The shortcut

When I told the cab driver my destination, he shook his head and clucked a bit.

"Water main break in Wan Chai," he said. "Lots of traffic."

That explained the traffic jam outside my apartment -- on a street that maybe sees a dozen cars in a busy hour. The line of taxis was already stretching toward the hospital when I left for my yoga class at 9:15. When I came home two and a half hours later, the line was even longer.

I left for work an hour after that, and managed to flag down the clucking cabbie.

As we approached the main road, he pointed up the hill. "It will be faster, I think, to go up," he says.

I nod, having no interest in sitting in traffic. I've watched the cars crawl by for most of the morning. I just want to get where I'm going.

He zooms up the hill. Except for a couple of stoplights, we don't stop. Not until we get to Wan Chai, where the water main has broken. The traffic slows to a crawl.

"No worry," my driver says. "I know a shortcut. OK?"

Normally, when a cab driver says "I know a shortcut!" I worry that I'm being taken for a ride. Inevitably, such shortcuts add lots of time -- the meter clicking away all the while. But even the long way around can't be worse than what I can see ahead, so I wave him through. "Shortcut is OK," I say.

A short while later, we're on the highway zipping toward the office. When he pulls up in front of the building, the meter reads $72 -- only $5 more than it usually does when I take a taxi to the office. Considering the zoo we just passed, I see this as nothing short of a miracle.

I hand him $80 and move to get out of the car. It's far, far more than I usually add -- Hong Kong is not a city of tippers -- but if it weren't for his shortcuts, I'd still be sitting in traffic somewhere. "Mgoi!" I say. I wave off my change. "It's OK," I say. "You keep it."

"Is far too much for me!" he says. But I wave and slide out.

He is smiling as he drives away.

The best of Bali

My body has been back from my Bali yoga retreat for a week and a half now, but my spirit is still very much there, sitting on my terrace in a bathrobe, drinking the hotel’s special ginger tea and waiting for the woman from the spa to come get me for my afternoon treatment.

A week and a half later, my part of my mind refuses to believe that no one will gently ring a bell outside my door to wake me up; that the toughest decision of the day will not be which color tank top to wear with my black yoga pants; and that the loudest noise I’ll hear today will be neither the rooster next door nor the laughter of my retreat-mates. (Either of which would be a much-welcomed respite from the constant drilling outside my window.)

And so, to come to terms with the fact that, yes, my idyllic vacation is officially over, I offer you some highlights, which are also illustrated by this set of photos. (And this one, though these were taken by others.)

The hotel itself. It’s a magical place, designed and built by the second prince of Ubud. It’s a place of winding paths through lush gardens. Statues of gods and demons are everywhere – as are offerings of flowers, candles and burning incense sticks. It’s made even more striking by the staff’s attention to details. Everyone greets me by name. When I return to my room after the morning yoga class, the bed is made and the curtains open. After dinner, the curtains are closed and a candle burning. Someone always comes along to turn out the outside lights after I go to bed. There is always fruit available, along with coffee and the hotel’s special ginger tea. You never have to think about anything yourself. It’s impossible to hold onto your outside life, making it that much easier to relax.

Participating in a purification ritual at Tirta Empul, a sacred spring pool. During the day, the place is crowded with tourists, but at night, it was just a handful of locals, a few stray dogs and us. It didn’t matter that I had no idea what the priest was saying or that I had never before been to a Hindu ceremony. It was a soothing, welcoming place, and I left feeling better than I had when I arrived.

Spending a day in silence. Napping, journaling, painting a bit, but not communicating with anyone beyond a smile and a nod.

Doing sun salutations as the sun rises over Mt. Batur, an active volcano, then breaking the silence of the day before at a lively communal breakfast.

Feeling the wind in my face as I race downhill on a bicycle, trying to avoid the chickens and dogs that run across the road. Stopping for a tour of a traditional Balinese village or two, waving to children who ran to the roadside to greet us, and coming upon a town preparing for a mass cremation ceremony.

Wandering through the rice fields, then having lunch at a local organic restaurant. The meal started with fantastic grilled vegetables and baba ghanoush and ended with fried bananas drizzled with coconut sugar, but the true highlight for me was a ginger-mint drink. Light and cool and completely refreshing.

Drinking my first true Javanese coffee.

The best massage of my life: After two and a half hours and a whole liter of oil, sitting and staring at the rice fields while the masseuse washes my feet and legs with flowers. Need I say more?

Sitting around the dining room table during a blackout, drinking Black Russians and laughing so hard my cheeks hurt.

