In Suzhou

The misanthrope arrives, not unexpectedly. The Americans are infuriating. I myself am infuriating. I drop drug comments all day long in an effort to shock and halt further conversation.
I’m so bad with people.
They make me nervous; they make me angry; they make me uneasy and fearful and, finally, they annoy the hell out of me.
There are about a half-dozen like-minded people on my tour bus (my friends and their families), and there’s an elderly lady who is my new hero. She can’t be a day younger than 70, and she walked with great speed through the never-ending tour of Beijing yesterday.
Our last night in Beijing was the best -- we drank and made friends with the owners of the hotel bar, which we were delighted to discover is privately owned. Only about 5 percent of businesses in China are not owned by the government. We drank expensive fruitinis and cheap Chinese beer. We took silly pictures of stuffed animals and I laughed to tears.
Today is a whole other story.
Our wake up call was at 4 am, to catch a 7:25 am flight to Shanghai. The plane. And then the new tour guide, squeaky voiced and over the top. We go to the Garden for Lingering, but we are not allowed to linger, really -- we are on a tight schedule. The crowds of our tour group and a few others is overwhelming. I get the beginnings of a panic attack. There are beautiful ponds, exotic rock formations, mosaics on the walkways, and there are so many goddamn tourists, I cannot think.
Emily, our new guide, (I had to hug Tom goodbye in Beijing and I kinda miss him), encourages us to stick together like sticky rice, and 80 percent of us ignore her and take off for a moment’s peace.
I cannot hear remarks about "they" and "them" anymore. I cannot listen to the mindless enthusiasm about the next government-owned factory complete with shop where the Americans must shop. God (or maybe Mao) forbid the tour company would actually drop us off in a real Chinese marketplace. Where we might, I don’t know, actually get to talk to some locals. Where we might actually get some idea of real life here.
She does not appreciate our rebellious American nature and tells us we are "broken" rice.
Our bubble is so tiny, so controlled.
I knew this, of course -- that was my greatest fear -- How am I going to be able to deal with travelling with people when I always travel alone?
I did okay for the first few days. Today, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I am so used to being alone; I need to be alone.
Various groups take off -- some go to the tour-sponsored dinner. Some run to Starbucks and ask in loud American voices, "Where can we get American food?" They come to China, they must have Starbucks, they must have Pizza Hut. It’s not for the kitsch factor; they really need it. My friends take off to find some place cool. I’m exhausted; I cannot go further this evening and I cannot fake acting normal when I’m thisclose to breaking down. I’m not used to people; I don’t surround myself by big groups; I have never done this before and I can scarcely believe my disposition today.
I am so, so fed up. It’s my least favorite part of traveling - meeting, with total inevitability, the kind of American I am trying not to be. The one who gets a kick out of getting a cheaper price on a purse, complete with a "Ha ha, how do they make a living?" The one who believes American Chinese food at the local Chinese buffet is "better" than what we’re eating.
But who am I to judge, really? A few days ago or was it yesterday, I’m all mixed up, a woman didn’t want to take my $5 American bill because it had an ink stain. I wondered aloud if it would get by the next waitress - that next waitress was right in front of me, and I was so embarassed, so full of shame, I covered my face in my hands and winced and said of myself what I think of so many of the 141 people on the chamber of commerce tour: I am such an asshole.
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On my first volunteer trip to Russia, Richard, my one-week buddy, skipped the free dinner almost every night because, as he said, "There’s just too many Americans here."
I didn’t take it personally and I knew he didn’t want company. But every morning, I loved to hear about his adventures the previous night.
In another time, another country, we never would have bonded. He’s from the south, in his 40s, married, Republican.
But the night he came up to my room, the smell of his jacket, and the look in his eyes when he spoke of a great ache to experience the culture of the city outside of the group is something I am remembering now, and I wonder how I will be able to achieve Richard-like exhileration here on this goverment-sponsored trip.
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When everyone breaks apart to explore the local American chains and others walk to find something authentic, I find myself so exhausted and short-tempered, that I visit the Chinese restaurant here in the hotel for my dinner.
The beautiful girl asks me if I’m alone and I say I am. As she leads me to the restaurant, I ask her if there are any Americans in the restaurant.
She stops, thinking I might be trying to meet somebody: "No, not here," she says.
"Oh thank god," I say, shaking with relief.
I eat alone, with a book and my phrase book. I order dumplings and meat steamed in bread. I got sick this morning so I eat every bit of ginger in the tiny bowl.
I’m not free -- I’m in the hotel. It’s beautiful; my bathroom has a bidet. I’m not free, but I have solitude now, thank god, thank god, just an hour away from the group. Away from the loud strangers.
I wonder if there is any way possible on this trip to experience the tiniest part of China. On. My. Own.