I maintain that the best way to travel in a foreign country (or between foreign countries) is by train. I have ridden in trains across Europe and trains down the Nile. I am currently fantasizing about saving up and taking trains across India. But China has a particularly soft spot in my heart in terms of train travel. I have traveled across China using almost every mode of transport that you can think of; a rickety plane, many busses that sound like they are fifty miles short of falling apart, a hefty Soviet-era bike, multiple bamboo rafts, an enclosed trailer on the back of a motorcycle. But I absultely love taking the train. Every experience I’ve had has ranged from organized to actual chaos.
In some ways it is very organized. There are three classes: First, Second and Third. Since the early days of rail travel in China your train ticket is a pretty good indicator of status, even amongst the much exulted ex-pat class. The classes are pretty well self-explanatory on the day trains, with the softness of your seat increasing as your price does.
Although my appetite for riding trains had been whetted by a day trip to Chengde, a town about six hours outside of Beijing, it was not until almost a year later when I returned to China that the potential of the Chinese train ride was fulfilled. Over the Spring Break, three friends and I decided to take the 36-hour train ride down to Guilin (in Southern China).
We prepared ourselves by procuring a package of Lunesta (a sleeping pill that was no longer offered over the counter in the US), about a kilo of sunflower seeds that we later found out were lightly sweetened rather than salted (and whose presence was resented by all for the remained of the trip), a thirty rack of Chinese beer and a bottle of baijiu per person (the traditional Chinesse liquor which- unlike vodka- burned for about ten seconds as it went down your throat and left a sickeningly sweet aftertaste lingering in our mouths). I also brought earplugs and peanut butter sandwich making materials, just in case.
As soon as we entered our second-class train car, we knew we had made the right decision on every level. We were greeted as kings. Pictures were taken. An invitation to a gambling ring consisting primarily of old men in their undershirts was extended. There were children everyone, chattering with new friends or being scolded by their grandmothers. Everyone had a small mountain of food heaped on the table in the middle of the bunks. We began consuming our liquor, already slightly drunk off the feeling of immersing ourselves in “the real China.” Gloating to ourselves, we pitied the fools that had chosen to take the two and a half hour flight instead. How sterile their trips must be. Folded into a seat on a small plane, watching a badly dubbed movie that only came out in limited release and munching on stale pretzels. Our trip was the stuff of true adventure.
Lights were turned off precisely at ten, leaving us fumbling awkwardly as everyone but me took a pill, while I instead opted for my earplugs. Lulled by the slowly rocking train and the symphony of snoring, I fell asleep. I slept restlessly, waking abruptly when the train slowed to a stop, and then slowly as the rest of the cabin began to rise.
I joined the women and men at the sink brushing my teeth, and marvelled at the shrivelled old ladies hocking impressive loogies into the sinks. Everyone around me brushed their teeth with a method that created so much foam that it looked like they had rabies. (I believe this method is uniquely Chinese, and it intrigues me to this day.)
As my travel companions also rose from their medicated slumber, they found the unpleasant consequence of taking sleeping pills: a vague metallic taste that was promptly erased with toothpaste and a beer. We all slowly came to the realization that only twelve hours had gone by, and another twenty four were imminent.
At first it was relaxing to pass the time. Dave had brought along his Chinese chess set and I was taught how to play. During our first official game, a small crowd gathered and I gained a strategic ally who began dictating my moves and won me my first (and only) game of Chinese chess. I decided to rest on my laurels, much to Dave’s chagrin. Beers were consumed at a leisurely pace, and my sandwiches were abandoned in favor of noodle bowls; hot and filled with MSG. The scenery was mostly the shrubbery that flanked the railroad tracks, and so we bided the time reading, napping, drinking and half heartedly eating sunflower seeds.
Dave and I playing Chinese chess.
There were very few stops, and nothing of interest at those stops besides fresh flavors of noodle bowls. Around hour thirty we all began to feel the cabin fever set in. We were restless and anxious to leave our once beloved two by eight foot alloted spaces. Perhaps we were not the well-prepared intrepid travellers we imagined ourselves to be. We just kept thinking and remarking to each other how much more interesting this mode of transportation was compared to a plane, justifying it to ourselves over and over again.
When we finally stepped off the train in Guilin and joined the flood of people winding through the train station, we strode out as kings once more. How intrepid we were! How courageous! We survived! We had an experience.
That train ride really was a harbinger of what the entire trip came to be: a bit rough around the edged and permeated by a stubborn sense of superiority held by us by not going to the traditional touristy sights and almost getting stranded at various points on the muggy, muddy week that followed. But we came out proud and intact, with a new appreciation for perscription strength sleeping pills and about a third of a bag of sunflower seeds that didn’t get any better over time.
From https://medium.com/travel-writers/5c0e557d3a28