made a silent note to myself: if Alipay ever refused to work, the first thing I’d check was whether the VPN was still on.

A small, hard-won lesson. One I wouldn’t forget again.

But even now, when I look back on that moment—when I stood on the pavement near the Forbidden City, completely out of options, whispering a silent prayer—I still wonder.

Because I know I didn’t turn off the VPN. I never touched the settings again.

And yet, somehow, when I tried that final time, Didi found me.

Call it chance. Call it coincidence. Call it luck.

Or maybe, just maybe, it really was a small miracle.

Someone, somewhere, caring enough to help me find my way when I needed it most.

Didi dropped us nowhere near the entrance to the train station—just on a narrow strip of pavement that separated two one-way roads, barely wide enough for us to drag our suitcases behind us.

The traffic on our side was hopelessly tangled. The driver turned in his seat, gesturing apologetically, explaining through a mix of words and hand signs that it would be faster to walk.

We nodded, too tired to argue.

We climbed out, our little mountain of luggage growing to four suitcases—one in each hand—and tried to look like we knew what we were doing. But we must have cut a ridiculous figure: two weary travelers inching our way along the cracked pavement, wheels catching in every groove, bags threatening to tip over at the slightest bump.

And then there was the road.

Cars hurtled past without the slightest intention of slowing down. We edged forward, scanning for a break in the chaos—a place to cross without risking life and limb. Eventually, we spotted a pedestrian crossing and hurried over, the suitcases banging and jolting behind us.

It should have been a simple thing: just a short walk to the station doors. But in the midday heat, with heavy bags and a wheel that refused to roll straight, each step felt like a small trial. My mind was already bracing for the next ordeal—finding the ticket counter, claiming our paper tickets, hauling everything to the platform—when I noticed a man approaching.

He wore what looked like a uniform and pushed an empty trolley in front of him. For a moment, I thought he must be official station staff offering free assistance. The idea touched me more than I cared to admit—some small grace at the end of a long, exhausting morning.

But as soon as he began speaking, gesturing to the suitcases, I realized this wasn’t a free service. He explained how the fee worked. It wasn’t expensive—not really, considering what he was offering.

And it sounded almost too good to be true. In that moment—sweaty, frazzled, still carrying the aftershock of the earlier panic—it felt like exactly the help we needed.

He asked whether I already had our tickets. I told him no, I still needed to collect them. Without missing a beat, he nodded and said he’d take us there first.

I agreed instantly.

And true to his word, he did everything he promised.

He led us off the street, past the doors I’d been about to enter, and into the correct building I surely would have missed. He navigated us to a line in front of a ticket window, staying with us all the while, steadying the trolley, guiding us forward. When we reached the counter, he stepped up to speak to the attendant for me, explaining what we needed.

Even now, I don’t fully understand how we managed to communicate. My Chinese was almost non-existent, and his English was only a shade better. But somehow, in that little pocket of chaos, we spoke the same language. It felt almost ridiculous—and a little miraculous—that we understood each other at all.

Once I had the tickets in hand, he maneuvered us back to the main station. At the security checkpoint, he lifted each suitcase onto the belt, then reloaded them onto the trolley. Inside the cavernous station—so big it felt like an airport terminal—he led us straight to the correct gate.

It was summer holiday season in China, and the crowd was thick with families, students, and travellers clutching tickets. He gestured for us to sit while he stood nearby, keeping one hand resting lightly on our bags.

A few minutes later, another man in the same uniform appeared. He introduced himself, explaining that he was there to collect payment. He handed me a receipt and a company card, took the cash, and disappeared into the crowd.

For the first time that day, I realized we had more than enough time before our train. Enough time to breathe, to eat, to gather ourselves.

The man with the trolley glanced at me and asked, through simple gestures, if we wanted to get some lunch. When I nodded, he motioned that he’d stay behind with our luggage.

And so we found a KFC tucked along one side of the waiting hall.

This time, the counter was fully staffed, no self-order screens to puzzle over. We did what we’d learned to do: pointed to the pictures of what we wanted. The young woman behind the register nodded, rang it up, and packed everything neatly into a takeaway bag.

A small, simple victory.

