Maybe We Affect the Universe More Than We Think...

It rained today in Hong Kong. Proper rain.

To understand this significant moment, you must first know that I haven't seen rain since the first few weeks I got here. I haven't seen proper, heavy, real-droplets, visible-to-the-naked-eye rain yet since being in HK. Because in HK, it mists. The mist that comes from clouds that are flying lower than usual is normal in HK. Real raindrops is not (from my experience). And after coming from a rain-heavy climate, I missed it.

I missed it enough to make a commentary on it in my information page. No less than yesterday. I told everyone I'm connected to that I miss the sounds of heavy rain.

Lo and behold, I wake up from my nap to a familiar tune.

I go outside, and there she is in all her glory. To the others on this island, they seem annoyed, inconvenienced and trying to avoid being poked in the eye with an umbrella, accidentally poking others with their own. But to me, I walk the streets with a smile on my face. And nothing to "protect" my senses.

The rain laughs playfully and teases my skin. "Hey, didja miss me?"

Yes, my friend, I did.

You Can't Make This Stuff Up

Hong Kong is a labyrinthine jungle of a place. Footbridges, crosswalks, and metal fences keep the pedestrian traffic from straying too close to the cars, buses, and trams. One finds oneself all-too-easily lost, which I’m suspecting is sometimes the point. This consumer-driven emporium seduces you with feng shui curves, beaming its baubles for you to gawk and awe, then surprises you with a dead end; this was not the path you were supposed to be on. Buy something and feel better?

Gone are the days of not needing to know either Mandarin or Cantonese. The Chinese aren’t taking that simple act of subservience to another culture anymore. And yet, they are all so obsessed with learning English. Know more than the other guy and he can’t dominate you again. Like the scrawny kid on the playground, China has learned how to fight and it’s making Hong Kong its own. (This does not bode well for yours truly, as I neither speak any dialect related to Chinese, nor am I qualified for upper-management, where the rumor of not needing the local language actually applies).

Hong Kong itself remains a cultural smorgasbord, at least on the island. Expats and locals rub elbows to the music of the modern and eat - all the time. Drinking is not as rampant as it was in Saigon, as bar owners have embraced the idea of paying for ambience, not just the contents of your glass. Curiously, this overcharging has made the outside of Lan Kwai Fong’s 7-11the hottest drink spot in town. Thank the proverbial deities for cheap public transportation, as pre-drinking is now a mandate from your ever-shrinking wallet.

Maybe I have gotten a bit lost in Hong Kong. I have been driven a bit wayward from any kind of career that I actually want to have. But surely, life experience counts for something. Right?

Thanksgiving 2009

This Thanksgiving was extra special. Being by myself in a new city, knowing precious few Americans, I thought I would be spending Thanksgiving alone, or at least not doing the traditional eat-'til-you-pass-out customs.

Thank goodness I was wrong.

So I celebrated it on a Tuesday instead of the Thursday (and why was it the 4th Thursday of the month and not the 3rd?). And I already had a mini-celebration with an out-of-town friend, which included cream of mushroom soup and a turkey and cranberry "sauce" tortilla wrap. Those are half of my favorite celebratory dishes.

Thankfully, since I'm still without a proper job, my director/friend invited me to stay with them until I got steady income. Which means I am currently shacked up in the "crack den" (i.e. extra room) with an American and a Scot. The American had decided to recelebrate Thanksgiving on Tuesday. Even dogs could barely hear my high-pitched glee. Guests of the feast included 2 Americans, a Scot, an Irishwoman, and a French guy.

So this year, in light of the bad economy, joblessness, and my still-nomadic state, I can still be thankful for:

- Emma, for letting me move in with her for a while and keeping a roof over my head
- Caroline, whose amazing cooking repertoire includes: green bean casserole (with onions made from scratch!), butternut squash casserole (who knew I'd ever like that!), homemade stuffing, mashed potatoes and brown gravy, and an amazingly marinated chicken.
- all the other friendly people in Hong Kong who have helped me out in this trying time of frustrating unemployment
- Obama, whose win has relieved some of the "stupid American" stereotype pressures
- animals who can bring a smile to your face, even if all they do is sleep (damn pandas)
- foooooooood
- Theatre, which I never tire of
- People who come and go, but who are sure to leave footprints in your heart (I was told that Americans are cheesy, please try not to vomit)
- My friends, who are ever so encouraging and who are there for me, even thousands of miles away
- My family, who keeps me from forgetting who I am

But most of all, I am thankful that even though curiosity may have killed the cat, satisfaction could bring it back to life.

3-6 Weeks in Hong Kong

Week 4 –After a week of wondering, I get a meaty role, the one I least expected. It is a challenging role; how do I play an ambitious corporate-type soft-core film producer? I have done none of these things! And I can’t wait to get started. The rest of the week goes by in a blur. A job and an apartment are elusive things, just out of reach. But I got the part.

