Guangzhou, China : January 31st – February 8th

After a couple hours of what could hardly be called sleep, I stumbled out of my cheap hotel room and into the Shanghai metro. The trip was a blur of bodies entering and exiting, my eyes opening and closing, and that ubiquitous, metallic voice that issues the same monochromatic reminders on every piece of public transport in every city in China.

Huanying Guanglin... Dear Passengers...

Guangzhou. For me, the next stop was Guangzhou, 1500 kilometers to the south. With the new high speed train, I'd be there by dinner time, which was a promise that my stomach, soured from my last night out with Piotr, would not let me forget. Breakfast was not an option. Neither was lunch. The entire 8 hour ride was a see saw of sleep – first, reclining with my head back and my feet out, then leaning forward, my head on the tray in front. There were a few moments of consciousness here and there, and a disappointing coffee at some point, but it was mostly mechanical. Head up, head down.

Feet out, feet in. Check clock. Close eyes.

David and Xurry Strand, hard at work!

Upon arrival in Guangzhou, my head was mostly clear, and I wolfed down a sandwich in the train station before making my way to the Strand, my favorite tap house in South China. I didn't have a hotel booked, but I was certain things would work out. And they did, of course, with a cheap hotel just down the road. However, my accommodation that night was just about the only thing that DID work out correctly in Guangzhou.

At the Strand, I met a couple of local expats, as usual. Of course, my two massive rucksacks created a lot of questions.

“Where you headed?”

“California... I think.”

“When's your flight?”

“Ah... no flight.”

I went on to explain my story. 7 months. Around the world from Suzhou to Suzhou. I explained that I was due to board a container ship in a couple of days, bound for Long Beach, and that I would make my way from there across the States. One of the guys, a Californian named Stephen, looked worried.

“Um, man, I work in trade, and with the current dockworkers' strike, I don't think your trip is going to be that easy...”

“Huh?”

“I mean, have you seen the queues at Long Beach port? Container ships are anchoring for weeks before being given permission to dock. Hope you've got a lot of good books.”

I did, but that wasn't the point.

After a furious bout of panicked emails, I found out the next day that he was absolutely correct. Not only was my departure delayed again, from February 3rd to February 14th, but that upon arrival, I would have to wait a minimum of 15 days to dock. A minimum. My arrival in the US would be pushed back at least a month, and most of that on a cargo ship, staring at my the shore, practically swimming distance away (I mean, not for me, but for, you know, really good swimmers). I imagined the days of waiting, pacing around my floating prison, no idea when I would be set free. All the books in the world were no consolation.

It was not easy to discard my dream of completing my voyage around the world. The reunions. The celebrations. The hugs and handshakes, smiles and tears. A walk around my hometown with my mother. An overdue coffee with Lance.

Or the rest of the trip, in fact. Cycling through the vineyards in California. A long drive across the barren deserts of the Southwest with Renan. A lengthy palaver with Ron in Florida. A slow boat across the Atlantic with my mother. It was all planned out, and it was the culmination of the last ten years of my life. It was the fitting end to everything that I had seen and done, and the logical beginning of the next phase in my life. My decade-long journey around the world was to come to an end, and I was to enter the next decade with a fresh perspective and a new goal.

However, it was clearly not to be.

I was angry at first, extremely angry. I blamed America – the country clearly didn't want me back. All the negative feelings that caused me to flee my home ten years earlier came crashing back. It was the American sense of entitlement that had ruined my plans. Why couldn't the Americans just do the job they had agreed to do? How dare they turn their first-world dissatisfaction into misery for so many? Not only for me, but for every seaman on every vessel heading to or from the West coast. To all the shipping companies losing time and money. To all the customers waiting for their goods. How dare they just stop working?

Because they've been irresponsible in their reproduction and they've got too many mouths to fill full of double cheeseburgers? Because the roof of the house that they clearly couldn't afford needs replacing? Because, hey, gas prices are dropping, and that SUV is just a little bit outside of their current price range?

Or maybe that's not fair. Maybe it's because they've got medical bills, and their medical insurance won't cover the lion's share. Maybe it's because the only areas where they can afford to live are full of drugs and violence, and they desperately want something better for their children. Maybe it's because they want to take night classes and get a degree in something, anything, but even state school tuition in America is too much for many people on the lower end of middle class.

It was eventually that anger that helped me to make my decision.

A typical night at the hostel

I sent a couple of emails and canceled everything. The container ship. The cruise. My mom's flights. The plans with Renan. Everything. I moved to a hostel, rented a bed, and sat down to figure out what to do next.

The next few days saw me waking up early and staring at my computer screen until my eyes crossed, researching all of my options. I didn't want to go back north, but it seemed that I had few options to the south. Thailand for six months? Tempting, but not what I really wanted to do for this holiday. A container ship to South America? Doable, but double the length of my original plan, and double the cost. Give up and return to Suzhou with my tail between my legs, begging to be put back on the schedule for semester 2? No chance.

Kung-Fu temple!

After my stress level hit the roof, usually in the early afternoon, I would set off and wander around Guangzhou. One day, I climbed a mountain. Another day, I went to a Kung-Fu temple. I explored parks and gardens, alleys and avenues. I ate noodles on the side of the road and sat on the street with the locals. It was an interesting mix of extreme tension and unfamiliar calm. It was, all things considered, just what I needed.

After about a week of this, everything finally came together. The next step would be a container ship, but not heading eastward. I would, instead, sail south to Singapore. A couple of weeks later, I would jump on the M/S Rotterdam and sail west, stopping in Malaysia, Sri Lanka, India, Oman, Jordan, Egypt, Italy, Spain and Gibraltar, and finally disembark in England. Of course, this was as different to my original plan as could be, but it was, all things considered, some pretty tasty looking lemonade. With my mother's help, I booked the ships and began to concentrate on actually being on holiday. Finally, I had a direction.

If one good thing came of this unexpected change, it was that I got to see Piotr again a lot sooner than anticipated. He showed up in Guangzhou on Friday night, and we set about celebrating once again. The next day, which was to be our final day in Guangzhou, took us to the outskirts of the city for a brewery tour at David's new taproom. This ended as messily as you would expect, and it was with both an extreme hangover and a vague memory of some halfassed plan to go to Macau that Piotr and I boarded a train the next afternoon for Zhuhai.