Two days before Christmas Eve, we flew into Xiamen, a small resortish island of just 3.5 million people on the southeast coast of China. Owing to a stunning bit of bad luck, our driver suffered a bout of AIzheimers just fifty yards outside the airport. Imagine the odds, inside the airport he was born on the island and knew it like the back of his hand, outside he couldn’t find the ferry landing even with the map we waved in his face. That’s far, 50 rmb at least.

“It’s really close. Here let me help you,” my husband said, flipping on the taxi meter the driver had accidentally forgotten to turn on, darn Alzheimers.

“Tell me exactly where to go, or It will be 50 rmb.”

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