Doing my first unassisted shoulder stand.

Watching a traditional dance class in Ubud.

Writing down the things about my life that bother me on slips of paper, burning them, and sending them down the river with a handful of flowers.

And finally, a Hong Kong highlight: The afterglow. On my first day back in the office, a mere 24 hours after leaving Bali, a coworker looked at me, cocked his head, and said, “You’re glowing.”

I seem to get less caught up in the frantic pace of the city these days. Even in the midst of rush hour, with taxis honking and people yelling into their cellphones, I manage to find a stillness. That alone would have made the retreat worth it.

This is what I get

Why did I ever switch to a digital camera? I've spent most of the day toning and resizing photos from my recent trip to Bali, and, while I've had fun looking at the images, I've started to miss film a bit. I miss running to Wal-greens the instant I return from a vacation. I miss the thrill of opening the envelopes, waiting to see what turned out. Most of all, I miss letting someone else do the work. In an hour. Four hours later, I'm barely halfway through my Bali pictures.

Is it any wonder I still have pictures from China that I took last October sitting in iPhoto? Not to mention pictures from trips to Thailand, the Philippines and Vietnam. Maybe the problem isn't that I started using a digital camera. Maybe the problem is that I travel too damn much. If I stayed home more often, I certainly wouldn't have this problem!

But the upside to putting photos online: Flickr stats. I've developed something of an addiction this afternoon. I like seeing how many visitors I've gotten, what photos they've looked at (so far, the two most popular are one of a sunrise at Mt. Batur and one of a salad), what sites sent them to me.

I'd like to take a moment to thank the readers of hair-removal-cream-hairremovalcream.blogspot.com and usabestloans.com for leaving such riveting reading material to glance at my humble vacation photos.

I think.

I'll share actual photos in this spot soon. In the meantime, take a look at my Flickr stream to see them.

Crisis mode

It seems an earthquake off the coast of Japan has broken the Interwebs (or at least the wires I use to access them). My e-mail is down. Facebook is erratic. Google is achingly slow. The new episode of "True Blood" is inaccessible. They say this could last weeks.

However will I survive?

Plus, the elevator has decided to stop working. I live on the top floor, six flights up.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. I'm breaking out a good book and a glass of wine. I'll upload the Bali pictures another day.

Lesson learned

When the rain starts falling horizontally, I start looking for a taxi.

Not that I usually find one before I get to the bus stop, soaking wet. It’s like all the cabs in this town disappear as soon as it starts raining.

And if I have learned one thing in my year and a half in Hong Kong, it is that all bets are off when it comes to getting taxis in the rain. The cab belongs to the person who gets in first. Nice guys get wet.

The Australian woman who called me a fucking bitch tonight as I got into the cab outside the office obviously has yet to learn this lesson.

She left the building soon after I did. We stood several feet apart in the shelter of the highway overpass, umbrellas wobbling in the strong wind. Within minutes, I had managed to flag down a driver. And when he stopped, she stepped out from behind the pillar, obviously expecting she would be the one to get in.

But I got in first, and she started screaming at me. I slammed the door, shrugged at the driver, and gave him my address. She stood there fuming.

It doesn’t matter that, technically speaking, she was farther up the road. I was there first. I flagged him down as soon as I saw the “for hire” light. He stopped in front of me. It was my cab.

Get your own, bitch.

Letting the world in

After a rather blunt reminder that demon summer is on its way, Hong Kong has had a run of rather glorious weather. (Well, at least on the days I’m working. Naturally, it pours on my days off.) Last year at this time, I remember it already being uncomfortably sticky, though not yet blazing hot. But these days? They feel like November.

And so, to celebrate, I turned off the air conditioner and opened the windows wide.

The first few nights, it wasn’t bad. The air was deliciously cool. Perfect sleeping-with-the-windows-open weather.

I’m lucky in that my neighborhood is relatively quiet for Hong Kong. I live directly across from a school, which is dark long before I get home from work. There’s a hospital up the road, and, because of that, there are few apartment buildings on my street. (It’s considered very bad luck to live near a hospital.) There’s a park up the street where several rowdy Chinese teenagers like to play basketball, but they’re long gone by bedtime. Other than the occasional car or delivery truck, there’s very little noise outside.

At least, there’s very little noise outside until I decide to leave the windows open.

The building is surrounded by a pack of feral cats. There are at least nine that I recognize. Normally, I don’t mind them. But three nights ago, a couple get into a roaring fight sometime around 4 a.m. I’m a hard sleeper. Once I’m out, I’m out. I once slept through an earthquake.

