Late on a Sunday night, Northwest Flight 19—MSP to Tokyo Narita—is nearly empty. Alone in row 37, I sprawl across thousands of dollars’ worth of lost airline revenue while enjoying the latest Harry Potter film, tiny pretzel bag in hand. The mood of the few other passengers seems similarly contented (that is, unless those passengers have paid for first class tickets and gotten a look at the extra space in coach). Even the three elderly Japanese women who boarded wearing surgical masks seem to have relaxed. After all, 12 hours is an awfully long time to keep one’s mouth covered, even during an epidemic.
Hours later, as we taxi in Tokyo, a flight attendant announces that “passengers continuing on to Shanghai are required to fill out a health questionnaire before boarding.” As I disembark I am given the questionnaire; among other things, it asks whether, over the last 48 hours, I have experienced “fever, cough, shortness of breath, difficulty breathing.”
Narita Airport is unusually subdued, no doubt because of the surgical masks worn by a third of the passenger traffic. Most masks are either of the cloth or paper variety, and thus incapable of filtering tiny viral particles. This is irrelevant. It’s the fashion statement that counts. “Hello Kitty” masks are popular with teenage girls, Louis Vuitton masks are the rage among middle-aged Japanese women in expensive mary janes. The N95 mask, widely acknowledged to be the only effective filtering agent against SARS, is preferred by cheeky American college students who like to wear it idly around the neck, like swim goggles.
Northwest Flight 85 to Shanghai is 80 percent empty. Most of the passengers wear masks, and those who don’t are eyed warily by the flight attendants. Yet it is the rare passenger, masked or not, who is able to resist a complimentary beverage service. As the drink cart moves up the aisle, the masks are stowed below.
When we arrive at Pudong Airport, the flight attendants ask that we notify the “authorities” if we have any symptoms so that we may “be given appropriate medical care in Shanghai.” Eyes roll, wry smiles are exchanged. As we disembark, we pass a sign notifying us that the terminal has been sterilized. The ominous empty white corridors stink of chlorine.
We proceed in a somber single-file line, but just before reaching the customs desk, we are halted by two temporary checkpoints staffed by masked individuals in white lab coats. Conversation ebbs immediately and disappears entirely. The only remaining voices are those requesting that passengers submit to a thermometer in the ear. The reading takes a few seconds, and when no fever registers, I am directed to customs.
As an officer examines my passport, I look back and see a woman diverted from the thermometer line for further examination due to a mild fever. I pause: On the plane she had occupied a seat three rows ahead of me. But it’s no matter. My passport is stamped, and I am free to enter China.—Adam Minter
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