2025 Trip To Beijing: Cash

In recent years, I've found myself, once a computer whiz, losing interest in the

relentless progress in tech and as a result, never have made the effort to

master the bleeding-edge magic of paying with a smart phone. I am getting older

but ageing might not fully explain my apathy as physically, I am more active

than many youth who live in their phones. In the U.S., credit cards are popular

enough that I don't feel by using it I alone hold back civilization. Visiting my

hometown, however, I am supposed to do as the Chinese do and it would've been

convenient, hygienic, and above all the norm to pay through WeChat.

 

It used to be a drag as I was painfully aware of my handicap and tried not to

trouble others. I would visit the market at slow hours and walk a couple of

miles instead of taking the bus, for example. When handing bills at checkouts,

I felt guilt if not sin and unbearable to be the only one holding others up.

 

I had learned the ropes, however. The key, I figured, was to plan ahead and

make the deals change-free. I broke a ¥100 banknote at the the hotel and got some

one-yuan bills and coins and that single act cast out my fear of taking public

transportation. It worked perfectly with local and express busses. Dropping the

precise fare with panache in the slot even seemed to have to it a cachet,

invoking the nostalgia of a lost art, unmatched by reaching a phone to the

scanner. At Beijing subway stations, I procured tickets with efficacy and a

clear conscience and marched toward the cars with pluck. What a wonderful world!

 

Cash finally felt created more equal to other payment methods and I could

appreciate its unique benefits. Friends and family beat me in paying the bill

after a feast at a restaurant, for example. And my frugal self felt a gratitude

with no strings attached--they were simply better equipped and there was nothing

I could do.

 

Other blessings came more subtle. Unaware, some seemed to mistaken my handicap

for confidence, maybe even courage, in bucking the trend by going around

brandishing a quixotic handful of bills. They smiled when I made short

apologies, refered me by the honorific you, and treated me with patience, good

humor, and even admiration as due to a man of principle. I felt undeserving yet

kept mum.

 

With some folks, cash changing hands could lead to a brief chat, e.g., about the

weather, which didn't sound much but had become rare once phones got smart. It

dawned on me at a point that it was not my black hair or athletic build but the

time-honored practice of the exchange, paying cash and counting changes, that

bred trust and raised my status in the minds of my innocent and piously

atavistic people.

 

My mettle, earned through ingenuity and flawless cash transactions over the

better part of the first week, backfired in a smoke shop on the first floor of

the ZhuCheng Tower, at the opening of the alley opposite to the Friendship Hotel

in ZhongGuanCun.

 

"A pack of Nanjing, please."

"Which one?" the young man behind the counter kept his eyes glued to the screen.

"Oh. The one selling for 28 yuan." I pointed at a golden pack in the counter and handed over three notes.

"You want a carton," he stared at my bills, his hand pausing mid-air.

"Sorry." I had given him ¥300 instead of ¥30.