Chen Qi’s ride was probably the oddest one in the entire capital.
Other officials rode sedans or pedaled bicycles, the lines drawn clear; he was the only cadre standing around drinking while wearing a long gown — and he used a bread van.
Early the next morning.
When the Haishi bread van rolled to a stop in the courtyard of the Ministry of Culture, it happened to coincide with the delegation’s arrival.
Everyone watched Chen step out with complicated expressions.
In Hong Kong, that sort of van was usually used to ferry gangsters out to do the chopping.
“How was your rest yesterday?” he called, smiling as he greeted them.
“Stayed okay. The room was warm — I thought I’d freeze to death,” someone replied.
“Mmm, hot water for showers too.”
“And the breakfast was delicious.”
They spoke honestly.
The mainland’s stereotype of being poor and backward was strong; they were genuinely surprised.
Chen Qi snorted inwardly; didn’t they know what the Jianguo Hotel was like? The place made millions of dollars in profit every year.
They went upstairs and into the big conference room.