Back in London now and things are moving quickly on the first book (The Expat Diaries) ... very exciting! I'm just a few days away from getting to see the cover, and am making final edits before the manuscript goes to the printers to create the book-proof (this is when it actually looks like a book, and we all scrutinize it for typos, etc. to make final final changes before it becomes the final book!)
Since so much is happening I thought I'd change media, to Twitter! My Twitter name is 'expatdiaries', so if you're interested in my inane ramblings about the writing/book publishing process, and life in general, have a look!
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Friday, August 21
Moving over to Twitter: 'expatdiaries'
by
Michele
on Fri 21 Aug 2009 09:12 AM BST
Tuesday, June 2
Good bye Hong Kong. For now
by
Michele
on Tue 02 Jun 2009 07:41 AM BST
As I sit here, trying to figure out how to fit my belongings, which have surely swelled in the humidity, into my small suitcase, I’m also saying my good byes to Hong Kong.
It’s been a remarkable month, and I feel I can say that I now know the city a little bit. It would take months, years, to truly get under its skin. But it took only 30 days for it to get under mine. This adventure has surprised me at every turn, as much an external journey as an internal one. In learning about Hong Kong I’ve learned about myself … I’ve learned that there aren’t any wrong turns, only different turns, and discovery comes from walking down the streets you’ve never traveled. I’ve learned that there is always something new to see if you open your eyes, and always something new to feel if you open your heart. And I’ve learned that if we look, every day, for the small wonders, we will find them in abundance. So this isn’t the end, dear friends, it’s merely the first chapter. Like Dorothy so eloquently said after her Technicolor adventures in Oz, "The next time I go looking for my heart's desire, I won't look any further than my own backyard. If it's not there, then I never really lost it to begin with." Smart cookie that Dorothy. I’ll take her advice. London is surely as fascinating as Hong Kong, seen through adventuresome eyes. Stay tuned for Notes from The Expat Diaries.
Dragging boatlaces
by
Michele
on Tue 02 Jun 2009 02:38 AM BST
Apologies for a slightly out of sequence report; I’ve been feeling slightly out of sequence these past few days...
Last Thursday I went to the Dragon Boat Races in Stanley. Legend has it that a Chinese poet, Qu Yuan, banished from the kingdom more than 2,000 years ago, committed suicide by drowning, and the local people, who loved him, paddled boats out into the water scattering steamed rice dumplings to scare away the fish and keep them from dining on their poet. There were no suicidal poets in attendance this year, just thousands of Hong Kongers, Chinese and expat, out for a day at the races.  I rode the scary bus to Stanley, thus named because it is a) a double decker, which shouldn’t be driven around Piccadilly too fast, let alone down Hong Kong’s narrow mountain roads, and b) there’s a point at the top of the mountain pass, looking down the rollercoasterlike drop ahead, where all passengers are compelled to raise their arms and scream with terrified glee. Luckily most don’t, or it truly would be a scary ride. Being on my own I had the advantage of being able to snatch one of the empty front seats upstairs, which had been staked out by two Western men, Jonny From the Block and Canuck DJ. As is nearly always the case on such a jovial festival day, everyone was talking to everyone, and by the time we arrived at Stanley beach, I’d been invited out to their party junk. Not one to pass up an invitation, especially one so kindly extended, I jumped at the chance to see the races from the water instead of craning my neck from the beach. After wading through the water to the ferry dock through the warm, happily not shark-infested waters, we eventually made it to the ferry, and out to the junk. The dance music was thumping, in what was possibly another ritual to keep the fish away from the poet, and the beer flowing.  (I know this photo is small, but as I didn't specifically ask permission to post the photo on the blog, to protect the innocent, and in case there are any Prime Minister's daughters or philandering Presidents aboard, I thought it best to obscure faces. But yes, that is a giant blow up Corona bottle.) The races are exciting. At the front of the 20 rower boat (though only 12 on this day because it was so choppy) is a drummer in place of the cox. So the races are accompanied by a slow, deep rhythmic drumming that sounds in the chest. There are men’s races, women’s races and mixed races. Most athletes aren’t too serious about the event, as is often evident by their teamwear. In one boat a dozen pandas paddled to glory while in another, the athletes wore head to toe hot pink spandex with sparkly cowboy hats. As you’d expect, the boys on the team looked slightly uncomfortable.  It was a splendid day and I went home happy and full of beer. Thank you Jonny From the Block and Canuck DJ, for your hospitality. Sunday, May 31
Big Buddhas and bus crashes
by
Michele
on Sun 31 May 2009 04:54 PM BST
I thought Hong Kong’s taxi drivers were bad until I rode the bus today.
Getting to the big Buddha on Lantau isn’t difficult, though the journey takes a couple of hours by the time you’re done. The train gets you 45 minutes away, where buses wait to take tourists to the site of the largest seated Buddha in the world. Because the train also goes to Hong Kong’s Disneyland, I was surrounded by excited children shouting “Dineylan!” and weary parents, mainly shouting at the children, for the 40 minute journey. The transportation system is set up just fine, with the MTR station a short walk from the bus depot where the number 23 was waiting. The road to the big Buddha, and Po Lin Monastery close by, is closed to private cars, so only buses and taxis ply the route. The driver started climbing up the steep mountains, grinding his gears. As he plateaued he obviously picked up confidence, and picked up speed. By the time we were descending again he was taking the steep hairpin corners at 70mph, with scant regard for either the centre dividing line or his shock absorbers, while we bounced around like popcorn in the pan. Then suddenly he shot into a one lane section of the road, with construction barriers on one side, the guardrail and a steep drop on the other, and presumably a queue of buses that may or may not have been approaching from the opposite direction. This wouldn’t have been a problem had he actually applied his brakes. He didn’t. So when we sideswiped the construction barrier, in the midst of his digging around in the bag at his feet for his ringing mobile phone, the bus took it rather badly. The driver swerved away, nearing the guardrail while several passengers soiled themselves. We came to rest a little way up the road, bus and passengers, if not nerves, intact. How ironic it would have been to get killed on the way to a sacred religious monument. Note for ride home: that’s why they put seatbelts in buses. The Po Lin Monastery is very pretty, with a grand Buddha hall, and a restaurant that I was eager to try, having had monk food in Japan, in a tranquil garden surrounded by water and blossoming sakura trees.  While the food was good (except for the soup which looked like what you’d find in an overfull storm drain after a deluge), it was served in a large dining hall that was neither tranquil nor blossoming. I didn’t mind so much; I was just grateful to be off the bus. The giant Buddha watches serenely as thousands of tourists huff and puff up the 268 steps (that’s around a 20 story building). It is indeed impressive and huge.  The Wisdom Path was about a mile away down a well-travelled sidewalk thick with people. The Path itself has tall wooden monuments set in a figure eight that represent the Heart Sutra, which gives the secret to the essence of wisdom. By extension, walking the Path makes you wise. Obviously I circled it till I was dizzy.  The fates had it in for me today; the same driver was on hand to take me back, no doubt topped up on the rice wine by now. I buckled up and settled in for another terrifying ride. I wasn’t disappointed. He’d actually found another gear since we last met, and careened around corners at mach 3. Once I relaxed I didn’t mind so much. I was full of wisdom, and monk food, and nice memories of the day. And the rather chunky Chinese lady who’d all but fallen asleep on my lap would provide quite nice padding, should the need arise. Thursday, May 28
One for the ancestors
by
Michele
on Thu 28 May 2009 12:42 PM BST
I love it when I take an alternate turn.
Yesterday, in my search for the Tung Wah hospital and its secret riches, I overshot the street I was after. Okay, that's a lie. I have virtually no sense of direction, so turned left instead of right ... or right instead of left. But, how glad I am that I did, because I ran across a phenomenon that I'd read about but never seen. Shop after shop sells the most wonderful, colourfully gaudy assortment of, well, these. They're made of paper, and are meant to be burned on the graves of loved ones to give them the thing that the paper represents. So, for instance, your aunt may want a blue handbag with matching shoes...  Or prefers the luxury brands ...  Perhaps she is musically inclined ...  It's possible that she likes to gamble ...  And sadly, lost her teeth in a high stakes poker game ...  And so can only eat shellfish. 
Feet and eggs and knuckles, oh my
by
Michele
on Thu 28 May 2009 02:53 AM BST
It began with a conversation and ended with a dinner.
