A long time coming...

It's funny, the things that confuse us.

Last Friday, for me, it was silverware.

I spent a long weekend in the Philippines, where I met up with a college friend and her traveling companion. We spent the whole time in Manila, which is, in my opinion, a completely skippable city; if you find yourself in the Philippines, do yourself a favor and get out of the capital as fast as you can. It was a slow weekend, partly because the city is pretty difficult to get around -- the taxi drivers had to stop and ask for directions on several occasions, even when we were traveling within the same section of the city; the traffic is atrocious -- and partly because my friends were laid low by foot-and-mouth disease. It was no fun for any of us.

But sitting in a restaurant, I did have an epiphany of sorts: I have been in Hong Kong long enough for the strange to become the familiar.

When we sat down for dinner, I spent about 45 seconds looking for the chopsticks. I spent another 20 staring at the fork and spoon beside my plate, wondering what I was supposed to do with them. I did a double-take when the waitress refilled my glass. These things never happen in Hong Kong. Actually, I was amazed that we didn't have to flag down the restaurant staff. I actually told my friends, "You never get this kind of service in Hong Kong." It's true: I usually feel like I'm fighting with the waiters...

I also had to remind myself every time we crossed the street that the cars were coming from the opposite direction. And that people don't speak Cantonese. (Not that I do, either. Not really.)

It's funny the things we get used to. It's not that I never use spoons and forks these days -- but I usually use them at home (or in the office, when I bring food or grab a quiche or a salad or something). Of course, there are forks in Hong Kong restaurants -- but usually not the kind that serve Chinese (or Thai or Vietnamese) food. When I eat in a restaurant that serves Asian food, I expect chopsticks. And seeing a fork on that table in Manila threw me for a loop.

Another thing drove home the fact that I've been in Hong Kong a long time: My work visa, which is good for a year, expired yesterday. I'm back in the country legally, but as a visitor.

But this time, I'm a visitor who has an inkling of how things work around here. And that's a good feeling to have.

A taste of home

Many, many times in the past year – more times than I can count – I have passed over a strong desire for a taco by ordering dumplings instead.

 

And yet, one year after I walked off the plane and into Hong Kong, I found myself at a bar in a Mexican place, chatting with my friend Rosa and sipping margaritas.

 

It was, somehow, the most appropriate place to celebrate my Hong Kong anniversary. For 364 days, I had steadfastly suppressed any and all cravings for Mexican food. There’s a good reason for this: I’ve eaten Mexican food in foreign places before, and it’s almost universally disappointing. I learned long ago to steer my parents to my favorite Mexican place the instant we left the airport. (I’ve also known exactly where I’m going and what I’m going to order the day I return to Dallas in May. I decided months ago.)

 

In addition to the killer Chinese food, which I have loved from Day One, Hong Kong has a lot of great ethnic food – and you can get pretty much everything here. There’s no shortage of Thai, Indian or Vietnamese places. I’ve found the best croque madames and steak-frites I’ve eaten outside France. But, taco snob that I am, I found disappointing what my co-workers raved about. (Seriously, how good can something be when it comes from a place called “Taco Loco”?)

 

But when a friend told me that the new Mexican restaurant in SoHo had great margaritas, curiosity got the best of me – and I found myself at the bar with Rosa.

 

And I have to admit: They were far, far better than I expected. The nachos, too, despite the use of Spanish chorizo. Surprisingly, the tacos weren’t that bad. I wasn’t disappointed. Actually, I was impressed – I didn’t see a Mexican in the place. (In fact, the kitchen was staffed entirely by Chinese. It’s a bit funny, since the Chinese restaurants in the States are staffed almost entirely by Mexicans.)

 

At the time, I couldn’t decide if I liked it because it was good or if I liked it because it had been a year since I’d eaten a decent taco. I’ve come to think that I liked it because it was good. Because when you’re living in a place that’s as different as it can possibly be from home, nothing is better than a taste of the familiar. Was it the taco of my dreams? No – it’s far from it. But did it scratch that itch for goodness wrapped in a tortilla? You betcha.  

 

And on March 7, 2010, if the restaurant and I are both still here, you’ll probably find me at the bar, sipping a margarita.