These cats woke me up.

After what felt like an hour, I thought about closing the windows, hoping that would cut down on the noise. But that required getting out of bed and stumbling around the apartment, something I’m not generally willing to do before 10 a.m. Instead, I fumbled around for my iPod and shoved the headphones in my ears. Back to sleep I went.

My mom would probably say that the cats sounded better than the music.

The next night, while brushing my teeth, I think about closing the windows and turning on the air conditioning. But it’s cool outside, so I leave them open.

Again, sometime in the wee small hours of the morning, I’m yanked out of sleep by some (presumably drunk) man yelling at a taxi driver on the street in a strange mixture of French and Chinese. This goes on for several minutes. By the time the elevator starts creaking, I’ve brought out the trusty iPod and drifted back to sleep.

Last night, I left nothing to chance. I left the windows open, but I fell asleep with the iPod.

There were no strange noises, but I woke up this morning to discover that Hong Kong mosquitoes find me extra tasty. I am covered in bites. (There were 25 at last count, including one between two toes. How does this happen?)

Hong Kong windows do not have screens, and I don’t live up high enough to escape the bugs. Every once in a while, something will find its way into my apartment – I once woke up to find a bee the size of a small car trying to escape by flying over and over into the unopened windows – but the mosquitoes have pretty much stayed away.

This is what I get for letting the world in? Tonight, I’m closing the freakin’ windows.

On boredom and buses and a mild obsession with Molly Wizenberg

A friend recently called me out for not writing enough on this blog. A slacker, she called me. (It was meant lovingly, I know, dear.)

Well, that friend was right. I am slacking off. Considerably.

But I'm not lazy. Not really.

I'm afraid.

I'm afraid of being boring. Despite my love of food blogs, I do not particularly want to read about what someone had for breakfast this morning. People don't come here for recipes, so I assume that my readers – all five of you – don’t really want to know what I ate this morning, either. (Besides, all of you should know me well enough to know that I’m not really a breakfast person. In all likelihood, I turned off my alarm and overslept and rushed to leave the apartment at 12:40 to make it to the office on time and somewhat put together.) And so, instead of writing something boring, I write nothing at all. It's easier that way.

I'm afraid of being boring.

My life is out there for all the world to see. And I want people who come to this blog -- whether they're loved ones who come here on purpose to check up on me or people who stumble here accidentally -- to like what they read. I want them to be entertained. And, because it's my name up there in lights, I'm the entertainment -- if not with my day-to-day life, then certainly with my perspective of Hong Kong. After all, it's a wildly exotic place for some girl named Anna.

Isn't it?

I’ve spent more than a year waiting for culture shock to hit me in the back of a head with a 2x4, but it hasn’t happened. I expected Hong Kong to be wildly different from anything I’d seen before. In some ways, it is, but mostly, the patterns of my daily life are largely the same in Hong Kong as they were in the U.S. My work is the same. The people are different, but the ones who have a major role in my life here are, for the most part, American. Every once in a while, I’ll see something strange and snap a picture, thinking I’ll maybe write something on it later. But most days, the only sign I live in Asia is the presence of a lot of Chinese people.

Hong Kong is funny like that. The best description of this city I’ve ever heard is “The world’s largest Chinatown.” It looks like China and sounds like China and feels like China – in the right neighborhoods – but it’s not China. China is easy to find here, but it’s just as easy to get away from. My daily life mostly happens in those non-China-like areas. And I've been happy with that, content with the pattern and the routine and ease of using English.

Because of that, I haven’t really made much of an effort to get to know the other Hong Kong. I haven’t even made a serious effort with the language. I’m a creature of habit and routine. Why learn more than basic Cantonese when English works just fine? Why would I want to wander around some other neighborhood when I know mine so well?

I know. Slacker.

Excluding trips to the airport, I can’t remember the last time I made it off Hong Kong Island. And that’s a shame. Hong Kong is a vibrant, exotic city, and I should make more of an effort to get to know it.

I was thinking about that on the bus tonight. I know the route well; I take it home from work every single night. But there’s more than one bus that runs that way. There’s also a minibus. I have yet to ride a minibus here. (See? Slacking again. Mostly, I’m afraid I’ll die in one. But if I live, what a great tale I’ll have for the blog!)