When I told my friends about moving to Hong Kong, several kind souls offered their friends up to me. One such offering, Super Host, made it his business to ensure that I was getting everything out of my time here that I wanted to (this is an extremely intelligent and driven man, who I suspect has no idea that I’m a rampant underachiever who naps daily). So we met for coffee, and a few days later Super Host mentioned that he and Super Hostess would like to invite me to dinner at their house. I was thrilled. He called a few days later to propose our dinner more formally, and asked what I’d like to eat. ‘I’m really not fussy. I like just about everything.’ ‘Would you like traditional Chinese food?’ ‘I’d love it!’ (Super Host is Chinese, so I assumed he’d have a pretty good working knowledge of the cuisine) ‘Okay, how about 1000 year eggs? Pig’s knuckles?’ ‘Sure, sounds great.’ I said, thinking he’s got quite a dry sense of humour. ‘I admit, I usually eat fried chicken and things, but I don’t want you telling your friends that you came to Hong Kong and I served you KFC.’ Ha ha ha. Yes, a very dry sense of humour. On Monday Super Host called to confirm dinner for Wednesday. ‘So, I talked to my wife and our maid, and the maid's going to make 1000 year eggs, pig's feet ... anything else you'd like?' 'Chicken feet?' ‘Okay.’ I was really getting into the absurdity of this conversation. ‘Anything with beaks in it?' And he said 'I’m not sure about that.' At which point I realized he was serious. ‘Ha ha ha,’ I said nervously, ‘I’m just joking.’ And he said 'Okay, and she'll also make traditional rice and Chinese vegetables'. And that’s how I talked myself into a dinner serving most of the things that get left on the butcher’s floor in the west. On my way home on the escalators on Tuesday I stopped by the wine store. What does one pair with rancid eggs and delicacies that have stood in their owner’s faeces? Anticipating a side-splitting conversation, I asked the young Chinese proprietor what the best wine might be to serve with pig’s feet, 1000 year eggs and chicken feet. He didn’t miss a beat, or crack a smile. He walked straight to the chilled cabinet, fished out a cheeky 2008 Australian Sauvignon Blanc and presented it to me. ‘This will be perfect.’ he said without a trace of irony. And that’s when I knew beyond a doubt that this wasn’t an elaborate joke. I’m really going to have to eat these things. As we sat chatting in Super Host’s living room the maid announced that dinner was served. When Super Host said ‘Did you bring your camera?’ I knew there was no going back now. And spread before us was a feast: Ginger fish, Chinese vegetables, glutinous rice that Super Hostess’s friend had brought for her from Taiwan and she was kind enough to share with me, chilli chicken and yes, 1000 year eggs, chicken feet and pig’s feet.  Not generally one to shy away from a challenge, I took a 1000 year egg first. It was indeed as unappealing to the eye in real life as it is in photos. So I bit it in half and chewed.  It was delicious. Not good-and-I’m-just-saying-that-to-be-polite. Not edible-when-nose-is-held-and-chocolate-thought-of. Delicious. The yolk isn’t slimy or jelly-like at all. It’s a little firmer than a hard boiled egg, with the same taste. The yolk is creamy instead of dry like said hard boiled egg, with the consistency of a mousse, and slightly sweeter than I expected. I’d order it in a restaurant. Next I dug into the pig’s feet. These do indeed look exactly like a pig’s foot, with a thick layer of skin and subcutaneous fat covering the small meaty bits and bone. I suppose the closest thing I can think of is, if one were a cannibal and, let’s say, stewing up an arm for lunch, this is what it would look like.  So I popped it in my mouth. Yep, fatty and slightly brings to mind a stewed arm. The meat was tasty but too much work to get to (which is probably what vegetarian cannibals say). At this juncture I pointed out that Super Host wasn’t eating anything (by which I meant he wasn’t eating anything gross). He said ‘Oh I don’t eat that stuff.’ By stuff, he looked pointedly at the chicken feet. All right.  For the record, picking up a chicken foot with chopsticks isn’t easy. As it once supported an entire chicken, it’s rather heavier than, say, a dim sum bun. But I managed to wrestle it to my bowl. ‘Do I eat it bones and all?’ I politely asked Super Hostess, at which she regarded me with something like horror (no doubt imagining having to spend the night with me in the hospital) and said ‘No! just the outside!’ So I started at a toe, slightly put off by the large nail sticking off the end and thinking about all the time that nail probably spent scratching in the guano. I nibbled off the skin. It tastes like chicken. The rest of the meal was delicious, finished off with egg tarts that Super Hostess had found for me, and a mysterious purply fruit with a hardish shell that, when cracked open revealed soft white fruit with a seed in the middle and tasted a little like a peach and a mango. I truly enjoyed the evening and it became clear over the course of it just how wonderful Super Host and Super Hostess are, inviting me to their home, searching out things I might not have tried, and putting together this entire dinner for me. Hong Kong truly has some of the most hospitable inhabitants in the world. Wednesday, May 27
Tung Wah Hospital
by
Michele
on Wed 27 May 2009 08:53 AM BST
I visited the hospital today. No, Mom, I'm not ill or injured. A few weeks ago I saw an old 1920s photo of the inside of the oldest hospital in Hong Kong. It was spectacular. Instead of the usual sterile admitting nurses, gurneys and coffee machines, it looked like a temple.
In fact it was a temple. Or at least it started out that way. So this has been one of the things I've really wanted to see. The hospital is just down the road from my apartment, so I wandered down only to find that it is now a series of modern towers. However. HOWEVER, off to the side was an ancient-looking awning leading up some stairs, and two stone lions in front. There are tall, locked gates (i.e. too tall to climb, or this would be a shorter story). As I peered through the bars, a cleaner came through the heavy glass-paned doors. And I glimpsed what was inside.  Obviously, I sought another way in. And around the corner I found the main entrance to the building. With a frosted glass door. With a sign saying something in Chinese that I'm guessing wasn't Welcome.  I tried the handle. Unlocked. So I strode in. Of course. I was marched out by a tiny lady in a facemask before I'd made it five feet. My pleading held no sway with this hard-harded hospital guard. But I'd caught a glimpse inside. It was breathtaking. Undaunted by my eviction, I went into the closest office, which was actually a physical therapy unit where the doctors were a little surprised to see me. They spoke little English but I made it clear that I really really wished to see inside that room. They pointed me across to the next building. There I was met by another security guard, who I explained my request to in a combination of loudly spoken English and sign language. He nodded vigorously and said 'You wait here.' Fantastic. So I waited. And waited .... And waited. Thinking that perhaps something had been lost in translation I approached again and asked whether someone was coming to show me around the room. He appeared to have no recollection of our previous conversation, so I explained again. He said 'No not possible.' About twenty times. Now, anyone who knows me knows that the best way to ensure that I do something is to tell me that I cannot. I will see the inside of that room before I leave.
Peak Tram, take 1
by
Michele
on Wed 27 May 2009 02:32 AM BST
After lunch with the lovely ladies at the Helena May I decided that, as the Biblical deluge had stopped for the moment, I’d take advantage of the Peak Tram.
I bought a ticket (deftly dodging the Hello Kitty-swathed teens intent on selling me a photo of myself in front of the Peak Tram sign). This is one of those experiences where the journey is meant to be as important as the destination, like riding the E&O from Singapore to Bangkok (definitely Top 10 on my to do list). So I was excited.  I climbed into the old boxy car and made my way forward over a surprisingly wavy floor – I’m guessing there are some sort of giant cogs beneath that make this so, but it’s only a guess because the ‘museum’ portion of the tour is at the base after the turnstiles, in sight of the tram itself. And since no self-respecting city-dweller will dawdle when the train is on the platform, I ignored the thoughtful historical displays in favour of catching the tram before it left. Note to self: Seize the moment. There will always be another train. As you’d expect of a tram that hauls passengers up the side of the mountain, it’s steep. I sat with my back pressed into the old wooden bench, watching the verdant landscape and moss-covered escarpments slowly pass. We stopped a few times along the way, each time causing the car to bounce as if on an elastic band. In the old days before the escalators, this was the least arduous route from Central/Admiralty to the top of the mountain. And then we got to the top. What a view.  Obviously I’ll go back this weekend. Tuesday, May 26
My intriguing dinner
by
Michele
on Tue 26 May 2009 12:44 PM BST
Okay, I’ve passed a certain shop almost every day, which seems to sell a combination of Chinese health food and medicine. At the front of the shop is a case full of something wrapped in leaves. These look like they might be edible.
So this afternoon, I went in to the shop and asked. Given the blank stares I got in response, I mimed feeding myself and pointing at the leaf packages. The lady nodded happily, so I bought two for dinner.  Now, I’m not exactly sure whether “edible” and “for dinner” are the same thing. But given that I bought them in a medicine/health food store, they can’t kill me right? So I’m microwaving them for a few minutes. Now I’m opening the microwave and- Holy crap. It smells like someone has peed into a bowl of Brussels sprouts. The smell has just driven me from the kitchen (admittedly laughing till the tears stream. Why do I do these things??)  It appears to be some kind of sticky rice. When I say sticky, I mean STICKY. And it makes a very rude noise when I move it around the plate. I have to say it's not the most appetising sound for your dinner to make.  Do you know, actually that’s not bad. It is indeed a little like eating arts-and-crafts paste from the jar, but the filling is tasty, salty and meaty. I wonder if it's supposed to be dinner or medicine. And I wonder how I'm going to get this smell out of the apartment.
Tea for two and porn star hands
by
Michele
on Tue 26 May 2009 12:15 PM BST
Oh the joy of a full night’s sleep! Sufficiently rested and determined not to abuse my liver further, Single Girlfriend and I headed for the Star Ferry.