With the warm bundle of KFC in hand, we retraced our steps. When we reached our gate, the man was still there, standing calmly beside our luggage as though he hadn’t moved at all. The seats around him were nearly empty now—the crowd had thinned, the previous train having already departed, and the next one not due for a little while.

I felt a small wave of relief. We were early, finally—no frantic rushing, no scrambling to find our way.

I turned to my daughter.

“I want to check out the shops,” I told her.

She shook her head, too tired to wander any more. So I left her sitting near our bags and started off on my own.

The station shops mostly sold snacks and bottled drinks, the familiar jumble of instant noodles, crackers, and local sweets. But then, near the end of the row, I spotted a temporary stall draped in bright banners—selling souvenirs for Team China at the 2024 Paris Olympics.

For a moment, I stood there just taking it in: the red and gold logos, the rows of T-shirts and hats, the mascots lined up in neat little rows.

I picked up a couple of small things—nothing extravagant, just enough to remind me later of this trip and this moment.

When it was finally time to board, the man gestured for us to line up at the foreigner passport scanning point, saying he’d wait for us on the other side. We followed him once we joined him and he led us out onto the platform, weaving effortlessly through the crowd. He didn’t rush or bark instructions—just walked with that same calm, steady presence he’d shown from the moment he appeared.

He stopped in front of our carriage and began loading each suitcase onto the train. One by one, he stowed them safely inside, making sure everything was arranged neatly so we wouldn’t trip over our bags later.

And with that, his service was complete. Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Though it was a paid service, he had impressed me deeply. The way he carried himself, the way he spoke to me, the way he did his work—calm, courteous, professional.

The train ride to Jinan felt almost soothing after the chaos of the morning.

The train departed at the exact minute printed on the ticket. I remember feeling a quiet admiration for that precision, as if the rails themselves were determined to stay on schedule no matter what happened out in the streets.

We were in a second-class carriage, but it was more than enough. The seats were wide and clean, with plenty of legroom to stretch out after all that hauling of luggage. There were power outlets so we could finally recharge our phones—such a small thing, but it felt like a luxury after everything we’d been through.

Outside the window, the cityscape blurred into countryside. For a moment, it felt unreal that in less than two hours, we’d be stepping into a new place.

From time to time, the carriage grew noisy—someone talking too loudly into their phone despite the announcements reminding everyone to keep their voices down. But even then, there was order. No one argued. No one was rude. For the most part, everyone respected the shared space.

I watched the kilometers tick down on the little overhead display and felt my breathing settle. We were finally moving forward, no more delays, no more sudden obstacles.

And right on schedule, the train pulled into Jinan.

We had arrived—exactly when we were supposed to.

Another small luxury of this particular trip was that we didn’t have to figure out how to get from Jinan Station to my daughter’s apartment on our own. Her workplace had arranged for someone to pick us up—a welcome relief after the morning’s chaos and the long day of travel. One less obstacle to navigate.

We found the driver almost immediately after stepping off the train. He was waiting with a sign, and I felt a wave of gratitude that, for once, there was no guessing, no need to explain ourselves in broken Chinese.

He led us straight to the car and drove us directly to my daughter’s apartment. As we unloaded the suitcases, I explained, carefully, that I wouldn’t be staying with her but at a nearby hotel. I showed him the address on my phone. He nodded, saying it was very close—just a short drive away—and offered to take me there himself.

There was one catch: he needed to go run an errand first, but he promised he’d return to pick me up and bring me to the hotel. Gratefully, I accepted.

He came back a little later than planned and apologized, saying he’d been held up. I didn’t mind. By then, simply having someone to help felt like a gift.

He drove me to the hotel, waited while I checked in, and made sure my luggage was safely in my room. Then, true to his word, he took me back to my daughter’s place so we could spend the evening together before I settled in.

For the first time all day, I felt like the difficult part was finally over.

We set out in search of dinner.

On the drive to the apartment, we’d spotted a row of shops not too far away—close enough to walk—and decided we’d head there first to have a proper look.

In the warm, late afternoon light, we began our exploration of Jinan, which would be our home for the next two weeks. It felt good to stretch our legs after hours in transit, and to feel, finally, that we were somewhere we could settle in rather than just passing through.

