I arrived in Beijing late on a Friday night. After rough weather cancelled my connecting flight in the United States, I was given a non-stop ticket to Tokyo. My seat was upgraded on both planes, totaling a smooth 21 hours of travel time. I went through customs with no difficulty and my luggage arrived safely.
　　Something wasn’t right. Traveling is never this easy.
　　Hundreds of people stood outside the exit of the Beijing Capital International Airport holding name cards and awaiting friends and family. I, however, was on my own for the first night in this city of 20 million.
　　I went to an ATM and put in my card, requesting a cash withdrawal. A message appeared, “The transaction is denied and your card has been detained. Contact your bank for assistance.”
　　A receipt printed with a set of instructions in Chinese and a telephone number at the bottom. I can read only a handful of Chinese characters but my eyes scanned the paper anyway, hoping for some clue in the modernday hieroglyphics that everything would be okay. A smiley face, maybe, or the outline of a” thumbs up” telling me not to worry.
　　An American woman in line behind me witnessed my misfortune. “Welcome to China,” she said.
　　A customer service clerk let me use a phone to call the number on the receipt. A man answered.
　　“My bank card is detained in one of your ATM machines,” I explained, shouting over the ever-present noise of nearby construction.“I need you to help me get it back immediately because I just arrived in China and I have no money.”
　　Not possible, he replied. “You have a ‘Hot Card,’” he said, referring to an account that is locked due to unauthorized activity or suspicious transactions. I had called my bank in America a day earlier to tell them where I was going, and wrongly assumed they were listening.
　　Twenty minutes later the man agreed to get my card out of the machine and bring it to my hotel the next morning. I hung up the phone.
　　I turned away from the desk and staggered off in a daze. Nearing 30 hours with only short bouts of fitful sleep and $40 in my pocket, I had no idea what to do next.
　　A Chinese man approached me, his face glistening with the sweat of a hot Beijing night. He overheard my conversation and asked if I needed help.
　　Yes. Yes, I did.
　　He proceeded to escort me on an airport shuttle bus, a crowded city bus, and a taxi, negotiating prices and asking for directions to my hotel along the way.
　　We got to the hotel at nearly 2 o’clock in the morning. My room reservation had been cancelled and the staff was not keen on letting me stay a night without paying. I understood little of what was being discussed, but sensed my desperately needed sleep was somehow in jeopardy.
　　Finally, they agreed to let me stay the night, using my passport as collateral.
　　Tony, my guide and savior, gave me his email address and I promised to contact him.
　　We shared an awkward hug and I thanked him for his kindness. He left with the few dollars I could give him for his cab ride home.
　　Before going to sleep I wrote an email to the address he gave me, but it was returned“Undeliverable.”
　　I may never get a chance to repay him with dinner and Tsingtao beer like I promised. I can only hope that I’ll run into him again. Better yet, Tony—if you’re reading this—get in touch with me. I owe you one.