Mostly, I was thinking about Orangette. I’ve been reading the archives lately and loving them. They’re fun because of the subject matter (which often centers on what Molly ate for breakfast. Or dinner. But, since hers is a food blog, I feel like she can get away with that…). But going through the archives this way is even more fun because, after reading several months’ worth of entries, I’m seeing Molly discover her voice and begin to develop as a writer. (A very, very lovely writer she is, too.) I thought about Orangette’s evolution as the bus began to chug up the hill toward Midlevels, and I began to wonder if someday, far, far into the future, some half-crazed fan of mine would be trolling the archives of this blog, noticing the same thing. (If I say hello here to that half-crazed future fan, does that mean I’ve been watching too much “LOST”?)

Of course, for that to happen, this blog needs some, shall we say, um, more substantial archives. And there’s a whole city out there, just waiting to be turned into blog posts.

I’ll try to get on that.

Maybe I should start by taking a minibus.

An ode to Orangette

Lately, I've been reading the archives of one of my favorite blogs, Orangette. I discovered the delightful Molly Wizenberg a couple of years ago, through my dear friend Helen, who had read about Molly's blog (and her then-upcoming column in Bon Appétit) in her kindergarten-class newsletter. (Does your kindergarten class have a newsletter? Mine does not. I have no trouble imagining Mrs. Dobbs lovingly compiling one, however. Once, when home on a break from college, I ran into her in the grocery store. She recognized me instantly. I had no idea who she was.)

Well, it's only lately one of my favorite blogs. Shortly after Helen sent me the link, I bookmarked it (I was on deadline, after all), then proceeded to mostly ignore it, pulling it up only once in a while and reading only the latest entry. I'm not sure what sent me back to Orangette, but I'm thankful for whatever it was. I'm now reading her blog from the beginning, since her new book is not yet available in Hong Kong and I'm not in the States for another month. Visiting a bookstore to buy my very own copy of Molly's book is, oh, No. 3 on "Things to do if I make it through customs," after "Savoring a chile relleno and a margarita at Matt's" and "Going to a store that carries MORE THAN THREE SHOES in my size!" (And that's three actual shoes, not three pairs of them. No guarantee that any of the three will have a mate, either.)

But I digress.

Orangette is mostly a food blog, and many of her current posts involve sharing recipes and stories about them. But it wasn't always so. There's lots of food back in the 2004 posts, like this one that involves roast lamb and a recipe for "evil flan" (that I really, really must try!) but there are occasional gems like this one, with vignettes from her weekend "in reverse chronological order" that have very little to do with food. If only my weekends were as interesting... (Of course, they're really only one day long, and that cuts into the fun.)

I just love Molly's writing. It inspires me to do a bit myself. All good writing inspires me to write. What else should I be reading?

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.

Vietnam, A to Z

I got back from a trip to Vietnam with my friend Liz and her grandmother Karen a couple of weeks ago. I'd planned to do this post with photos, but I've been a bit slow on toning them. (Surprise, surprise. Some are on my Flickr site, though.) I'll add pictures to this post sooner or later, but, in the meantime, I'd like to share some highlights of my trip.

I'm using the same format I used for my trip to Taiwan several months ago. It takes the pressure off – You get the highlights relatively soon after the trip, and I'm not worried I'm boring you with all the details.

So, here we go: Vietnam, A to Z

A is for áo dài, the traditional Vietnamese dress. (It's said kind of like ow-yai, at least in the north.) We saw lots of women wearing them, though few were walking down a Hanoi street.

Mostly, we saw them in one context: it's the uniform for Vietnamese schoolgirls. They're white – shockingly, so. They do an amazing job keeping them clean (especially since, one of our guides told us, the boys do what they can to mess up the girls' clothes…) It's a nice change from the school uniforms in the U.S. (khaki or black or navy pants; school-color polo, etc.). It's also quite fun to see flocks of girls riding their bikes to or from school – and just as fun trying to snap a photo of them from a moving vehicle on the same road.

B is for bread. Really tasty bread. In fact, it's the first decent bread I've had since I moved to Asia. It's got a thin, crackly crust – like the best baguettes I ate in France – but it's also lighter. The secret (as I understand it) is a combination of rice and soft wheat flours. Another bonus: It's still soft the next day! We bought a loaf on the way to Halong Bay, and then left it in the car. We gave it up as lost, thinking it would be as hard as a rock when we got back to it the next afternoon. It wasn't!

C is for coffee. Really tasty coffee. In fact, it's the first decent coffee I've had since I moved to Asia. It's strong, good hot or iced, and brewed perfectly at a street stall. The most popular way to drink it: iced, with a dollop of condensed milk. Perfection in a glass.