In less than fifteen minutes, we arrived at a parking lot flanked by rows of shops on both sides, with a large building rising behind them. We strolled along the storefronts, scanning the displays for anything that might catch our interest. Nothing on that side drew us in.

Curious about the building in the back, we wandered over and discovered it has a supermarket—a big one. A hidden gem, though I didn’t yet realize how often I’d find myself returning there over the next two weeks, always for the same purpose.

Inside, there were smaller shops before the entrance of the supermarket—outlets selling sportswear, a bakery filling the air with the warm smell of bread. But what drew me in immediately in the supermarket was the fresh fruit section. Piles of perfect fruit, more variety than I’d seen in any supermarket in Australia.

At last, I thought, I could finally stock up on fresh fruit. I spent several minutes just studying what was available, mentally making a list of what I’d come back to buy. Not tonight—I didn’t want to haul bags back and forth—but maybe later, after dinner, when I was on my way to the hotel.

We left the supermarket and resumed our search for dinner. At the end of the row of shops, we came to a small restaurant that looked simple from the outside, but through the window, we could see it was busy. That was always a good sign.

As soon as we stepped through the door, a chorus of cheerful greetings rose up to meet us. We were led to an empty table and handed two glasses of warm water.

And then…nothing.

There were no menus. We were expected to scan the QR code on the table and order through the app—something so ordinary for locals that no one thought to explain it. But our phones refused to open it. This was a different ordering platform than any we’d used before.

We tried, failed, and eventually waved down a waitress, gesturing apologetically that we needed help. With good humor, she came over and ended up helping us select a meal the old-fashioned way.

We settled on a sour fish soup, a plate of shrimp dumplings, and two bowls of rice. It sounded simple, and it was—at least in description.

But when the food arrived, the first taste of the soup stopped me mid-bite. The broth was perfectly balanced: bright, tangy, rich without being heavy. The dumplings were plump and fresh, their delicate wrappers giving way to tender shrimp inside.

It was the kind of meal that quietly surpassed every expectation, the sort of simple pleasure that lingers in your memory long after you’ve left.

We liked it so much that when we returned to Jinan the following year—on what might have been our last trip to China together—we made sure to go back to that same little restaurant on our final evening.

It felt fitting somehow, to end where we’d begun, sharing the same meal in the same unassuming place, savoring one last taste of a city that, for a short time, had felt a little like home.

We finished our meal, and I walked her home.

After seeing her safely into the apartment, I didn’t linger. It was quite late by then, and we both needed rest—she had work the next day, and I had a new city waiting to be explored.

Before heading back to the hotel, I stopped at the supermarket and picked up a few of the fruits I’d been eyeing earlier. It felt like a small reward at the end of a long day.

Then I set off on the thirty-minute walk back to my hotel, carrying my bag of fruit and feeling the pleasant weariness that only comes after a day well spent.

The city had transformed.

Just a few hours earlier, the wide spaces flanked by those same row of shops had been almost empty, quiet in that way of late afternoon. But now, it was as if someone had flipped a switch and turned the place into a nighttime food market.

Dozens of little movable food carts had sprung up everywhere, each lit by its own bright lamps, each with something different to offer. Clouds of steam and smoke billowed into the night air, carrying the smells of grilled meat, fresh noodles, and spices I couldn’t name.

You could tell which stalls were the favorites—crowds of people clustered around them, calling out orders, waiting with plastic bags ready.

Curiosity tugged at me, so I inched closer to see what was on offer. I was still too full from dinner to even think about eating anything, but I couldn’t help wanting a look.

There was something fascinating about it all: the rhythm, the energy, the way this whole ecosystem of food and community simply emerged each night as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

As I walked on, I passed the shops I’d wondered about earlier in the day. At the time, they’d looked so empty I couldn’t even tell if they were businesses or someone’s homes. Now, their wide pavements were lined with low tables and small stools, filled with diners chatting over bowls of steaming food.

It turned out those were restaurants after all—just the kind that served their customers outside instead of in.

The walk back to the hotel felt like a glimpse into a version of city life I’d never known before.

And I thought, not for the first time, that this was exactly why I’d come—to see, to wonder, to discover the ordinary things that turn extraordinary simply because they are new to you.