I might have guessed from the mini-monsoon that blew through the city over the weekend that the water’d be a bit rough. Single Girlfriend confessed as we stepped aboard that she and moving boats/cars/planes don’t always see eye to eye. As the boat sat dockside waiting for its passengers, it dipped and pitched like George Clooney’s craft in The Perfect Storm. Single Girlfriend got progressively greener. Not having a change of clothes with me, I shifted over one seat. ‘We can always take the MTR instead. Are you sure you’re all right?’ I asked, now concerned that I’d have to carry her, soldier-with-wounded-friend-style off the boat. ‘Yep, fine. I’m just going to look out at the horizon for a little while.’ ‘We’ll take the MTR back okay?’ ‘Sure, that’s probably a good idea.’ We did make it across the harbour, with no display of stomach contents, to the Peninsula for afternoon tea. The room is beautiful, as you’d expect of a 100+ year colonial hotel, but, in what I’m sure was a risk that the architects never considered, it no longer has a view of the waterfront, but of an entire row of buildings that were built on the filled-in bit of the harbour in front of it.  ‘Glass of champagne?’ Asked Single Girlfriend, now fully recovered from her ordeal. ‘For medicinal purposes?’ ‘Of course.’ There are many worse ways to spend an afternoon. Thus fortified, we made our way back to Hong Kong-side, where Single Girlfriend expressed her ardent desire to get a mani-pedi. For me this sounds about as pleasant as having my teeth drilled. But my friend traveled 13 hours in economy class, sitting next to a man with no respect for personal space, in a seat with a non-functioning movie screen to visit, so I was determined to humour her. Besides, I figured the champagne might dull the teeth-grindingly horrible experience of having my nails filed. We found a place near the escalators. But when we went inside (pushing a non-descript buzzer that opened a steel reinforced door … there must be a lot more money in nail salons than I’d assumed), we were told to come back in 45 minutes when they’d have two chairs free. ‘Let’s get a drink.’ says Single Girlfriend. Is it Milk Thistle that is supposed to correct ailing livers? I wonder if they can put it into my cocktail. Two glasses of wine later my feet are soaking in hot water and the woman in front of me is sharpening her tools on a leather strap. Or at least is seemed that way. She started gently enough with some sort of scissors, which didn’t hurt. Then she graduated to a file that I believe is more usually used to shave down lopsided doors. I began to give her pointed looks, as if to say ‘I will not hesitate to knock your teeth out if you hurt me at any point during this process’. Through the miracle of non-verbal communication, she understood perfectly, and stopped grinding away quite so enthusiastically. Meanwhile Single Girlfriend, who is no stranger to foot pampering, is chatting away like she’s not losing bits of her foot that may be important in allowing us to walk upright. The moment came, as I knew it had to. She dragged an emery board across my big toenail. I made a noise to tell her how much I enjoyed that sensation, and she stopped abruptly. ‘Please.’ I gasped, ‘No emery board.’ ‘Just a little?’ She asked. Not unless you want to go to the hospital. ‘No, none. Please.’ ‘You not let me work!’ she cried, like Picasso being relieved of his brushes. She jealously eyed Single Girlfriend’s feet, being whittled away at, no doubt wishing she’d made a different choice in customer. To prove her mettle, she then took a gleaming instrument and began to run it across the sides and bottom of my foot. Bits of foot flaked off on to the towel. ‘What’s that?’ I cried to Single Girlfriend (who by this point might have wished she’d left me at the bar). ‘It’s a razor.’ ‘What do you mean, a razor?’ I asked, remembering the shaved deer antler I’d seen in a shop just the previous day. The detritus on the towel looked remarkably similar. ‘She’s shaving the calluses off your foot.’ ‘But I need those, don’t I?’ ‘For what?’ I admitted I wasn’t sure, but have to think that if my body sees fit to make a callus, there must be a good reason. The wine must have had influenced my choice in fingernail colour. In the bottle it looked pretty and pink. On my hand it looks decidedly porn star. And today at a meeting of lovely British women, at a venerable old ladies' club, one actually said when I expressed my slight doubt about the colour: “It looks like something my 15 year old niece would wear.” Meaning that I’m walking around Hong Kong with underage porn star hands. Monday, May 25
Untitled
by
Michele
on Mon 25 May 2009 06:03 AM BST
Lan Kwai Fun
Single Girlfriend arrived at two. We began our weekend-long self-embalming process by seven, at Lan Kwai Fong, one of Hong Kong’s main nightspots. What’s Lan Kwai Fong like, you may ask? It’s tiny, two streets long, ensuring that the same faces cycle through whichever bar you’re in, or in front of, with regularity. Its proportions also ensure that any stalking/avoidance manoeuvres are likely to be successful for the stalker and disastrous for the quarry (which may be why it’s also full of those in town only briefly).  Despite this photographic evidence, it is roughly an even man-to-woman ratio, but the women tended to be inside the bars, the men outside. Like a grown-up version of a school dance, the two sides stayed separate except for the brave souls that forayed into enemy territory. As one would expect when so much alcohol is vigorously mixed with so many people on holiday, bravery increased exponentially as the night unfolded. It was a very friendly place. Within minutes of landing in the first bar, a woman had trodden on Single Girlfriend’s foot (admittedly, not an overtly friendly gesture) and faster than you can say ‘another round’, we were chatting with a very nice group of women, all long time residents here. Their dating stories singlehandedly rounded out at least two chapters, so thank you Julie and friends for your contributions. Of course, given that Single Girlfriend is here precisely because she is single girlfriend, and my designated romantic proxy for the weekend, a certain amount of boy-hunting was had. Single Girlfriend took her task to heart, adding at least another two chapters to the book. Of course names will be changed to protect the innocent and the usual ‘this is fiction so you can’t sue us’ legalese added inside the front cover. Have I mentioned the rain? It’s like movie-rain without the hair and makeup trucks to ensure dewy on-camera perfection after a downpour. So I spent a good part of the weekend with mad hair and squidgy damp feet in flip flops, hoping that cockroaches are as unhappy to breach the floods as I am. If one of those inch-long crunchy brown diseases on legs ever ran over my foot, my new address would be at The Priory, where nice ladies speaking in soft tones would medicate me hourly. Despite the deluge I booked a table for Single Girlfriend and I at Hutong, on Kowloon-side, in the hopes that the fog and rain wouldn’t obscure what is surely one of the most spectacular views of the city. We weren’t disappointed. In a miraculous made-for-TV-Jesus-docudrama moment, the skies cleared and the rain lifted just as we entered the restaurant, and we got our view. And our delish beef dish.  We also got some of the spiciest chilli crab on the planet. Real eye-watering, pain at the back of the throat stuff. I was thrilled.  After dinner, having taken the cause-as-cure approach to our up-till-now debilitating hangovers (the blame for which I place squarely at the feet of the very generous men in Lan Kwai Fong and our inability to count glasses of wine … as Single Girlfriend exclaimed between fistfuls of Advil “I was told there’d be no math on this vacation”), we returned to the scene of the crime for a medicinal glass of wine. Here, on Saturday night, I observed, in their natural environment, the cultural phenomenon known as the Cougars. They do indeed exist, but unlike their mammalian namesakes, these hunt in packs. Everywhere it seemed were lined or Botox-frozen, heavily made-up faces atop bodies that knew their way around the inside of a gym (in such a high-stakes game as this, nobody was banking on being loved for their sparkly personality). The scene reminded me a bit of crocodiles gearing up for the Great Migration and, as is my reaction to those harrowing scenes, I was tempted to shout at the men whose beer goggles had got the better of them “Don’t drink at the watering hole!” Sunday was a day of cultural enrichment, and detox. A few days ago I stumbled upon a street near my flat lined with tiny shopfront shrines. Incense wafts from the darkly mysterious interiors, where the shrine-watchers stoically watched me pass. Then yesterday an old woman sitting within smiled through her few remaining teeth and waved. I made the universal hand signal for ‘me-come-there?’ She returned with a ‘sure-thing-come-on-inside-and-have-a-look-around’ gesture. Or she was fanning herself in the heat. In any event we went inside. Large coils of incense dangle from the ceiling, dropping their live ash on the floor, the shrines, our shoulders, every so often. One wall was lined with small ceramic figures, maybe incarnations of a god - as one might expect in a shrine up a back alley in Hong Kong where no one speaks English, no informational cards or headsets were available. The large shrine at the very back of the darkened room was fearsome, swathed in silk embroidered robes, with the daily offerings of oranges, paper burnt offerings and glutinous rice packets humbly perched at his feet. And on the other were wood block cuts of Chinese texts, maybe the story about who the gods are and why they’re so fierce (and like oranges). It was a wonderful weekend, really something I’ll remember, and smile about, always. One might even say it was very nice, as the English are wont to do. I’m contemplating Joy Ocean for the cruel-to-be-kind ministrations of the tiny Chinese sadist, though I’ll warn her to go easy on my liver meridian. Any more strain on that front and I’ll end up on the transplant list in a Chinese hospital. Friday, May 22
Rocky's fate
by
Michele
on Fri 22 May 2009 10:02 AM BST
I was thrilled to see that rocky is indeed an unusual turtle, and was happily swimming on his belly again when I went downstairs.