D is for durian ice cream, which Liz ordered at the Rex in Ho Chi Minh City. I had hoped it wouldn't have that awful smell durian has, but it did. And it tasted like rotten onions. (But Liz ate it all!)

E is for embroidery. Liz bought a giant one that the woman at the shop said took about five months to complete.

F is for funeral rites. It's complicated, but part of it involves burning paper things that the dead will need in the next life. This includes things like money and food, but also things like bicycles and cellphones. Karen, amazed by this, had to buy a paper cellphone to take home. (She really wanted a paper BlackBerry, but they were sold out.)

G is for a glass of frog-egg tea, consumed at an organic garden in Hoi An. (Our cooking school guide, Susu, explained: "In Vietnam, we eat everything.") Actually, the "tea" – a mixture of frog eggs, ginger, mint, sugar and water – was quite refreshing. And it only reminded me a bit of seventh-grade biology.

H is the letter of the trip! It stands for Hanoi, Halong Bay, Hoi An, Huế and Ho Chi Minh City, the places we visited. In 10 days.

I is for iPhone, which Liz was never without. Also, when our cooking school instructor saw it, he told Liz he'd cook for her for life if she'd buy him one. She thought it'd be a pretty good deal… It's also really, really making me want an iPhone.

J is for … just go on to the next letter for now. (Maybe I'll fill this in later.)

K is for kayaking, which I did for the first time in Halong Bay. (I even got to steer!)

L is for Lan, the worst tour guide ever. We knew things were going to be bad when we arrived at the Danang Airport at 9:30, hot and exhausted, and Lan was far too cheerful. The woman was useless! And we all wanted to strangle her at one time or another. She has two insanely infuriating tendencies: rushing us through things and disappearing. Our visit to a museum of Champa sculptures was one of the fastest museum trips I've ever taken: It wasn't a big museum, but we were in and out of there in 20 minutes. And I lost count of how many times one of us would look up from taking a picture or studying something to say to the others, "Where's Lan?" Never have I been so glad to see someone go.

M is for motorcycles, the transport of choice for most people in Vietnam. (When we arrived, Zum, our guide, said: "Welcome to Hanoi: a city of six million people, and three million motorcycles!) And people load them down with everything…

N is for Naruhito, Crown Prince of Japan, whom we saw at the Tu Duc Tomb in Hue after two days of missing him at various places. We also saw his motorcade in the Mekong Delta. (The man was stalking us!) It was my first (and probably only) brush with royalty.

O is for the Old Quarter of Hanoi, through which we took a cyclo ride. At rush hour. I'm still amazed that we shared the road with as many cars and bikes and motorcycles as we did without getting so much as a bump.

P is for pagodas, of which we saw many. (We often said, only half joking, that we were pagodaed out.) The best one by far was Thien Mu pagoda in Hue, where we saw a Buddhist prayer service.

Q is for the quest for the ultimate pho. It's a noodle soup that's pretty much the national dish of Vietnam (it's even on the stamps!), and every place makes it a bit differently. It's hard to beat a good bowl of noodle soup, but I love pho for the things you add in it: pickled garlic and onions, crispy shallot, fresh cilantro and squirts of lime juice. It's heaven in a bowl…

We even learned how to make it ourselves at a cooking class in Hoi An – from broth to noodles. It was delicious, but I think I'll leave it to the experts.

R is for rice fields. The country grows a lot of rice.

S is for the shape of Vietnam: an S! (It's also said to be the shape of a dragon). Zum told us there was a reason the country is shaped like an S: to remind everyone that Vietnam is small, but strong.

T is for tailors. They can make almost anything in 24 hours. I got a dress made in Hoi An that I'm planning to wear to a wedding later this year.

U is for Unesco World Heritage Site. I think "Unesco World Heritage" is Lan's favorite phrase. Granted, a lot of things in the center are Unesco sites (and six of the seven in Vietnam are in the center; the other is Halong Bay), but we didn't need to be reminded of this, oh, every five minutes…

V is for Valentine's Day, which we spent in Ho Chi Minh City. It's a big deal in Vietnam, and that totally took us by surprise. We wanted to have a great last night in Vietnam, but, because we didn't have a reservation, we were turned away from three restaurants. The motorbikes carried young couples, with many of the women holding onto bouquets of flowers. We wanted to end the trip with a drink on the rooftop of the Rex Hotel (it had been closed the night before), but even the hotel was in full-on Valentine's mode. We skipped the roof, for which you needed a ticket, and went to the lounge on the first floor instead. It was packed, mostly with Vietnamese, and featured what Liz called "the Asian version of Barry Manilow." He sang things like "Endless Love" and "Unchained Melody" and "My Valentine." It's enough to make you want to vomit. (Hey! Another "V" word!) We laughed so hard that we cried.

