(Zhangjiakou) I couldn’t help but burst out laughing just before customs control when we arrived at Beijing airport. I was almost used to all these people coated in white from head to toe. On the plane, they came almost every hour to take our temperature. Apparently they even tried on one foot while I slept horizontally.
Posted at 11:00 a.m.
No, what made me giggle through my mask was this man – or this woman? – who pressed a sprayer in my direction as I walked towards the counter. As if a cloud of antiseptic served as a protective wall against my potential contagiousness.
The same ride continued in the bus leading to the mountain. Leaving from a pee break near a gas station in the middle of nowhere, two people in hazmat suits set about spraying the toilet block.
There is no question of lowering our guard in this country with a “zero COVID” policy. The hotel is therefore bleached day and night. Pfuit pfuit here, pfuit pfuit there, put some on, it’s not ointment.
As a result, I almost stamped myself on the floor in front of the elevator doors the other morning. The slightly viscous matter ends up accumulating, so much so that it is sometimes necessary to demonstrate aptitudes worthy of Charles Hamelin in order not to lose ground.
If air purifiers are legion, ventilation is not taken lightly here. The doors are often wide open in the huge glazed dining room. Minister Roberge would be proud. With the wind whistling at all hours of the day, a coat isn’t too much to finish off your Austrian-style braised beef.
The attention to detail is frankly impressive. For example, employees’ cell phones are wrapped in plastic wrap. (Maybe I should have done that with mine, so the screen would have survived more than a week…)
In the press rooms, the distribution of Purell at the entrance is de rigueur. No privileges for journalists frozen after the mogul competition at -25°C. Tut tut! We take off his big mittens, sir. We are not going to catch COVID-19 here.