Which is a good thing, because I didn't bring any clothes for a turtle funeral.
Turtles do sometimes float on their backs just for fun, right?
by
Michele
on Fri 22 May 2009 04:52 AM BST
Coming back to my apartment I said hello to the turtles out front, as I do each time I pass them (after all it's their building; I'm only visiting) and noticed that Rocky (Yes, I've given names to them: Dinky, Rocky, Scooter and Skip) was in an odd, somewhat unturtlelike position.
 He didn't look particularly distressed. He watched me watching him with his beady reptilian eye, as usual. Every so often he stretched his head out of the water. He's just resting in the sun, right? Right??
Joy Ocean and Hometown Dumpling
by
Michele
on Fri 22 May 2009 04:45 AM BST
That’s the name of the reflexology place: Joy Ocean. How can you go wrong with a name like that?
Inside is cool and pleasantly lit, with more than a dozen plush plum-purple La-Z-Boy reclining chairs, and nondescript carpet squares a lá my cousin’s playroom circa 1978. I’ve ordered the full hour-long foot massage. Heaven! After a good hot soak, my feet are treated to the ministrations of a young woman with a vicelike grip. Within minutes my equanimity is destroyed by this four-and-a-half foot harridan of Hulkish strength, who is working her knuckles into the tender parts of my feet in an effort to draw blood. Every time I grimace, she chuckles maniacally, grips harder and stabs again with her steely digits. Now she’s stabbing her knuckle between my toes, causing my lip to tremble and my eyes to mist over. Apparently when it hurts, there’s something amiss with whatever body part that spot corresponds to on the Chinese foot massage sado-masochistic decoder map. Does anybody know what she’s poking at between my toes, because it’s excruciating and I’m going to go the pharmacy and get a pill to fix it before coming back here. When she hits the tip of my big toe (sinuses, she tells me), I jump. Yes, my sinuses are bad. When she causes shooting pains below my little toe (circulation) I have to agree that my hands and feet are often cold. Then she tells me that the spot I’m flinching over is my glutuloose. I made her repeat it three times. Glue-to-looze. I can only imagine. I discovered a few things while in the Chair of Doom. One: the body really can get used to anything; after twenty minutes or so I actually stopped feeling pain. Perhaps I’d gone into shock. Two: I am very ticklish behind my knee. I nearly took the girl’s teeth out in an actual Laurel & Hardy-like demonstration of the knee-jerk reaction. Behind me a man is getting a neck and shoulder massage, which seems to involve a lot of pummeling and slapping noises. Courtesy prevents me from turning around to stare, but at a guess I’d say he’s as uncomfortable as I am. Slightly unsteadily I next headed up the road for some lunch. My feet felt great, though my calves felt as if I’ve just run a marathon (they weren’t immune from the treatment). One thing I’ve noticed here is that often the names of buildings, or restaurants, are chosen to imbue the place with the characteristics of that name. For example, in Central there is the Effectual Building. I imagine it is just that. So upon seeing ‘Delicious Barbeque Restaurant’ open for business, I was tempted, but my eye had been caught earlier in the day by another intriguing lunch spot. Upon closer inspection, Hometown Dumpling looked like quite a famous place, judging by all the magazine and newspaper cuttings pasted in the window. Of course they’re all written in Chinese, so I actually have no idea whether the place is considered good or not (one would assume so but you know what they say about assumptions). Inside was indeed a restaurant, and there was an English menu on the table. I’m not above miming my lunch if I get in a pinch but this is easier. The other patrons, and the employees, looked surprised to see me, perhaps because the place was nearly empty.  I wanted to try some fried dumpling and some steamed ones so ordered one of each. The fried dumplings were a bit on the heavy side so I politely ate one. (Mr Miami will remember a disastrous attempt to make homemade ravioli, resulting in gnocchi-like dough surrounding the filling that I’d laboriously prepared and now could not taste for the mouth full of starchy goo). The steamed dumplings were delicious! And there were 10 of them, TEN!, floating in a chicken broth. I thought ‘well, I couldn’t possibly finish…’ and the next thing I knew, nine had disappeared. Simply evaporated. As it happens, I did some research and Hometown Dumpling, right there on my little road, is known for its excellent homemade noodles and dumplings, so I stumbled on a real gem. And they are particularly famous for their lamb dumplings, so I know what I'm having for lunch tomorrow. Thursday, May 21
A short lesson in the strength of perception
by
Michele
on Thu 21 May 2009 09:52 AM BST
Today is Thursday, right? ... How do you know?
Maybe you know because it's your fourth day of work. Maybe you've been gearing up for an important meeting on Thursday. Or looking forward to lunch with friends. Or your cleaner comes today, or it's the day you pick up your dry-cleaning. Perhaps the TV series you've been following is on tonight. How do you know it's Thursday without any of the usual social markers to guide you? And more importantly, how much proof does it take to convince you that it is Thursday when you think it's Friday? Is this a hypothetical question? As usual, it is not. At some point this week I lost a day. I'm not sure which day that was (because, obviously, I didn't realize at the time that I'd lost it). I've been sort of chuckling to myself when friends and family ask "What are you going to do this weekend?". It's a common question in normal circumstances. But these aren't normal circumstances, so my answer has always been "More of the same things I've been doing all week." Since I've been here there's been as little distinction between day and night as there has been between weekday and weekend. If I feel like reading at 3am, sleeping at 3pm and going to the gym at 9pm, I do, or eating yogurt and toast at night and noodles in the morning, I will. So into this slightly Alice in Wonderland existence steps an actual appointment. My friend is flying in from London and I'm meeting her at the airport. She arrives Friday. Which I thought, was convinced, believed wholeheartedly, was today. How did I discover that I lost a day? I called my Mom this morning (having set my alarm at 8am to ensure that I had time to go to the gym before going to the airport). In the course of our conversation she said "I'll be at work tomorrow and Friday." "Ha ha Mommy, tomorrow is your Friday". Being in the US, and twelve hours behind Hong Kong, it was her evening/my morning. "No, honey, today's Wednesday." I didn't believe her. Oh no, I thought, it's starting. My parents are getting too old to remember the days. This is a slippery slope. Next we'll be pinning their addresses on them when they leave the house. "It's Thursday Mommy, your Thursday, my Friday." "No" she says with the patience that only a parent can have, "Today's your Thursday, my Wednesday." Now this is an extraordinary conversation to be having with my mother, who spent the first several years of my move to London starting every conversation with 'Now what time is it there? Are you sure?'. "Are you sure?" I ask her now. "Yes honey." Again, with the patience of Job. Huh. The penny finally dropped. It explains a lot, like why my friend who emailed yesterday evening wrote 'You can call me tomorrow or Friday at the office.' I sniggered when I read the note, thinking he must be working too hard because there was only one day left in the work week. It also explained why my blog stats seemed so out of date (Only Tuesday's stats? But it's Thursday already! Must be because it's an American company and they're 12 hours behind). The fact that I got the day wrong isn't really the point. The point was that I managed to explain away so much evidence pointing to today being Thursday, assuming overworked friends, parental forgetfulness and poor business practice rather than considering that I might be wrong. Dangerous eh? So thank you Mommy, for saving me a trip to the airport a day early. Perhaps I should pin my address on myself before I go to meet my friend. Wednesday, May 20
Endless fun in the supermarket
by
Michele
on Wed 20 May 2009 11:02 AM BST
A colleague I once worked with insisted that the best way to learn about a country is to inspect its supermarket aisles. Come to think of it, he lived in China for many years.
The Wellcome, and Park n Shop, continue to delight me with intriguing finds. For instance, today I ran across the instant noodles aisle. These, as anyone who spent time (drunk, late at night) in college will know, are the second largest food group eaten by students after pizza. They also have a role to play in the ‘freshmen 15’ lbs that most girls gain their first year. Wellcome’s instant noodle aisle is dazzling in its variety, and nearly impossible to decipher. However there are photos on each packet and sometimes even a few words in English. This is how I learned that Chinese pot noodle tastes differ significantly from my own. I found Hakodate Salt Flavour, for example. Now, those familiar with this culinary genre know that each packet includes a monthly supply of sodium, so I’m tempted to buy this flavour to see just how salty it is… Other tasty options include Sesame flavour (no accompanying meat essence – just the sesame), Curry flavour (again, no meat required), and Soy Sauce flavour. For meat lovers there is the usual Chicken flavour, or Chicken and Mushroom if you want a nutritionally balanced meal with vegetables, or Beef, or Abalone. I suppose I shouldn’t throw stones given that the English happily eat snack food monstrosities like prawn cocktail or roast beef crisps (potato chips). And Marmite. I also discovered red sugar. RED sugar.  I’ll let you know what it tastes like, as my friend is coming to visit tomorrow for the weekend, and I can inflict all kinds of new experiences on her. In fact, it’s her promise to be my partner in crime this weekend that secured her an invitation. You see, not being single myself, I can’t throw myself wholeheartedly into some aspects of my research … but my single girlfriend can! And she has promised to be a good sport and let me get her into all kinds of embarrassing situations involving boys, and bars, and beer. She arrives tomorrow afternoon. I expect to be in Lan Kwai Fong in time for happy hour tomorrow. Tuesday, May 19
Other odd bits that I ran across today
by
Michele
on Tue 19 May 2009 10:02 AM BST
My mom didn't believe me when I told her that the scaffolding in Asia is made from bamboo instead of steel. It's much more pliable than metal and so doesn't bend out of shape when there are typhoons ...
