KEY POINTS:
The first clue was when I got my boarding pass. My seat was right at the front of the plane.
There was no business class in the Chinese airline flight but I was in was the seat of honour, no question. First off the plane before the pushing
and shoving starts.
I looked around the plane. Yep. I was the only European there. Hmmm, interesting.
The key to all this was hanging around my neck - my Olympic accreditation swinger. It meant a quick check-in at the airport on my way from Beijing and a quick passage through security, floating past the long queues.
Once seated on the plane, I read through some papers and pecked at my laptop for a while. When the rudimentary bar service started (it's only an hour's flight), I was singled out for enthusiastic refills.
Once all that carry-on was over, one of the hosties approached me with a big red book. Would Sir mind signing this?
I looked over it with mild alarm. It was little messages of international goodwill signed by Olympic athletes, mostly from the Qingdao sailing regatta, I guessed. I tried to explain I was a screaming nobody. Didn't work. Didn't matter. She insisted.
So I wrote: Thank you for the hospitality and friendliness and signed it, adding my country of origin. This went down gangbusters. The book disappeared into the cabin and the original hostie instantly re-appeared.
Would Sir mind posing for a photograph? I tried to explain again that I was even more insignificant than airline food. Didn't work. Didn't matter.
She sat down next to me. They obviously didn't want to tip off the other passengers that they were indulging themselves, having their photo taken with the famous Olympian - as the picture was being taken by the steward who was hiding in the galley, poking the camera through the curtains.
Because of the angle from the galley to my seat, the hostie had to squeeze right next to me to get into frame. I began to wonder who they thought I was. Winner of the geriatric 100m gold medal, no doubt. World red wine drinking champion, 2006. Burp.
Then, one by one, all the hosties came and sat next to me while the steward took shots with their different digital cameras. One of them squeezed much tighter to me than the rest and she almost laid her head on my shoulder. "My name is Cynthia," she breathed.
I wasn't too sure how to respond to this. 'Do you come here often?' didn't seem appropriate.
There was much chatter and excitement as they surveyed the photo results in the galley.
I was starting to enjoy this celebrity stuff. I gestured to the steward that he might like to sit next to me too but I think he thought it was a gay overture because he declined with an embarrassed shrug.
On arrival, news of my eminent status had obviously travelled ahead. As the doors opened and I was the first person into a smoggy Qingdao day, I was met by a Chinese boy who was, apparently, my escort.
He walked ahead of me, showing me the way. Every time we came to a door, he'd sprint ahead to open it for me. I kept checking behind me, thinking Angelina Jolie or Jennifer Aniston must have been on the plane and they were actually looking after them. But, no, I was centre of attention.
I can see how they made this mistake. After all, last time down to Qingdao, I sat next to Lord Colin Moynihan, former Minister of Sport in Britain and now head of the British Olympic Association's organisation of the 2012 London Olympics - and he'd be well used to all this bowing and scraping.
The point of all this is that the Chinese people have been genuinely delighted by the attention focused on their country because of the Olympics. They are genuinely delighted that we are here. While the hosties and the others on the plane were responding to this Olympic cheer, I have encountered dozens of people on the street who have been helpful, cheery and attempted to converse.
Five years ago, in my last visit to Beijing, such interaction would have been unthinkable. The people looked like they couldn't care less whether I lived or died. It is a warm thing to see a country like this thawing out - and maybe showing their leadership the way to the world.
Back in Qingdao, my escort walked with me all the way to a cab. He was a bit puzzled an eminence like me wasn't being met by a black Mercedes but he played along.
In the cab, I was swiftly reminded of my real status when the cabbie unselfconsciously produced a toxic burst of flatulence. As I struggled with the window, I bet that Lord Moynihan never had to cope with that.
Where was Paul Lewis' limousine? Photo / AP
