I was coming off three days in airplanes and airports, two luggage-less days in Urumqi and a 12-hour train ride to Korla. I wanted either a nap or to lapse into a coma. After being shown around my new apartment, I offered a grateful thank you and good-bye to the building manager, closing the door behind her. Then I staggered into the bedroom and fell with a "timberrrrrr..." onto my new bed. I didn't even catch myself with my arms; I just toppled.
And that's when I discovered that Chinese beds are not soft. Oh, no. They're not soft at all.
What they are is a thin, alleged "pad" on a sheet of plywood, deceptively disguised with a regular frame and headboard. And pampered, coddled, spoiled, babykins American here was not expecting that. Or to have my back say, "Pop" when I fell face-first onto my bed. I'd have done just as well collapsing onto the floor.
My back said, "Pop" and I said, "Engh." And then I spent several contemplative minutes in perfect stillness, collecting my thoughts. Perhaps this is part of the Communist master plan, I mused: get people up and out of bed and off to work.
It's a ploy that motivates me in the morning. My eyes pop open and I'm acutely aware of the tiniest wrinkle in my pajamas between my hip bone and the alleged "pad." It feels like I'm lying on a railroad tie, so I might as well get up.
Now, though, I'm used to it. Mostly. And grateful to have a bed. I'm comforted to know that it's not just my bed, but all of them throughout the land. As I gingerly sit on the edge of my bed each night -- as gingerly as if it were a bed of broken light bulbs -- and swing my legs up as though I'm accommodating a crippling case of rickets, I know I'm not alone.
Here, we fall asleep and greet the new day with a smile and a "Yeeeooowww!! What am I lying on? Irrigation pipe?"
The alleged "pad" on my bed. I will have no problem sleeping on the ground after this.
That's what I call Suckaaaay!
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