In China, Away From the Bothersome Tourist Hype

For one blissful day I’m not a tourist. I blend into the crowd; I feel invisible. I’m just another 6-foot-4-inch blue-eyed dude in China.

There are 2 million people in this city, and not one of them is pushing postcards, trinkets or T-shirts on me. I’m irrelevant to the economy of this booming commercial hub. I’ve wandered off the tourist track back into the real world. Nanning is the Fresno of China, and it’s my new favorite place.

Andrea and I are en route from Hanoi, to Guilin, a popular destination in the southern Chinese province of Guangxi. There are no direct flights. We must fly to Nanning, about 350 miles west of Hong Kong, spend the night, then catch a 45-minute flight to Guilin in the morning.

I know we’ve left Lonely Planetland behind when we clear customs and aren’t mobbed by the usual throng of touts. The shiny, modern terminal is eerily quiet. The only sound I hear is the click of nails as a Pekingese scampers across the marble floor, a woman giving silent chase.

The young teller at the airport bank says I can’t change money there. At least I think that’s what he’s saying. China is the first country on this trip where we’ve run into a language barrier. I walk away, wondering how we’ll get into town without any Chinese yuan. I return to ask the teller where I can change money. He tries to say something in English, but I again leave confused. The man seems really friendly, as though he’d help if he could, so I go back and press a $100 bill to the window. He either pities me or now understands what I’m after, taking the bill and sliding me the equivalent in yuan. I thank him profusely. He smiles and says, “Have enjoyable time China.”

We spot a row of business-type hotel information booths. None of the representatives speaks English. We flip through a few brochures. The hotels look nice, but the rates are beyond our budget. The agent from the Ming Yuan Hotel writes “-30%” on the tariff sheet and smiles. A three-star hotel for $25 a night. We smile back. She leads us to a bus filled with Asian men talking on cell phones. She gets in behind us and sits across the aisle. I don’t know whether she’s heading into town anyway or making a special trip for our benefit. We trade more smiles.

When we stop at a traffic light, I see a girl straddling a bike on the grass median. Her eyes grow big, and she starts laughing her head off. I turn to see what’s so funny, then realize she’s laughing at Andrea and me. It occurs to me what oddities we are here. When the light turns green, she’s doubled over her bike in hysterics.

The Ming Yuan is even better than advertised. The hotel is set in wooded grounds dotted with gardens and ponds and features a large swimming pool, tennis courts and bowling alley. Best of all, the karaoke bar is nowhere near our room. The woman who brings us here disappears before I can say “xiexie” (“thank you,” pronounced quickly as “she-yeah she-yeah”), the only Mandarin I remotely know.

Andrea has a touch of something, so she rests in our clean, comfortable room while I explore the city. I hit the street in my defensive mode--eyes fixed straight ahead, purposeful stride. I’m steeled for the onslaught I’ve come to expect: the rickshaw drivers who follow you for blocks, ringing their bells; the peddlers who shove woodcarvings in your face; the vendors who, under the pretext of making conversation, start their pitches with the same three words, “Where you from?”

I get none of that. No one calls to me, chases me, grabs me. In the most populous country on the planet, I finally find some space. Today I’m not a giant wallet walking down the street. I’m something else, something close to human.

Relaxed, guard dropped, I can focus again and see what a lovely city this is. Large, leafy trees form a canopy over broad boulevards. Bicyclists pedal in their own lane. The wide sidewalks are lined with benches. The city center is busy yet peaceful. In Nanning, unlike other Asian cities we’ve visited, motorists don’t drive with one hand on the horn.

I step under an archway and enter People’s Park. A forested hillside tumbles down to a pretty lake, where people row boats in the foreground of a gleaming skyline. Couples stroll hand in hand down shady paths. A maintenance truck rumbles by. The worker standing in back bashfully returns my wave.

I walk for hours, content to watch others go about their daily lives. I pass dress shops, electronics stores, beauty parlors, banks, office buildings. Nothing I see is aimed at the tourist, and that’s just dandy.

Although nobody approaches or speaks to me, I eventually notice the stares. Some people stop in their tracks to look me up and down. A man eating in a cafeteria points me out to the little boy bouncing on his knee. I peer at a window display of electronic pagers and see teenage girls on the other side giggling at me.

At last someone stops me to talk.

“Hello,” the man says. “Hello,” I say.

“Bye-bye,” he says.

“Bye-bye,” I say.

We let our big grins say the rest.

In the morning, a bellman carries our backpacks to the taxi. The driver asks us something in Chinese. “Airport,” I tell her. She doesn’t understand. I hold my arms out like wings, pretending to be an airplane. She looks at me as though I’m nuts. Maybe I am. Why would I leave this place?

NEXT WEEK: Looking for Jenny Xu.

Did you miss a Wander Year installment? The entire series since it began in January can be found on The Times’ Web site at https://www.latimes.com/travel/wander.