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Shanghai, originally uploaded by 160507.

I was hoping for a leisurely excursion—a speech here, a contract-signing there, handshakes and photo-ops, maybe a dinner—and then on to the real attractions of the trip: sightseeing and shopping in Shanghai. In short, one of those Junkets we keep hearing about.

Unfortunately for me, it turned out to be Work.

The flight was delayed twice—for half an hour in Manila, then another half-hour due to the air traffic over Shanghai Pudong airport. At 1650H we emerged in the brand-new terminal 2 at Pudong—a vast, marmoreal building that had officially begun operations just that morning. Fifteen minutes later, having cleared Immigration, we stood by the carousel awaiting our luggage. The Undersecretary was wheeling a humongous square suitcase.

“What have you got in there, an altar?” laughed the Secretary of Tourism, Joseph Durano. The Secretary is a very neat young man with extremely clear skin. He looks like he graduated from college yesterday.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” replied the Undersecretary of Tourism, Eduardo Jarque. The Undersecretary is a career official who joined the Department thirty years ago, when it was first organized. “Seriously, it’s more practical. With a small suitcase, the sleeve of your barong gets segmented into four.” The humongous suitcase turned out to be an excellent idea: the Tourism officials were expected at a reception at the JC Mandarin at 1830H. There was simply no time for ironing.

Emotional Weather Report, today in the Philippine Star.

Aquarium, Tai King shop, originally uploaded by 160507.

There was some confusion as to the location of the Shanghai Museum of Sex and Sex Health. One guidebook gave an address in the city; another said it had been moved to the suburbs. Then a reliable authority said it was back in Shanghai, and was accessible through the Bund Underground Tourist Tunnel. He had recently escorted visitors from Manila to the museum and they were delighted to find the perfect pasalubong in the museum gift shop: vibrating cockrings.

En route to the museum, I thought of a little experiment. I texted three friends—one hetero female, one hetero male, and one gay male—the same message: “Do you want a vibrating cockring from the Shanghai Sex Museum?” In aid of research I should point out that women comprise approximately 5 percent of my immediate circle of friends, men 10 percent (none of them below the age of 40), and gay men 85 percent. (Sometimes days pass before I speak to a heterosexual.)

My three friends replied almost instantly. (Note: I hang out with people who text in complete sentences. That is why we get along.)

Woman: Thanks for the wonderful offer, but as there is no man on the horizon, that would be like a barn without a horse.
Man: Kind of you. . .but no thanks. . .
Gay guy: Yes!!!

This is why gay men are happier than the rest of us. Said gift item was so popular, the museum shop ran out of supplies before we got there.

How to prevent people leaving.JPG, originally uploaded by 160507.

It’s been a while since I’ve had one of these complaint epics, so while it was happening half of me was homicidally annoyed while the other half was oddly amused and nostalgic. 

I sent a text message to my contact saying I was on my way to the airport. It remained in the outbox. I sent it again. Still no go. Then the screen of my phone hanged. The battery indicator was at 75 percent. The phone wouldn’t reset, so I removed the battery then put it back in. When I turned the phone back on, the batter level was zero! For the first time in history, my trusty phone had died on me. I imagined my contact trying to reach me, and everyone leaving before I got there.

We arrived at the airport exactly as the delegation was going through the first security check. Passport and ticket safely in hand, I made it to the plane without further incident.

The flight was delayed for half an hour. I didn’t notice, having fallen asleep within minutes of taking my seat (It’s a gift). I woke up for lunch, then went back to sleep and regained consciousness when we were supposed to be landing. The plane circled the airport for the next half-hour—air traffic was heavy at the new Pudong airport terminal which had opened just that morning.

So we arrived in Shanghai at 1650, not 1550. We were expected at a reception at 1830. I figured one hour, 40 minutes gave me enough time to get to the hotel, check in, get changed, and walk to the reception a block away. I did not know about Shanghai traffic. It was like Manila at 6pm, except that it was cold and the roads are vast. For two hours we were wedged between trucks, buses, and cars going to the city. We passed an industrial area, gray and desolate. By the time the lights of Shanghai poked me in the eye, it was 1830.

We were booked at Baolong, a boutique hotel on Nanyang Road. I think it’s supposed to look like a traditional Chinese home; I couldn’t ask the front desk clerks because we had no common language. Next baffler: finding my room. The key said 8526, but the elevator only went up to the fifth floor. Turns out everyone’s room number started in 8; my actual room was 526.

I had no time to even look at my room; I threw on a coat and hurried to the dinner. Two hours later I realized one of my earrings was gone. A favorite, too—a ball of wire I’d found in a Seoul night market. It may have blown away in a strong wind, or gotten snagged on my muffler. Either way it was gone forever.

Round midnight I got back to the hotel and took a shower. The bathroom floor flooded. Afterwards I opened the laptop our host had lent me so I could check my email. Couldn’t connect to the Internet. Figured I could at least charge my iPod (my treacherous phone was already charging), so I plugged it into the USB port. The iPod’s screen promptly hanged. Clearly my gadgets were staging a rebellion. It wouldn’t unlock, refused to reset, and the light wouldn’t go out. I went to bed worried that I’d wiped out my entire music library, but in the morning when the battery had drained the iPod was fine.

That was my first night in Shanghai. Oh and as I was writing that last sentence, Murphy sent me a PS: the pen leaked on my hand. Aaargh.