 And this is a coffin store. I had noticed another on Hollywood Road but those coffins were standing upright so you couldn't see the clover-like design on the ends ...  There was a store in Sheung Wan selling dinosaur teeth!  And these are the postboxes for the people living just off Pound Street, which is one of the 'ladder streets' in the city, so named because they consist of stairs that must be climbed rather than pavement that can be driven. 
Not a hooker in sight
by
Michele
on Tue 19 May 2009 09:49 AM BST
I’m reading ‘The World of Suzie Wong’. For those unfamiliar with the story, it’s about a man who lives at a whorehouse in Hong Kong. A whorehouse in Wan Chai, on Gloucester Road to be precise. Gloucester Road used to be the waterfront in the 1950s (hence, a perfect location for a whorehouse, just a hop, skip and a jump for the disembarking sailors). Now it sits a good distance back from the water, having lost its waterfront locale to land reclamation projects (i.e. creating landfills in the harbour).
Trams trundle East-West every few minutes through the relatively flat area near the harbour. I like trams. And trains. And any other mode of transport that can’t unexpectedly veer off into god-knows-where. The trams are wonderful!  They’re old (over 100 years), charmingly constructed of wood and iron, and don’t go more than about 5 mph. Within a few minutes I was in the heart of Wan Chai. And starving. Luckily, the Harmony Restaurant was right there on the corner. It won me over with its intriguing menu translated into English. I settled into a cheery yellow moulded plastic booth, surrounded by cheery yellow moulded plastic tables and chairs, with yellow and gold flecked Formica tabletops, tile walls and floor. All adequately illuminated by the fluorescent lighting above. As the only Westerner in the restaurant I felt a little pressure not to do anything too embarrassing, lest I let the side down. So I sipped my tea and perused the menu. There was an entire section for Special Oatmeal. And indeed it was special. I had my choice of ‘milk oatmeal’, ‘fresh milk oatmeal’ (until I read that, I didn’t realize that a distinction needed to be made), ‘corned oatmeal’, ‘sliced beef oatmeal’ (yes, really), or ‘ham oatmeal’. One aspect of Chinese living that I’ve wholeheartedly embraced is the locals’ belief in noodles as a valid breakfast food. It’s liberating to be someplace where spaghetti wouldn’t be an odd choice at 8am. Somewhat unusually, most of the dishes appeared to involve ham and eggs (‘ham oatmeal’ is a case in point). So I ordered the Singapore noodles. They came with ham. And eggs. And chopsticks. It’s a good thing that my college roommate’s mother taught me to use chopsticks all those years ago, binding them together with a rubber band before letting me loose in Benihana (thank you Mrs. Good). My cutlery, such as it was, also came with a folded square of paper. A napkin, you wonder? It looks like a napkin, but in fact has absolutely no absorbent properties whatsoever. It has the texture of a sheet of airmail paper (though given that it’s underneath my chopsticks I feel sure I’m meant to think it’s a napkin). Using it to wipe my mouth only smeared noodles robustly down my chin. Thus sustained for a few hours I poked around the side streets of Wan Chai (still looking for hookers). I found the ‘wet’ market. Wet markets are those that require hosing down every so often. They used to have live animals for the dinner table (requiring a lot of hosing down), but this one had lots of fruit and veg stands, a few butchers (the animals having already met their maker at an off-site location) and fishmongers.  Yes, that is a tail. In the midst of my snooping I spied 1000 year eggs. This is a Chinese delicacy that I haven’t been able to bring myself to try. ‘Aw come on’, I hear you admonish, ‘give it a try’. Let me explain what 1000 year eggs are. They’re made by preserving duck, chicken or quail eggs in a mixture of clay, ash, salt, lime, and rice straw for up to three months. After this time, the yolk becomes a dark green, cream-like substance with a strong odour of sulphur and ammonia, while the white becomes a dark brown, transparent jelly.  Chicken feet, okay. Dried scallops, fine. Birds’ nest soup, at a stretch. But I’m not eating three month old gelatinous sulphur snacks. Sunday, May 17
Oh to be a songbird in Hong Kong
by
Michele
on Sun 17 May 2009 06:45 AM BST
Went off to explore Kowloon armed with everything I needed for the trip: Octopus card (to ride the train): check. iPhone (to take the photos): check. Water (to keep from dropping dead in this heat): check. Pen and paper (to capture brilliant musings when they strike): check.
Now that I know what the MTR symbol looks like, finding the train is a breeze. Confidently I strode into the cool station, swiped my Octopus card on the reader, found the sign pointing to the Kowloon trains, and stepped on the waiting train. How easy. The carriage was crowded with weekend shoppers and innumerable teenagers out for the day. I stood, eye level with the dangly handrails. One advantage to being tall is that I look out over the heads in the crowd. One disadvantage is that I don’t exactly blend. As I stood, quietly congratulating myself on my adventurous spirit, it occurred to me that I’d forgotten one important ingredient in my recipe for the perfect day. A map. As the train barrelled towards the New Territories and, ultimately, if memory served, the Chinese border, I wracked my brain to remember where the markets I’d come to see might be. “Mong Kok” had said a friend. I’m sure it was Mong Kok. So I alighted at the Mong Kok station, sure that there’d be signs for the markets. No signs. Anywhere. Unwilling to give up, I wracked my brain again (my brain, by now, is used to this sort of wracking). Mong Kok East. I’d read something in a book, or online, about Mong Kok East. Different station from Mong Kok, and like the Charing Cross/Leicester Square Interchange, surely quicker to walk than to change trains three times. So I followed the signs to Mong Kok East station. Again, no sign, literally, of the bird market. Where would a bird market be in Kowloon? That’s the question I either had to answer, or go home having failed to see anything but the inside of the MTR train. On my walk to Mong Kok East, through elevated walkways (very convenient though not air conditioned), I’d seen a street market off to the left hand side. So I went there. Ahead on the corner was a shop selling fish. Not “I’ll have a pound of haddock, please” fish, but swimming fish. Little fish, blue fish, yellow fish, fighting fish … I’d found the Goldfish Market.  Less market than street of pet shops, still it had some pretty fish (and tiny turtles and puppies and kittens). Then I saw something that told me many Hong Kongers have too much money and too little sense.  I know there are spas for dogs, and jackets and such for the cold, but shoes? Heartened by my success I wandered some more and eventually found the flower market, a street of shops selling, as the name would imply, flowers (and plants). Again it was more shop-street than market. However its main attraction was that, at the end of the road, was the Yeun Po Bird Garden. Even if I hadn’t read (and unusually, remembered) that the bird market was at the end of the flower market, I’d have known by the noise. A cacophony of chirps, whistles, screeches and hoots filled the air. The garden is really a wide walkway with flowers and trees on either side, and it was this that I’d come to visit. For you see, Hong Kongers walk their birds. And sure enough, they were.  Each day the city’s songbird owners take Tweety in his cage to the garden to talk to the other birds. The men, for they are almost exclusively men, hang their cages next to each other along bars under the eaves of bird market buildings (which abut the garden). Then they sit and chat as their birds catch up with each other on the previous days’ events. It seemed odd that there was only one woman, who sat by herself on the other side of the garden, but then I wondered if this is the Chinese equivalent of men’s poker games. There’s obviously an important social element to these bird outings, and while I sat quietly, listening to the song and watching the men, an old man tottered up the walk. But he didn’t join the others under the eaves. Instead he brought his birdcage to a tree branch quite close to me, and stood alone. I started to feel sorry for him, wondering what he’d done to be ostracised from the others. But a few minutes later a younger man approached with his bird, called to the old man, and joined him, settling his bird right next to the old man’s cage. I bet their birds are good friends too. The bird market itself is almost overwhelming in the number and variety of birds for sale. Most are tiny and colourful, and all are noisy. And in the midst of the hubbub sat one non-bird related stall. A seamstress sat behind her ancient heavy black Singer sewing machine, stitching away. And she was singing, beautifully-voiced and powerfully, joining the birds in their melodies. Friday, May 15
Whitened faces and reddened hair
by
Michele
on Fri 15 May 2009 08:00 AM BST
There are a fair number of Chinese men here under the mistaken impression that bad dye jobs are sexy. At first I put it down to a single mistake, then I realised that these men want to look like this. Imagine someone with very dark hair spritzing his head with Sun-In (which says right there on the instructions “Recommended for blonde to medium brown hair”). Result? The follicle equivalent of the terra cotta pot sun lamp syndrome. Not a nice look in my opinion.