Week 5 – Halloween is coming up, my favorite holiday. I’m feeling deep pangs of homesickness, not just for all my loved ones in the U.S., but also for my friends in Saigon. Prices used to be cheap. Getting around used to mean simply hopping on your own motor vehicle and being in control of where you’re going. Public transportation allows you no such illusions. I’m on someone else’s time schedule now. I get excited about Halloween by myself, as the people I know are either working or studying or choosing a rugby match over the efforts of costuming. At the last minute, two friends invite me to some parties. Drinking and pictures ensue. In true drunken fashion, I tend to get lost, looking for the friends I came with, but overall, the night is a success. Much thanks to Angie and Amy for not leaving my lost ass behind (lord knows they could have).

Though I’ve used the idea before, this is by far my most elaborate and creative costume to date.

Week 6 – Still chugging along. I’ve gotten another part, this time one everyone knows: Sandy from “Grease” (a very shortened version). Between two plays, my evenings are now planned for the entirety of November. How did that happen?


So, for now, I’m doing pretty good. Better than I expected, and less scared than I was 6 weeks ago. I may not have a job or a lease in my name, but I’m where I want to be, and I’m doing what I want. You can’t ask for much more than that.

1-3 Weeks in Hong Kong

Week 1 – I know no one. I don’t have many expectations of the city, except for the memory of this place a year ago. More importantly, this city has no expectations of me. For the first time, I am in solitude, yet I know that I am not alone (thanks friends and family). I actually prefer the alone time, as it helps me get to know the city itself sans other opinions and other people’s ideas. I buy an octopus card. Then a SIM card. I open up an account at a local bank, investing my money in the local economy. Agree to stay at the hostel for a month. I am moving in.

Week 2 – Still settling. Meet some people I’ve heard about through the grapevines of friends. Get to know eateries that I am willing to indulge in more than once. Checking out the “touristy” things – Hong Kong Park, Cheung Chau beach, the city’s light show. Meeting fellow travelers who come and go. Have an interview with a school. It doesn’t go well. I get to substitute over the weekend, but you can’t teach kids how to understand you if they have no concept what you’re saying. It’s even worse if you don’t understand what they are saying.

A 3-year-old kid, who only repeats everything I say, holds onto his crotch for fifteen minutes; I think he’s scratching an itch. It takes me those fifteen minutes to realize he has to go. I manage to get him to the bathroom just in time, forcing me to leave the other one behind. And for a little kid, he has an awfully big bladder. Crisis now averted, he can’t stop talking to me in Cantonese. I smile and nod. A lot. And I use monosyllabic words. He doesn’t get them, but he understands and leaves grinning.

Week 3 – I’m starting to need living supplies. I use my octopus card generously, going from station to station looking for grocery stores, places that sell stationery, shops that will help me update my wardrobe, etc. I am walking around the city daily, getting more and more comfortable with each step, expertly dodging pedestrians, stopping just short of careening into a halted bystander (though, I admit to running into a few every now and then, just because. Dude, move.) I’ve gotten used to them, and to all the people who don’t speak any English. My pantomiming skills have taken on a life of their own – they are much better now that I have absolutely no idea what is being said. A friend from Vietnam comes to visit, and I show off all my knowledge thus to date. We go shopping, eat delicious yummies (dim sum and noodles and French fries, oh my!), and go to Disneyland, which reminds me of how magical even emotions and nostalgia can be.

Also, I audition for my first play in over two years. It’s a big deal. I’m a bit out of practice, but like the first wobbly attempts of pedaling a bicycle, I remember all the moves.

Dear Readers

Sorry it has been so long since my last post. Blogspot went through a change, and Vietnam's internet service was not happy about it. Needless to say, it didn't work so good.

I'm in Hong Kong now, so my blogs are back, though they may be sporadic still. Otherwise, check your emails and thanks for reading!

As You Liked It...

In honor of the newly reinstated Writer's Club, and especially Chris, who actually "gushed" after I read it:

I have learned that even after a year, I can still stand out as a foreigner to keen peddling eyes that immediately mark up the price, any price, by 50%. If they only mark up by 25%, I give myself a pat on the back.

I have also acquired into instinct the most powerful local signal – a low open-palmed twist of the hand, shaking back and forth signifying “No thank you, please leave me alone,” which is light years more effective than the “I’m saying no, but maybe I can be persuaded by your tattered clothes and pleading eyes” shake of the head; when raised to eye level, it is more versatile than the “I don’t know” shoulder shrug. This shaking hand gesture was ingenious.