W is for water puppets, which we saw in Hanoi. The farmers from the Red Delta area invented it in the tenth century as a form of entertainment, and it's a lot of fun. The puppeteers stand behind a screen and control the puppets using long bamboo rods, while a traditional Vietnamese band provides background music and sings out the stories being acted out.

I got a kick out of the dragon puppets, which spit fire and water, and the goofy water buffalo.

But the highlight of the show for me: when the hunter cut off the tiger's head.

X is for "Xin chào!" Repeat after me: "Sin chow." Now you know how to say hello in Vietnamese!

Y is for yin-yang. Because there's an S at the center, it's considered another symbol of Vietnam. We saw it on a drum at the Ngo Mon Gate, the main entrance to the Citadel in Hue.

Z is for Zum, the best guide in the history of the universe! I am not making this up. If you're ever in Northern Vietnam and in need of a tour guide, let me know. I'll send you his info.

That's it! Well, that's not it. It's barely the highlights. There's so much more I could say, but I'll end with this: 10 days was not nearly long enough. I know there's more to see and do.

But honestly, I'd go back just for the coffee.

Environmental evils

The Keep Hong Kong Green! campaign totally cracks me up, considering how insanely polluted the place is, but things are getting out of hand, people.

In the grocery store the other day, I heard the following announcement: "Please do your part to protect the environment, and don't use a plastic bag!" To encourage shoppers not to use plastic bags, it has set up special lanes for people who don't need them, which is cool. Of course, there's like, two people in line for those lanes and 22 in line for bag-dispensing lanes. (Another store offers a refund of 10 cents if you bring your own bag. That's slightly more than a penny U.S., but I guess it adds up. I mean, if I remember to take my own bags 69 times, it's bus fare home from the office...)

It's not an unusual announcement these days -- encouraging the use of reuseable bags is all the rage -- but it's ridiculous in CitySuper, the grocery store I was in, because everything they sell is imported. Hong Kong imports most of its food; there's not enough land to farm here. But there's also a pretty big expat community, and us expats hanker for a taste of home now and then. To get it (or as close as we can get to it), we head for stores like CitySuper, which stock almost everything imaginable -- I've taken home good French cheeses, non-Hershey's cocoa powder, my favorite brand of French yogurt, and even the occasional bag of masa and a can of tomatillos. (And although they sell peanut butter, there are no Reese's peanut butter cups in sight.) It's expensive, but sometimes, it's worth it.

And it's totally bad for the environment. Every customer taking home their purchases in reuseable bags is not going to offset the damage done if the store continues to fly in brie from three different continents.

Everyone's an editor

Seen in a bathroom stall at the Ho Chi Minh City Airport:


I saw this in not one but two different bathrooms. (I thought about looking in the other stalls, but I ran out of time.) The Japanese editing, in particular, makes me smile. I wish I knew what it said...

I admit it...

...I suck at the blogging thing.

But my life really isn't that interesting!

I guess I should have thought of that before I started the blog.

From my home to yours

Best wishes in this holiday season. Nothing says it better than skyscrapers.

Do your part!

The building management has kindly posted a giant sign next to the elevator in my apartment building. Its purpose: Help residents prevent fire and theft (which, according to the sign, are more common during the holidays and through to Lunar New Year).

Most of the tips listed make total sense: Close your windows; lock your doors; don't leave candles burning.

One, however, leaves me quite puzzled:




Surely, bad music sung badly would keep the burglars away.

My sister is in town (check out her account of her trip), and we're headed to Thailand in a few hours. So I'm going to use that as my excuse not to blog for the next week.

Because I've been so good at the blogging thing up to now...

A friendly reminder

So, things have been a bit crazy since I got back from the Mainland last Friday. A better blogger than I would have told you all about it by now, but you're stuck with me: the girl who has barely unzipped her suitcase. What, you expected photos, already? Puh-leaze.

I'm a bit occupied at the moment fighting off a plague of ants.

The one thing I did get accomplished this week: I voted. I didn't fashion a voting booth in my shower using a pirate flag like somebody I know, but I did sit at my kitchen table and fill in (most) of the bubbles. And then I took my ballot to the nearest FedEx office, since they're mailing absentee ballots of overseas voters for free.