I had a surprise in the pharmacy today while looking for a cleansing face mask. There are row upon row of whitening creams. Not for teeth. Not even for t-shirts. For faces.  "Make you more perfect." While we’re spending our pennies on sunless self-tan and suncream to give us the perfect glow when on holiday, some Chinese women are chemically inducing pale complexions.  It got me thinking about how different our standards of beauty are. And then it made me realize that Chinese women might like faux-red hair on their men. One to ponder. Thursday, May 14
It's a fashion stampede!
by
Michele
on Thu 14 May 2009 06:36 AM BST
Ladies who were there at Primark's opening, you've got nothing on these Hong Kong fashionistas. I happened to be on Queen's Road this morning at 10.29am, walking past the H&M. There was a queue of easily hundreds of women. Then suddenly everything went into motion, the women shuffling forward as fast as the shopper in front, to get into the doors that had just opened. Within two minutes they were all inside, and it looked like one of those game shows where middle-aged housewives are let loose in the supermarket to fill their trolley in ninety seconds or less. Think I'm kidding? Men, you may want to look away now. This is not us at our most flattering.
 I took this from the entrance for fear of being trampled. It was the Matthew Williamson for H&M launch. Dozens of women were running, running down the sidewalk trying to get in before everything was gone. But this is Darwinism at its most raw; only the fastest and strongest get the spoils. Within minutes it was over. Like a feeding frenzy on the National Geographic channel, all that was left when the predators had finished and moved on (to the tills) were a few unsnatched frocks drifting down through the chummed waters, their sequins glinting in the sun. 
The Hong Kongers’ sense of space
by
Michele
on Thu 14 May 2009 06:20 AM BST
Hong Kong is a very small place, only 825 square miles including Lantau, Kowloon, the New Territories and its 260 outlying islands. And with only a quarter of that space developed, it’s a very very small place for all 7 million people to live.
So they stack. The city’s high rises are ubiquitous, at least here on the Central/mid-levels side of the island. For all I know there are big houses with wide verandas and ladies sipping iced tea on the south side of the island. Will travel there to see. One nice consequence of all these people in such a small space is the opportunity to indulge any Peeping Tom tendencies. And, since I have my evenings free, and big windows, it sure beats watching Friends reruns on TV.  In one of these apartments live an old Chinese couple who play cards each night across the kitchen table. They don’t appear to speak, or even acknowledge each other beyond the hands they are playing. And in another a teenage girl dances around her room while a bald old man, possibly her grandfather, sits watching TV in the living room (no doubt shouting every so often to turn that damn music down). A young man in his boxer shorts unpacked his suitcase, sniffing each item of clothing as he took it from the case…. I hope they were his clothes. And the pièce de résistance so far: There’s a lady over there who watches TV with her monkey. It’s a big dark brown one (I mean the monkey, not the lady, who is middle aged and Chinese). It took me a little while to register that it really was a monkey, not an ugly baby, but it is in fact, a monkey. Speaking of pets, Labradors are clearly the dog of choice here. They seem to be everywhere in the mid-levels, and I get it on good authority that they are a status symbol. What better way to show people, without seeming to show people, that you’re rich enough for a big apartment than to have a dog who needs to stretch his legs in wide open spaces? And speaking of wide open spaces (oh how nicely I’m segueing this morning!), Hong Kong is full of tiny ‘sitting out’ areas amidst the bustle and buildings. That’s what they are called, for example, the lovely "Lok Hing Lane Sitting Out Area". And that’s what people do. They sit out. Or they chat, or they nap. Lovely really.  Wednesday, May 13
The Joy of air conditioning
by
Michele
on Wed 13 May 2009 02:19 PM BST
I went on an adventure today. Having spent all my time thus far in the mid-levels/Central area, I had plans to meet my friend in Pacific Place for lunch. I figured it couldn’t be more than a 45 minute walk, and I was right, but I didn’t figure it would be so hot. It’s now 33C (which technically translates to f*!$!*g hot) and I’m reliably informed that the lovely breeze I’ve noted thus far was an aberration that the city isn’t likely to see again for a generation or so.
By the time I got to Wyndham Street, halfway into my ‘walk’ (really more of a darting shuffle while hugging the buildings to stay in their slight shade) I was wringing wet. I’ve been in cooler saunas. To make matters worse, I had cooling envy. I could see all the people above me, strolling along the enclosed walkways in air conditioned comfort while I stood on the sweltering street looking like I’d come down with scarlet fever. I suspected I might faint on the street if I walked further (or simply melt into a puddle and drip into a drain never to be seen again) so decided to sample the delights of Hong Kong’s subway system. Here’s a question. How do you find the subway station when you don’t know what you’re looking for? I know that it’s in Central but I don’t know what it’s called. I don’t know what its symbol might be. I don’t even know if it’s underground; it could be like the El in Chicago, requiring a walk upstairs to its platforms. I could follow groups of people up, or down, an escalator, but would probably be escorted away by security as I entered their office building by mistake. I could ask someone but- oh wait. ‘MTR’ with an arrow. M-T-R. Mass TRansit? Possibly. It was in this brail-like way that I found the city’s transit system. And here’s the epiphany. It’s air-conditioned! Not only do the trains pump cooling AC at its passengers, the ticket hall is cool too. What miracle is this? Air-conditioning underground?? But London Underground assures us this is impossible … Sarcasm aside, Hong Kong’s transit system is wonderful. It’s clean, efficient and cheap. Giddily I entered the cool carriage – and nearly brained myself on the overhead hand grips. The solid plastic handles hanging from the rails are at exactly gweilo forehead level. Wow, Chinese women in London or New York must dangle off the handrails there like tire swings from a tree bough … It was in Pacific Place that I really appreciated the joy of air-conditioning, and set myself the challenge of going all the way back to Central, to my gym if I could manage it, without setting foot outside (I nearly made it). Also while at Pacific Place I visited a store called Great. And was it ever. This is where expats come to buy whatever they’re craving from home, and to pay dearly for the privilege.  Yes, that is indeed Waitrose tomato soup for HK$90 ... that's GBP7.64 ($11.61) Tuesday, May 12
Do spirits get thirsty?
by
Michele
on Tue 12 May 2009 10:33 AM BST
In the midst of the city are wonderful contrasts. Standing in the bustle of Central on Queens Road, flanked by banks and international boutiques, it’s easy to forget that China exists just up that side street or along the next alley. Except for the people of course. At lunchtime the offices empty into a sea of dark heads flowing slowly along the sidewalk, broken up only occasionally by blond tresses.
Many shops have tiny shrines in front, festooned in red with incense burning. And many shop windows have a little glass of water in them. Why? Do spirits get thirsty? Anyone know?  And I ran across a beautiful little shrine too down a small lane (Wo On Lane, to be exact). It just sits there, quietly puffing its incense into the air, a tribute to the Taoist god of longevity.  Finally, Citigroup’s PR people ought to keep an eye on a developing situation here. There’s a one-woman protest being mounted outside the Citigroup building in Central, apparently against Citigold (“Citigold stole all our money” read one sign). She’s done the place up all nice, with cheery banners in English and Cantonese tacked to the railings and taped to the sidewalk. And she’s not afraid to get the word out either, standing on the corner with a megaphone telling passers-by how the bank has wronged her.  I have a feeling this won’t make it into the Group’s Annual Report. Monday, May 11
Dried lizard anyone?
by
Michele
on Mon 11 May 2009 11:08 AM BST
Sheung Wan is a short walk from the skyscrapers and upscale boutiques of Central, but it's a million miles away culturally. In street after narrow street sit shops selling every kind of dried thing that I've never even contemplated putting in my mouth ...
