Ander had in fact submitted his petition to the netherworld for greater prosperity in a very basic, unmannerly prayer (he was too busy keeping himself from collapsing to the ground to do anything with grace), and as if to test his commitment, Buddha had then sent the whole group on a three-hour death march in dark, cold, low-visibility conditions. Up and down the street with the restaurants that, even if Lady Zhao wanted to eat in any, were oversubscribed; up and down hills to inspect rooms on offer, to negotiate, to find that previous tenderer who in retrospect was probably the best deal they were going to get. Indeed, much like Trav had foretold, there were plenty of spare rooms to choose from, plenty of leather-jacketed men and down-jacketed women with hands in their pockets looking for eye contact with the temporarily accommodation-challenged. The only problems were that they were all much the same in quality, and they were each consistently double the price Trav claimed he got.
In regards to the matter of keeping sufficiently nourished, the group managed to catch the kitchen of the only restaurant still open before it shut. It was at a seafood diner featuring displays out front with more than one inverted fish floating sadly amongst tank-mates. The necessity of sharing a table with strangers was just another indignity added to the day's long list. Lady Zhao, whose energy to motivate the group was entirely spent, wanted to avoid arguments by not talking to anyone, especially either of her companions, which was easy with Ander, who, at the table, rested his forehead on his folded arms or otherwise shoveled food into his mouth while his chin rested on knuckles. Bingbing, however, fed and able to rest her unusually painful legs after their early evening walking, was keen to turn what was proving to be a grueling ordeal into the merry and profound outing she had hoped and expected it to be.
Ever since the idea for the trip had been proposed at that dinner by whoever (Bingbing couldn't quite recall), Bingbing had convinced herself more and more of its serendipitous timing. It just felt right, right? Her life was in crisis, was it not? Moreover, how strange that Lady Zhao had at first rubbished the concept and the place, and then, midweek, delivering gifts and messages from Bingbing's home province, proposed they go, said she realized how much good it might be for Bingbing. There was no explanation other than celestial intervention for such a turn of events.