Duvet Covers and Departures

I had no real idea what to pack for China.

Clothes seemed sensible. Bed sheets, too, since I expected to be moving into an apartment. My mum bought me a beautiful set of duvet covers, which I loved. Alongside them went a dressing gown and formal clothes.

I couldn’t picture my new life, but apparently I intended to be appropriately dressed and have lovely bedding.

I had also been told to bring at least 20,000 RMB for the initial costs. In the EF videos I watched, China was described as a “cash up front” society. I heard the words without really understanding what they would mean for me.

Despite that advice, I brought around 10,000 RMB of my own money in Chinese currency, assuming I wouldn’t need the full recommended amount. The company would later lend me a further 10,000 RMB to help with the initial costs.

My mum wanted me to have the best possible start. She arranged for her friend Ray, a fellow magistrate, to drive me to Humberside Airport in his Jaguar.

Before that, I had asked him to look over the EF contract and investigate the company. Having my mum’s magistrate friends scrutinise the arrangements was reassuring. Their conclusion was broadly positive.

“Well,” they said, “this might lead to something else in China.”

That was more or less how I saw it, too.

I had originally wanted to teach at university level. But the videos I found online hadn’t quite sold it to me: some of the accommodation looked rather shabby, and the salaries seemed low.

EF offered a choice between teaching adults, teaching online from an office, or teaching young children. I chose adults. It felt closest to the university teaching I had imagined, and working with people already employed by companies sounded interesting.

It wasn’t a carefully mapped-out career move. It was an opportunity, and I wanted to take it.

At the airport, saying goodbye was emotional. Ray headed back to the car park, while my mum and my sister, Elizabeth, stayed until it was time for me to go through security.

I remember being nervous. All the arrangements were now turning into something I actually had to do.

Once through security, I recognised a professor from my university sitting in the waiting area. He had never taught me, but I went over and said hello. He told me he was travelling to Kazakhstan.

Here was someone who seemed quite accustomed to setting off for distant places. I, meanwhile, was flying alone for the first time—and getting on a plane for the first time in about ten years.

During our conversation, he asked about the job.

“How much are they paying you?”

“Not much,” I said, “but I want the experience.”

I came away feeling that he wasn’t particularly impressed by my plans. Perhaps I had wanted a little encouragement. Having finished a PhD, I was conscious that teaching English abroad might not look like the obvious next step.

But I didn’t want to spend years waiting for the right opportunity in the UK. I wanted to go somewhere. I wanted something to happen.

My first flight took me to Schiphol, where I had about an hour and a half before the connection to Shanghai.

The professor went to get a coffee. I went to find my gate.

The airport felt enormous, and I wasn’t willing to risk getting lost or missing the flight. Once I had located the right place, I stayed there.

Despite my nerves, I remember feeling wonderfully “international”. There I was, in Amsterdam, on my way to China. For someone who hadn’t flown in a decade, even the connection felt like an adventure.

While waiting to board, I met a woman around my age. She was from Yunnan and lived in Denmark with her husband and baby.

“Do you have WeChat?” she asked.

I had no idea what WeChat was.

She gave me her details anyway and warned me to be careful of people taking advantage of my inexperience. I listened, although I had very little experience against which to measure her advice. Most of the Chinese people I had encountered at university had quietly got on with their own lives. Beyond that, I knew very little.

She seemed willing to help, and it was comforting to have someone to talk to before boarding.

Then it was time to get on the plane.

I was terrified. Not just of moving to China, but of the flight itself. I had never spent so long on an aircraft, and I had never travelled somewhere where I couldn’t rely on English.

I looked around for other passengers who might also be going to work for EF. A few seemed possible, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to ask. For some reason, the embarrassment of getting it wrong felt like too much to risk.

Even so, seeing other people who might be making a similar journey reassured me.

At one point during the flight, I got up and looked out of a window. Beyond the glass was a purple sky.

That is one of the things I remember most clearly. Somewhere between the familiar life I had left and the one I couldn’t yet imagine, I was looking out at a colour I hadn’t expected.

When we finally landed and I was leaving the aircraft, a flight attendant said something along the lines of, “You seemed to calm down later in the flight.”

So my terror on boarding hadn’t been quite as discreet as I might have hoped.

But she was right. Somewhere along the way, I had calmed down.

And now I was in China—with my cash, my formal clothes and my beautiful duvet covers.