Most of the shops look a bit like garages, with wide roll-up doors on the front, some with shelves along one wall and a counter, some with just bags of wares and a small desk at the back. One intriguing shop required a closer look. It seemed to carry an enormous range of sweets, so I went in. Almost everything was only in Cantonese, but a few of the beautifully wrapped delights had an English translation. There was a whole section just for dried prune products - chamomile prunes, basil prunes, green tea prunes, yogurt prunes, rose prunes, meal prunes ... and just next to it an entire section of codfish jerky. Who says hillbilly doesn't translate across cultures? I saw a lady snatch a little morsel from a dish in the middle of one of the colourful pick n mix sections. Free snacks? When I was in grad school in Chicago I'd stop in WholeFoods at least twice a week and graze on their freebies for dinner, so I'm well acquainted with this phenomenon, and have never been one to pass up a free sample. I popped one in my mouth. Mmmm, tastes of - soap, oddly enough. Not at all sweet as I'd thought. By the way, if any of my young cousins are reading this, don't you worry, I didn't forget about you ... I bought 1/2 a pound of treats for you. What are they? I haven't the faintest idea, so limber up those taste buds. Bet you can't wait to see me now, eh? As I went deeper into the area the shops' wares became more interesting ...  Yes, that is indeed dried lizard. My question is: do you eat it crunchy, or soak it in water for awhile and let it puff back up first? There are wonderful pungent smells everywhere, strong but not offputting - herbs and grassy/haylike aromas, fish and a spicy, smokey smell. I have to watch my step because a lot of the wares are drying in shallow baskets on the sidewalk. I'd hate to step in a pile of desicating scallops. There are also Chinese medicine shops (as I am in China, are these simply called medicine shops here, like Swedish massages are simply called massages in Stockholm??). And several of them sell deer antlers. As I mentioned at the start, everything in these streets is meant to be eaten. And I spied something else in one of these shops. A man, a customer, is sitting inside with a tray of dark rounded, fleshy-looking objects in front of him. He is picking each one up and weighing it in his hand. At the next shop I see these objects in the window. They are labelled, but in Cantonese only. Must find out what these are! I go into the shop and ask if anyone speaks English. A man picks up the phone and makes the 'Wait a minute' signal. So I do. When he gets off the phone he comes over to the counter as if ready to answer my question, so I point to the object and ask 'What is this?' He smiles uncomprehendingly. Ah, he wants to play charades! So I point to it, then to my tongue (it looks kind of like a tongue). At this the lady, who is sitting at a little table shaving pieces off an antler, sees me pointing at the object and begins laughing heartily. The man shakes his head, looking unsure now. Oh my god, am I about to make this nice man mime deer penis? Just then another man comes in. I can't just leave the shop now; this man was called in especially to answer my question. In for a penny, in for a pound. Deep breath. 'What is this?' I ask him. He takes his hand and moves it to his mid-section. Oh no. Then he puts it on his bottom and flicks it up and down. 'A tail?' I say hopefully, praying he hasn't got his anatomy wrong. He nods, 'Tail, yes.' Before I can stop myself I ask him 'What is it used for?'. Now why can't I just leave well enough alone? Please don't try miming impotence, or constipation, or- 'For kidneys. Good for kidneys.' 'Oh, I seeeee.' I'll probably stick to cranberry juice. Saturday, May 9
Dim Sum I
by
Michele
on Sat 09 May 2009 11:39 AM BST
Tempting as “Taco Loco”, “Shake em Buns” and “Chicken on the Run” are as dining choices, I’d like to stick to Chinese options when I can. So today I went for dim sum (which translates literally to ‘touch the heart’ or ‘little hearts’ … though I don’t think that’s a literal literal translation). As one would expect in China, there are lots of dim sum restaurants. I chose one for its authenticity if not its warm service. Those were the reviewer’s words, not mine. I found the waiters very friendly. Every time I caught their eye and smiled to get their attention, they smiled back, then walked away.
They have a whole section of sad little tables for one, facing the door, where we sit with our backs to the diners who have friends. Perhaps our position is a response to the 2002 murder that took place in a dim sum restaurant up the road involving the Triads, a Chinese golf course and a former kung-fu film star (so no, Mom, it’s not dangerous here for normal people). I kept my eye out but saw no nefarious characters, though there do seem to be well-known ones. Several men walked in alone, through the door held reverently open for them (I had to use the handle), and made straight for a table as if they owned it. I noticed they all sat with their backs to the wall … but not each other. Luckily Mr Miami and I had dim sum when last visiting Hong Kong, so I knew when the waiter handed me the sheet of paper with items and tick boxes that I was to write down how many of which ones I wanted (though the tricksy waiters didn’t put any pens on the table so a newbie would likely sit there until the restaurant closed waiting for a waiter to take his order). I chose the baked chive buns, BBQ pork buns, steamed prawn and pork dumplings and steamed chicken and mushroom dumplings. I asked him if that was too much food. He smiled and walked away. First out were the char sui buns (BBQ pork), which were light and fluffy and delicious. Then the baked chive buns, also delish. Then the last two dishes. Hmm. The prawn and pork dumplings look great, but were bigger than I’m used to, so required two bites (or one unsightly mouth-open gag-fest). I’m okay with chopsticks but not great. And these aren’t the wooden ones that give you some traction. They’re plastic, weightier than usual and very slick. Needless to say there didn’t seem to be any forks available. And have I mentioned that I’m the only Westerner in the restaurant and that the Chinese at the tables (and serving, and busing tables) aren’t hiding the fact that they’re staring at me? So no pressure. I had a slight Pretty Woman ‘slippery little suckers’ moment when the dumpling skidded across my plate as I tried to poke it a bit with the chopstick, followed by a slight giggle attack at the thought of shooting the dumpling into the lap of the Triad sitting directly behind me. At this point I also realized why the diners at the other tables weren’t putting their steamed dumplings on plates (The char sui buns came on a little porcelain plate, which I guarded jealously against the waiter, who seemed intent on taking it). They eat straight out of the bamboo steamer. Aha, that’s where they get the traction! I’m happy to report that I didn’t drop any of the prawn and pork dumplings. I don’t expect that they’ve used the free range organic best cuts of pork for this dish, but they were delicious. Now, for the last dish …  I can’t say I’d have pointed it out on another table and said to the waiter ‘Mmm, I’ll have some of that please’, but, as they say, when in Rome … Okay, trying the brainlike thing first. It’s surprisingly tasty, mushroomy and not at all brainlike. And the white stuff underneath is also very good (that’s the prawns I think). By the way, the man at the next table (eating with his family, not the Triad) just let out the most impressive burp. I mean it shook the paintings. I wonder if that’s a compliment here, or just bad manners? The thing that looks like a gelatinous mass of meat is, in fact, a gelatinous mass of meat. I guess I’ve found the chicken. Parts. Chicken parts. Though the rest of the meal has been a pleasant surprise so … Oh my god. I can’t spit it out. After that durian fruit incident in Thailand, when I heaved it up on the street in front of the woman who’d offered it to me, I don’t exactly have a reputation in Asia as a cultural ambassador… Luckily, as it’s covered in such a thick layer of fat, it slides down rather easily in one piece. Cheque please. Friday, May 8
Need to find a new gym
by
Michele
on Fri 08 May 2009 10:57 AM BST
I was at the gym. After my workout. On the escalator. Digging around in my bag. Looking for my wallet. Couldn't find it. Fidgeted some more. Got to the cardio floor. Still fidgeting. Bag became unstable. Things started spilling out. A tampon dropped out. Of my bag. At the feet of a fellow member. A man. A courteous man. Whose first instinct was to pick it up. And hand it back to me. I've been handed a tampon in my gym by a man in front of the cardio floor. Tomorrow I'm looking for a new gym.
Thursday, May 7
Gyms and yarrow nudens
by
Michele
on Thu 07 May 2009 02:43 PM BST
The short answer is no, 182 meters of stairs aren't that many, not when there's so much to see along the way. And the irony of a 20 minute stair workout to get to a gym to work out on a StairMaster wasn't lost on me (or my calves). Incidentally, the stairs are for very small feet. My big loaves hang off from the ball of my foot.
