The first day I was in China on my last trip (October 5), I had a couple of things I wanted to do before my people arrived. The first was to purchase a Chinese sim card for my telephone. I had my own cell phone (unlocked and able to receive foreign sim cards) and a loaner (that I placed my Israeli sim into). That way I would have one Israeli phone and one Chinese phone to cover pretty much any situation.
On previous trips, attractive young ladies had been set up at counters at the airport to sell sim cards as people arrived. This time, there were none. I assumed it was because I arrived at 4 a.m.
So, after getting into my room, showering and changing my clothes, and checking my email, I went to the desk and asked where I could buy a sim card. I had noticed that there was a Carrefour department store adjacent to the hotel. I asked if they had them. I was told that the sim card policy in China has changed and that now there is much more regulation on them and therefore one can only purchase one at a store licensed to sell them and after filling out many forms. Fortunately, there was a China Telecom shop only a couple of blocks away.
It was a bright sunny day and everything felt wonderful. There were beautiful people, tall majestic trees with rustling leaves, and colorful shops. As I walked, I almost felt like singing. I love visiting China so much. It was like coming home to an old friend.
When finally I arrived at the telephone store I am not sure who was more perplexed– the salesgirl or me. You see, this store was not in a tourist area. It was frequented by Chinese people who unlike me, speak Chinese. How was I going to accomplish this?
I held up my phone and said “sim” hoping the word was an international one. I opened it up and showed her that one was missing. I could see a flicker of recognition. She called someone on the telephone, I assume to check how she should proceed. The person spoke to me in English. I said I wanted a sim card. I handed the phone back to the sales person. She tried to warn me, I assume because she might have assumed my phone was locked, but I pointed to it and said “OK.” “Hao, Hao.” (Hao is one of the words I know in Chinese. It means “good,”) So far, so good. She took me to another sales person, seated behind a desk. I sat down.
The new lady handed me an envelope on which were written four 8 or 9 digit numbers. She pointed to them. I remembered that in China people are very interested in the significance of numbers and they actually choose the license numbers of their cars– bidding high to get the most fortuitous ones, as for example, the number 8 being a fortuitous number, therefore, when appearing in a license, commanding a higher payment than the unlucky number 4. I chose one of the numbers at random. It was to be my telephone number.
At some point, the woman behind the desk called an English speaking colleague and after that she would hand me the telephone whenever she had a question. They asked for identification and so I handed them my passport. I had to show them which letters spelled out my name and where my birth date was. It was strange, having to stop every few seconds for questions to be asked in Chinese of the person on the phone and then the voice on the other end of the line asking them of me in English. All of us laughed at the awkwardness of the situation.
They filled out many different forms and then finally asked for a local address. Of course my local address was the hotel where I was staying as of that morning. In my jet lagged fatigue, I had forgotten the name of the hotel, but I did have the plastic card that was the room key with me. It was in a folder given to me by the hotel and had all of the relevant information.
And then, after a payment of about $20, I left with many smiles, many giggles, and my Chinese telephone.
Now wasn’t that simple? As easy as yi, er, san!*
*One, two, three
There was a long line of people waiting to get in. I went to ask how much a ticket was. It turned out that today, entrance to the museum was free.
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