The friendly reminder of the title: Go vote. If I (and several other Americans I know) can do it from halfway around the world, you can do it from there.

Even if FedEx isn't around to send in your ballot for you.

*************
Also, if two-plus years of campaigning haven't gotten you in the election spirit, this will. I'm looking forward to seeing what the next 6 days bring.

Like greased lightnin'

Tonight, I timed the Ikea men who delivered and assembled my furniture. (Yes, in Hong Kong you can pay Ikea to assemble the furniture. It was, perhaps, the best $43 I've spent in a long, long time.)

They began at 10:24 p.m. At 10:34, one man had assembled the bookcase, save for putting in the shelves, and another had put together a chair. At 10:40, the bookshelf and another chair were finished. At 10:47, the final chair. At 10:49, the table was done. At which point Ikea guy No. 3 throws up his hands, smiles, and says "Finished!"

Five pieces of furniture in 25 minutes.

Had I just had everything delivered, I would have been struggling with the box 25 minutes after I started. It would have taken me two days to put everything together.

(Actually, had I been doing it myself, I would have been yelling and cursing after 45 minutes, crying after 55 minutes, and abandoning the mess and going to the bar after 60 minutes. Then, I would have waited for my dad to come put everything together for me. Good thing he's flying in tomorrow.)

In Dallas, I did put a similar, much larger, table together by myself. I started cursing at the 60-minute mark and crying at the 90-minute mark -- when I saw that the instructions I had been following ever so diligently by myself now pictured TWO people. Eventually, I got it together. But it was a struggle. After which I swore to never buy anything from Ikea again.

But Dallas doesn't offer delivery and assembly.

God, I love Hong Kong.

Taipei, A to Z

After a two-week delay, I’m finally bringing you an update on my short trip to Taiwan. I’m borrowing this format from a dear friend. I like that it’s short and simple. Besides, who doesn’t love the alphabet?

(By the way, more photos can be found at my Flickr set.)

So here we go:

A: Asparagus juice!

B: Bubble tea. I haven’t had any since my internship in New York, and, since the stuff was developed in Taiwan, I felt this was a good time to drink it again. It had milk in it along with the tapioca pearls; I’m probably getting a kidney stone as we speak.

C: Chopstick skills. Emily, my traveling companion, and I learned how to cut noodles using our chopsticks. It started at the Peking Duck place; we got soup, and the woman serving it used her chopsticks to cut the noodles. Emily and I decided on the spot that we, too, needed such a skill and promptly started practicing. (It took a bit. The waitress, seeing our troubles refilling our soup bowls, hurried over to help us several times. But in the end, we conquered the noodles.)

D: Danshui. It’s the stop at the end of Taipei’s MRT line. We wandered along the riverside boardwalk, watched Chinese flamenco dancers and saw pigs in the street.










E: Eating. I think it’s the national pastime of Taiwan; I don’t think we ate anything we didn’t like. We barely made a dent in the duck, though.

F: Face masks! The hotel gave them to us when we checked in. Emily models one.

Lovely, isn't she?

G: Giant mammoth. As we were wandering through Chaing Kai-shek Memorial Hall, we heard a bunch of people laughing. They were dragging along a mammoth balloon.

Emily had fun with him.

He was a bit deflated, though.

H: HEAT! We saw one sign with 37 degrees Celsius. That’s a cool 98 Fahrenheit. Fine when you’re inside; not so when you’re wandering around the city.


I: Ice Monster, which is where we ate giant plates of shaved ice. It’s like a sno-cone on steroids: shaved ice topped with mango, condensed milk, and some syrupy stuff. But it’s perfect for those brutally hot days -- I really did feel cooler after eating it.

Now, why don’t they have this in Hong Kong?

J: Jade in unusual shapes, seen at the National Palace Museum. Among them: cabbage and a slab of meat. (I told you eating was the national pastime, right?)

K: Kindness. Everyone we met was so warm and friendly. The loveliest person was perhaps Grace, an English0speaking guide at Sun Yat-Sen Memorial Hall. She came up to us after the changing of the guard ceremony and asked if she could explain Taiwan’s history. Then, when it was over, she gave us gifts. Again, why don’t they have this in Hong Kong?

L: Lin, the crazy cab driver. Who taught us the following:

“Taiwan tea, No. 1
Taiwan Beer, No. 2
Taiwan dumpling, No. 3.”

