Hong Kong Hotels
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Smell My Harbor
Entry 3 of 80 | show all | print this entry |
It was my second stay in Hong Kong, and I found myself falling into each and every blunder along the way, just as I did in the western world, only here I did so with a quite more resounding thud.
I am tall for the average Hong Kong person, and stout for the average any person, so my presence in this fragrant harbor was hardly unnoticeable by the multitudes. In addition, the area I skulked about in was not the touristy or fashionable center of town near the water, rather an outpost, at the farthest reaches of the subway line in what are still called the New Territories. Yet it was still city, and still teeming with people upon people. The first thing I noticed was that despite the heat and humidity (it was June when I first arrived), the people there still didn't dress down in public the way Americans do (does anybody?). They were wearing their nice pants and fancy shirts, looking very Japanese in some ways, without the punk streak of green and red hair. I of course, wore a t-shirt, open sandals, and khaki shorts, a very casual and quite comfortable bit of summer attire. Yet I felt, much like in Europe, totally underdressed. I don't have a problem with looking bad, though, and despite my feelings, I stuck steadfast to the look I was going for. Perhaps that was also aided by the dearth of clothing in my size. Large in Hong Kong is like a smallish medium in the states. They really don't have extra large, so if I tried to buy something, it was usually a disaster. If I wore large size shorts and shirts that I bought there, it made me feel like I was wearing a skintight leotard, and friends, you don't want to see that.
Living in an area that was generally devoid of anglos, made me occasionally long for companionship of that type. Often, though, the only ones I saw were the many missionaries standing in the walkways trying to drum up membership. The first of these fellas, despite my general dislike for preachers, I approached for some solid, unaccented English conversation. It obviously had been a while for me, though, and it showed. I approached the gent, and started with some pleasantries. He asked where I was from, I told him, and responded that he must be from Scotland with an accent like that. He replied, No with a startled look. I then realized that he was probably Irish, and that by calling him Scottish, I'd probably ticked him off a bit. So I told him as much. Again, he seemed stunned, and quickly replied, "I'm from Utah!" My stupidity unmatched, I slyly added, "Oh! Mormon, huh?" At the time, that seemed an innocent comment, but was probably taken to be a bit condescending. I quickly gave up the initiative to talk to other Gwei Lo people. It just wasn't worth it for such rudeness, even if I was the rude one.
Hong Kong is a marvelous place, full of many shopping, dining, and natural wonders. I spent a lot of time buying native products in my time there, including the very unique pirated DVDs. I would often scour the markets there, looking for the right place with the right movie. Before I get into a little story about me in one particular place like this, let me explain how these operations are set up. Often, they are simply open spaces in long lines of underground mall type set-ups. These places have a series of stalls that are rented out to sellers, much like an American flea market. They are probably often run by the triad groups, but I of course have no direct evidence of this. Anyway, each stall has a large metal shutter-like screen that can be quickly slammed down. They hang the DVDs on the wall. The patrons come in, browse the wares, then deposit their money in a box by the door. I liked this operation, and went 2-3 times a week to look for them. One day, while looking for a copy of Saving Private Ryan, I heard some shuffling and yelling at the door behind me, but my Cantonese was pretty much non-existent at the time, and Hong Kong people always seem to be yelling, even during a normal conversation. Anyway, I didn't move, engrossed in looking through the wares, when suddenly I heard more yelling and turned to look around. At that moment, I was the only one left in a previously crowded stall, with an angry looking man standing at the door clasping the handle of the metal shutter. And to my shock, he turned off the light and began to lower the shutter with me still inside. I bolted towards the opening and grabbed the shutter, holding it open with strength obviously far superior to the little Hong Kong man. I slipped out underneath, and quickly dashed away. It was clear that the police were spotted in the area, and as is custom, they were closing up shop to avoid any problems. I, having understood nothing, was nearly caught trapped inside in the hoopla. Luckily, by overpowering the little fella, I managed to avoid a very uncomfortably stay, and to boot, without even a tv to watch my bootleg DVDs.
Hong Kong is for me a special place. I spent quite a bit of time there, and I experienced perhaps one of the low points of my life there, coupled with some dizzying highs. That bipolar world became a home for me in many ways, and even though in that home's bed, my legs shot out the sheets into the air beyond, I was for a while happy to experience it. Hong Kong is a paradise in many ways, and since its transition in 1997, even if the luster has worn off a bit, it still holds its head high. I hate Hong Kong. I love Hong Kong.
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