Upon hosting a game night for some expat friends, we had run out of mixers. Feeling the hostess-fever, I collected some money and went out to seek provisionary treasures. As I went to a store managed by an old man with few words (very rare for a Vietnamese vendor), I walked into the place the way people do when they grown familiar with their surroundings. I found my fortune, a big bottle of coke, and stood on the edge of the entranceway to pay the man. Not even two seconds went by when two motorbikes carrying passengers flanked me on both sides.

To my right was a woman asking, in Vietnamese, whether I had shampoo and soap (hah! I was getting better with the language by then), while to my left was a man and his friend who asked, “Do you have [insert quickly-spoken incoherent Vietnamese product here]?” Okay, so not as good, but to be fair, they both spoke at the same time. I immediately looked at the old man for…something. I wasn’t even sure: answers, advice, clarification?

Help?

The next thing I did was look down. I was wearing my college-aged Gap jeans and my “Scream Queen” shirt, which could have looked local except that everything was spelled correctly and grammatically made sense. So, I did the only thing left to do - I shook my hand, paid for my coke, and trekked home, contemplating the mysterious incident.

I guess I fit in better than I thought. It kinda sucks.

Limits Turned into Opportunity

Something extremely poignant happened yesterday in the classroom. My students asked me a question about what to call citizens who move from city to city. I said, "movers?" They laughed and asked me again what you call people who emigrated out of their city.

And I had no English word for them.

In Vietnam, when locals want to move to another city, they have to apply for citizenship. if the do not, they can't take advantage of the "public" school system, own a house, or any other number of things. I had to explain to my students that when you move around in the U.S., or England or Australia, for that matter, (I think?) you're still considered a citizen of that country, not just the city you live. I told them about property taxes and gave them in-depth descriptions about how our taxes were what allowed us to use the public facilities of that state and city.

The most similar situation we have to this is when university students have to live in a state for a year before they don't have to pay out-of-state tuition.

They were using the word immigrant, but I told them "immigrant" has to do with going to a different country, not just the city. It was so fascinating to come across a situation where English just didn't have the words, not because it left it out, but because we hadn't needed a word like that.

So my shining teaching moment? I told them to make up their own English word for it. After all, Western countries didn't have that distinction, it seemed to be solely Vietnamese (or maybe communist?), so I told them they were perfectly in their rights to come up with a word for it. To their confused searching eyes, I told them we do it all the time. How else did we get so many nouns, verbs, adverbs, adjectives, etc.?

Here was a chance for my students to become interactive with a language so many struggled with, but few really understood. A dialect that is confusing because it is so different from their own cultural language. They not only have new vocabulary words, but they also have to enter a new way of thinking - changing word forms instead of just adding a word, using tenses, trying to understand this new concept of subjectivity and time constraints (in Vietnamese, when they say something, it's is very concrete, thereby making it complicated to explain all the qualifiers and nuances we use). It was a chance for them to own a piece of this international communication tool, an opportunity to say, "Oh, that word comes from Vietnamese."

What a crazy thing, language is.

A jumbo shrimp problem

Had to say goodbye to Christine, the first (and possibly only) purebred Vietnamese born in Germany. She speaks fluent German, French, and English. I only got to know her for a month, but I miss her already.

For her farewell dinner, we went to Quan Nuong (lit. translated as "grilled food place." I've slowly noted that the most popular local places have the most concise names.) There, we ate wonderful things like beef wrapped around onion and cheese, fish fillet, and my hands-down favorite, bacon-wrapped salmon and bell peppers. Simply throw on the grill and in a few minutes, enjoy heaven celebrating in your mouth.

Thinking of indulging in one more dish, the guest of honor ordered the shrimp. Cue forboding music. The plate came to us with raw shrimp stabbed right through their bodies with skewers. Imagine a bunch of foreign eyes bulge as we watch the shrimps' (oh yes, more than one) legs writhing about. Still alive. With skewers impaling them through their whole bodies. My stomach lurched, and in true Fear-Factor fashion, hid behind one of my many internal organs (it wouldn't tell me which one), curled into fetal position, and refused to bring its game on. My heart, on the other hand, wanted to pull an "Elliot" (the E.T. frog scene), take out the skewers and rush to the pollution-infested river and give them a fighting chance (before they asphixiated on the oil/trash/river-yumminess, etc.).

My vegetarian neighbor, an English expat named Jemma, shared my mix of disgust and sympathy. So, she did what she had to. With compassion rivaling John Steinbeck's "Of Mice and Men," she took a butter knife and started snapping their heads to save them from any pain they might feel from the grill. I could only keep handing them to her, knowing that I did not quite have the strength to kill them, but I could at least support her while she was doing it.

Maybe one day I will have that kind of courage, but for now, I'd much rather watch someone put a needle into my arm than put it into theirs. And, as a personal choice, I'd prefer my food to be dead before I attempt to put it in my mouth....