Maybe I could find my own way around this foreign city after all. At last I was in China's most famous open place. Walking back towards the city buildings, the noises from traffic and shop loudspeakers were so exciting, I found a pay phone and called my eldest son, Andrew, in Melbourne. "Just listen to this," I told him, holding the receiver as far as the chord would stretch. "That's amazing," he replied. "Where exactly in Beijing are you?" "Haven't a clue," I replied, "but I have just been to Tian'anmen Square."

With growing confidence, I decided to take the subway home, not realizing the network didn't go that far. Impressed with the cleanliness of the station, I bought a ticket and boarded the first train that came along.

After a few minutes I asked (in English of course) a young man seated next to me where I should get off closest to the Friendship Hotel. Wearing a smart business suit and tie, he would surely speak English wouldn't he?

He couldn't understand me but seemed very concerned. I showed him the card which unlocks my apartment. It had all the details of the Friendship Hotel in Chinese characters. He looked at it, then his eyes darted to the carriage subway map. Next, he raised three fingers of his right hand.

In Australia, raising fingers at someone is not usually nice, but this man was smiling. At the next station he showed me two fingers.

Now in Australia, that's really rude, but I got the message. When we stopped at the third station, he didn't just point to the door, but got up and took me out of the train, accompanied me to the top of the stairs, and out onto the street. Then he hailed a taxi and told the driver where to take me.

All this from a man who couldn't speak my language, and I couldn't speak his. I was now speechless, especially when he refused my offer of money. I felt somewhat embarrassed having even thought he would accept a tip.

This incident made it clear I had to get a grasp of Chinese quickly or my adventures might start turning into misadventures.

I was so determined to learn, I hired a tutor who started with a 90-minute lesson. At the end of the first session, my head was thumping and my ears were ringing. That determination had been crushed, but I agreed to a second lesson.

It was no better. The changing tones, the pinyin sounds of the alphabet were a formidable challenge, and my efforts to repeat them accurately were dismal. At least there was no ringing. This time, my tutor's sounds simply went in one ear and out the other.