Chinese tea - “not too good, not too bad, so-so.” Or, in Mandarin, “mamahuhu.” (I googled it; it means “horse-horse-tiger-tiger.” But I don’t see how that translates to “so-so.” )

He also had some rather interesting things to say about Americans and Japanese. I’m glad to be the former, at least during that cab ride.

M: Motorcycles. Everyone rides them. At intersections, they all congregate at the front of the line during red lights, so it looks like a city of dueling biker gangs.


N: Night Markets. We started at Shilin, the most famous one. It was lively when we got there, then, a few minutes later, the merchants started hiding their stuff. The street went from packed to empty in three minutes. A few stalls away, a police officer was writing a woman a ticket. We asked someone about this a bit later, and she said it happens several times a night. The police station is just around the corner.

O: Oolong tea. It’s particularly famous, though not my favorite. We had it once: at a shop owned by a friend of Lin, the vivacious cabdriver. He took us there. After all, “Taiwan tea No. 1!” We paid way too much, but it was a good story to start the trip.

P: Pepper pork buns. Perhaps the best thing I ate in Taiwan. I saw the long line at the Shilin Night Market.

Q: Question: What service vehicle sings in Taiwan? Garbage trucks. We first heard them coming up from the MRT station. Our immediate thought: ice cream! Boy, were we surprised.

R: Red bean dumplings. Yum.

S: Space. There’s a lot of it. Or perhaps it just feels that way, coming from Hong Kong. One of the first things we noticed on the ride into the city from the airport was how short the buildings were. And how much sky was visible.

Even the MRT stations had high ceilings and a lot of room!

T: Temples. Taipei has some lovely ones! The colors are always so bright, the deities so full of character. We walked through one of the largest, Longshan, at night. It was filled with people lighting incense and praying. Outside, a “cleansing waterfall.”

U: Unesco family day. Which got us into a fort in Danshui for free.

V: Very long lines. They mean good food. They led us to pepper pork buns, after all. And there was a long, long line at Din Tai Fung. Both were totally worth the wait.

W: World’s tallest building (for now), Taipei 101.


Among its cool features, the world’s fastest elevator (85 floors in 35 seconds. It takes a minute to get to the top floor in my apartment building: the 6th.); the “super big wind damper,” which stabilizes the building during typhoons and earthquakes...

... some cool mascots known as the damper babies...

... and the coolest mailboxes I’ve ever seen (you can also add your own “postmark” with Taipei 101 rubber stamps...).

Also, some kick-ass views of Taipei.

X: Xaiolongbao, or “soup dumplings.” Eaten at Din Tai Fung, perhaps the most popular tourist destination in Taipei.

They were so good, we went there twice.

Y: I’m skipping Y, dammit. I’ve done all the hard letters until now!

Z: Z’s. We may not have gotten enough, but we were back at the hotel and thinking about sleep about the time one of us would have been on deadline. The hazards of packing in so much in so short a time…

Umbrella angst

Today, I hate Hong Kong. Well, maybe not hate. But I spent a good chunk of the day seriously questioning my love for this town (after talking it up to someone in the States). The complaints I have aren’t major things – other than the lack of decent Mexican food. But, these little annoyances have added up over the last eight months, and, today, when FIVE locksmiths refused to make a copy of my apartment key -- including one who made a copy of said key not two months ago (with whom I promptly lost my temper; I kind of feel bad about it now) -- I decided that I had had enough.

Today, I hate Hong Kong.

The rain pushed it over the edge.

This city is absolutely unbearable when it rains. Even if, like today, it isn’t raining very hard. There’s one reason, and one reason only: No one in this city knows how to use an umbrella. They simply weave all over the sidewalk, never really looking at the people around them (particularly this tall white girl who is pretty sure that she will one day get her eye poked out by the edge of an old lady’s umbrella). And, when meeting people coming from the opposite direction, no one tilts their umbrella to either side or moves it up or down. They just barrel through and expect everyone else to get out of the way.

And it doesn’t stop on the sidewalk. Oh, no. Some people (particularly little old ladies) carry this nonsense inside. More than once, I have watched people who have been under cover and completely removed from the rain for several minutes keep their umbrellas up. The chances of this happening increase exponentially the narrower and more crowded the walkway gets or if flights of stairs are involved.

It’s surprising, really, considering how often it rains here. I would have expected there to be some sophisticated, unspoken umbrella etiquette. But no such luck.

There are some other things I don’t understand. Like why escalators are so confusing. Or why people have to rush to get on the MTR before people can leave it.

Soon, I’ll go right back to loving the city again. But I think I’ll just stay inside until it stops raining.