The gym is huge, arranged over four floors with dozens of cardiovascular machines of all descriptions, and mysterious machines for pumping, toning, fluffing and flexing. I arrived with the other bored housewives and out of work men, and did my best to fit in. However within five minutes I'd been warned that my membership was going to be revoked for trespassing in an 'unsafe' stairwell (there weren't actually staff monitoring the unsafe stairwells; they'd thoughtfully posted intimidating signs instead). There's an escalator that runs up through the floors that we're expected to use. Mustn't have the members' energy exerted on non-gym apparatus like stairs and such. Shower time proved a challenge. Not being a gym bunny, I'm not completely familiar with the protocol, so imagine my surprise when I went in to undress for my shower and had to navigate my way around a completely naked woman to get to my locker. Now, I know we all have to be naked at some point in the changing room because it is, by definition, where we get out of our clothes. However, this woman was just standing there, at the mirror, drying her hair, and then putting on makeup. Is this normal? Do women in gyms regularly lounge sans clothes in the changing room? Please tell me. My modesty was further challenged when I wrapped the bath towel around me. It's a Chinese bath towel. A Chinese sized bath towel. Short of holding it vertically in front of me and backing from the lockers into the shower area, there was physically no way to cover both boobs and bottom. Duly showered, changed and humiliated, I was ready for lunch. By now it was in fact mealtime (instead of jetlag mealtime, which has meant having hunger pangs at 3am) and all of Hong Kong's office workers, it seemed, were on the street with the same idea. This is when it occurred to me that I've been well and truly immersed in British ways. I saw a queue, so I stood in it. It was five minutes before I even realized what I'd done (it was another ten before I was served). Habits, once established, die hard. I wanted an authentic Chinese meal for dinner. Passing by several restaurants of the strip lighting/cafeteria variety, which were filled with locals, I figured that, with no menu visible, I was unlikely to effectively communicate my order (although as Mr Miami can verify from our travels in mainland China, I do a mean impression of a chicken, and a pig, when I have to). I settled on a noodle shop (I knew it was a noodle shop because there were about four items on the menu and each was roughly translated into 'noodle soup' with 1, 2, 3, or 4 additions. There was also a queue, which made me, once again, feel at home. I shared a table with a young Chinese girl who studiously ignored me, and when the waitress came over I said 'Noodle soup with won tons and sliced beef please'. She said 'yarrow nudens?'. What? 'Yarrow nudens?'. I'm sorry, I don't understand. My pleading look at the Chinese girl caused her to smirk and duck her head. I wonder what 'bitch' is in Chinese. 'Yarrow nudens!' the waitress shouted. No, no thanks I said. 'No yarrow nudens?' she asked, now disappointed. No thanks. My meal came three and a half minutes later. It was a bowl of broth (delicious) with 3 won tons and a mass of sliced, slightly yellowish-pink meat. How can noodle soup have no noodles? Surely that's just called soup then. As I slurped my broth, avoiding the meat after the first greasy mushy mouthful (definitely not beef), my eye fell again on the menu. Not yarrow nudens ... yellow noodles. I still had at least four spoonfulls of broth left when the waitress came over, said something and tried to take my bowl. I said no, shielding the sad remains of my dinner from her. She said the phrase again, made another grab at my bowl. I said no. She repeated herself, grabbed, I snatched my bowl, trying to shovel in the last of the broth. If there was a fork in the place I'd have stabbed her with it. It wasn't until I was on my way back up on the escalators that it occurred to me she was asking if I'd like some noodles with my soup after all. Determined that tomorrow's breakfast not be a disappointment, I tried again at the ParknShop. This time though I was smarter. No 'unusual' finds were to make their way into my basket. I spied Mother's Pride Crumpets (in the basket they went), Kellogg's Frosties that despite the Chinese letters did appear to be authentic (in the basket), and Fuji apples that cost a fortune in Waitrose but I figured that because they don't have as far to travel here, they'd be cheaper and fresher (in the basket). As I picked up some more milk I spied an intriguing marketing boast on the carton: NEW, IMPROVED FORMULA. It's milk. What improvement can there be to the formula cow+(grass*mastication)=milk ? I'll leave you to ponder that. Me, I'm looking forward to my bowl of Frosties tomorrow morning. 
Hong Kong's first surprises
by
Michele
on Thu 07 May 2009 02:53 AM BST
It's 9.30am and I'm obviously Not on the longest escalator in the world ... after bolting wide awake at 2am, and not falling back to sleep until 5am, I was in no condition to join Hong Kong's morning commute ... although possibly being tired and cranky made me perfectly qualified for the task. We'll have to see tomorrow.
It's clear that there's a food store pecking order here, and I may have shopped in Asia's equivalent of Iceland last night (American friends, think of a store where signs saying "Food stamps welcome" are prominent and you'll get the picture). After settling in to my apartment I made a mini-exploration of the area (more on that later) to stock up on breakfast provisions. Overcoming my aversion to anything named with a contraction (picknmix, Snack-A-Jack, etc.) I popped into ParknShop. There were tiny tiny carts (large enough to set one hand-held basket atop) and aisles just wide enough for two. But the fruit looked great and I bought lots, including funny little mangoes for HK$2.50 each, i.e. around 25pee/40 cents. There was a mix of Chinese and western foodstuffs and after only a few minutes staring blankly at rows of cartons labelled 'milk beverage' or 'milk drink' with lots of Chinese lettering, I realized that these probably were in fact milk. The personal care aisle was similarly impenetrable, at first looking like Hong Kongers only use conditioner and no shampoo, but I eventually worked out that shelves are stocked by type of item rather than by brand, so conditioner is in one place and shampoo is somewhere else. As I made my breakfast this morning it became clear that I fell prey to China's fake goods industry at the ParknShop. I ask you, how can frozen bagels be mouldy? Yet there it was, fluffy white mould neatly icicled over inside the bag. Disappointed but not beaten I went on to breakfast option number two, the funny little mangoes with yogurt. The mangoes were as juicy and orange inside as I imagined they'd be. The yogurt looked a little funny, slightly cottage cheesy, but the carton did say it was 'natural set'. First bite? Stomach bile must taste better. I'm guessing that it was the yogurt that was rancid rather than the mango but couldn't face taking another bite to find out, even with the yogurt washed off. Besides, I was told by the apartment manager that washing the mango in the tap water here could cause intestinal issues that will last long after the memories from this trip fade. Breakfast option number three, a trusty old stand-by: Raisin Bran. Like the yogurt, it didn't look quite right as I poured myself a bowl - the flakes were very uniform, and completely flat. They looked remarkably like chips of cardboard. I poured the milk. I scooped in a spoonful. I had a mouth full of cardboard. It literally has no taste apart from the slight essence of pulp. There's a saying across the front of the box that reads "Think fibre, taste Kellogg's". Can anyone in the US tell me whether this is in fact the motto on the Kellogg's Raisin Bran box? Also, according to the tiny print that isn't in Chinese, it's made by Nhong Shim Kellogg in South Korea. Aha. And now I've missed the down escalator and will have to walk. 182 meters of stairs aren't that many, are they? Wednesday, May 6
The longest outdoor escalator in the world
by
Michele
on Wed 06 May 2009 09:44 PM BST
Tomorrow morning I'm going to join Hong Kongers in their morning commute. Not by train. Not by bus, taxi or bicycle. By escalator. A series of outdoor escalators descend (or climb, depending on your perspective) 800 meters to carry tens of thousands of people to and from work each day. Believe me, escalators are necessary in this city. The hills here turn the whole place in to one big stairmaster. And those who know me know how much I like exercise...
Chinese Luck
by
Michele
on Wed 06 May 2009 01:56 PM BST
Either I'm traveling under a lucky star or I look so ill-equipped to be on this adventure that people are taking pity on me. I wheeled Goldie (and her faithful companion, THE perfect green duffel, who insisted on joining us) to the waiting Heathrow Express. Apparently it was literally waiting, given the staffs' energetic hand signals, as if I was rounding third base and headed for home. I stumbled into the train, in the first class carriage as it happened, where the nice man waited to escort me to the regular seats. As I pushed and pulled, huffed and puffed my suitcase, duffel, and carry on bag, it became clear to us both that it would take the 15 minute journey to navigate my way into the next carriage. Perhaps fearing his implication in a wrongful death lawsuit if I wedged my luggage between the cars, he suggested that I just sit in first class instead. I must have thanked him six times.
Imagine my surprise when, at the airport, I handed my boarding pass to the gate attendant and she crossed out my seat. 'Have you changed my seat?' I asked nervously, wondering if you can be demoted in an aircraft. 'Yes Ms Gorman, we have. We've upgraded you to Upper Class.' Upper Class! ... It takes a little getting used to these seats. They're a bit like cattle stalls, three rows of berths set at a 45 degree angle. We're remarkably closely packed I feel, evidenced by the shower of water that rained down upon my head from the man's squeezy water bottle in the next stall. These are not free-range conditions. My server, Nelson, keenly aware of my virgin-Virgin status, helpfully explained all of the mechanics of the seats (thankfully leather, thus not fire-retardant allergy pits). In practice he told me not to touch anything and to call him when I need adjusting. I'm heeding his advice for fear of accidentally ejecting myself and lodging in the ceiling. For a gay man, Nelson has been awfully keen to get me undressed - he offered no less than 3 times to suit me up in Mr Branson's pajamas. However, as he failed to ply me with any champagne at all despite bubbles flowing all over the other passengers, he's certainly not getting me out of my clothes. Besides, I'm not completely clear about altitude's effect above the knees. I know my flight socks will keep my feet from blowing up, but these jeans are snug and I'd hate to take them off only to be unable to put them back on. I'd like Hong Kong's first impression of me not to include walking through Immigration wearing pajamas. Nelson made amends by handing me a goblet of wine and a plate of 'rice crackers' which taste pleasingly of spicy Cheetos. I suspect I may get a change in perspective for dinner. There is an intriguing little seat facing me (which I'm using as a footrest). And it has a tiny seatbelt, which I can't imagine is for my ankles. Oh, I seen what the tiny chair is for! It's so that someone can join you for dinner. Maybe there's a singles scene here that I wasn't aware of, although it'd have to be fast work to wedge seduction between takeoff and the start of the in-flight entertainment. Nobody did. Seduce, I mean. Once Nelson made our beds, we all settled down into our stalls. Reclined like this we looked oddly like a scene from Cocoon, each inmate lying on his back in his white puff, enclosed by mushroom pods. It's a little unsettling. Next stop Hong Kong! Friday, April 17
Seriously, I'm going to Hong Kong
by
Michele
on Fri 17 Apr 2009 06:17 PM BST
One month in Hong Kong ... 28 pairs of pants, 56 socks, 112 cotton buds ... you get the picture. That's a lot of stuff to fit into a very small suitcase. A very small, but beautifully formed golden suitcase (she's a beauty, as you can see). How does one pack all she may need for the adventure of a lifetime into something that won't result in an excess baggage charge or back strain?
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