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.

Stars and sand

It was one Friday night where I was seriously looking forward to going home and crawling into bed with a book. I’d just finished a six-day week, and I’d gone straight to the office from the airport after a very fun, very exhausting three-day weekend. (More on that trip soon; I’m still toning photos.) Then a coworker announces that she’s heading to Shek O to meet friends and eat Thai food. Did any of us want to join?

I decided to go, and I’m so glad I did. Minus the long cab ride over dark, deserted, winding roads, it was far more relaxing than lying in bed with a book.

After a late meal of great Thai food, the five of us migrated to a bar by the beach. It was the perfect place for sitting outside, nursing a beer and talking. It’s the first place I’ve been in Hong Kong where I can really smell the ocean. (Well, I can smell it in TST, too, but it doesn’t smell like that. In Shek O, it smells like it’s supposed to!)

It was easy to forget we were in Hong Kong. It really felt like we were on an island in the Caribbean somewhere – as far as one could possibly get from skyscrapers and bright lights and noise and crowds.

I think I could even see stars.

The great milk incident

Feeling the need for a latté (as I do once in a while), I wandered into a well-known coffee chain earlier this week.

A question pops into my head before I order. I ask the boy working the counter: “Where does your milk come from?”

He pulls a carton from the fridge and shows it to me. It’s an Australian brand, he says, and it comes from Indonesia. I ask how long they’ve been using it.

“Oh, six months. More than six months.” He lowers his voice. “Since long before the incident.”

“The incident,” of course, is the ever-widening scandal of tainted milk. At least four children have died; tens of thousands more have severe kidney problems. (It’s not limited to humans, either: Baby animals in a Shanghai zoo have kidney stones, too, after being fed with milk powder for more than a year.) Chinese dairy products have been pulled from store shelves here in Hong Kong. Melamine-tainted products have turned up in an increasing number of Chinese-made exports —yogurt, ice cream, candy, rice balls, koala-shaped cookies, potato-wasabi crackers.

There have been many, many food scares in China over the years. And, even though the government is promising better regulation, I’m sure this won’t be the last one. I’ve always been a bit wary of food from Mainland China, and it’s easy to avoid here. Though most of the food is imported, not all of it comes from China. Even the produce vendors in the street sell California strawberries and Florida oranges and French zucchini.

But very soon, I’m going to the Mainland for two weeks. As much as I’m looking forward to – even excited about -- the food there, I’m worried, too.

It’s easy to avoid thinking about milk laced with plastic and cookies tainted with lead, but it’s harder to push aside thoughts of and vegetables grown in polluted earth, fish from toxic waters, and pork pumped full of steroids. It’s enough to make one lose one’s appetite.

At least I don't have to worry about my occasional lattés.

Chinese lessons

Sometimes I think I should have stuck with Cantonese class at the office.

Yesterday, for instance. Running late for work, I flag down a cab. (I do this regularly, even though I try to take the bus as often as I can.) I told the driver where I wanted to go, in Cantonese.

I was not trying to be funny -- it's a basic address, after all -- but whatever I said made the guy double over with laughter. I think he was wiping tears away from his eyes as he set the meter and drove away from the curb. I'm sure he's at home now, telling his wife, "You aren't going to believe what this gweilo chick said to me today!"

It took me more than a week to feel brave enough to say my destination in Cantonese. In the relative privacy of my apartment, I've been saying the address out loud over and over while I do housework. I'm not sure it's working.

Usually, my exchanges with cab drivers go as follows: I get in a cab and tell the driver my address in Cantonese; a puzzled look comes over his face. I say it again. He sits there. Finally, I pull out the card with my address on it, if I have one. "Ooooh!" he says, finally understanding. He says it like he's trying to correct me for next time. It sounds exactly like what I just said. Then I hang on for dear life as the driver shoots away from the curb.

It's among the most frustrating things about living here. (I'll relate the two most frustrating things in a later post.) It's not that I'm bad with languages. I try to learn at least a few words of the language to the place I'm traveling. I speak French and had no trouble picking up Spanish and bits of Portuguese. I can say basic things like "hello" and "thank you" and "where is the bathroom" in German, Czech, Italian and Japanese. But none of those languages are tonal. Cantonese has six tones.

I have learned a few things. I know the two types of "thank you" and "hello" and "good bye." If I get stuck at a restaurant with only Chinese menus, I can order one thing: "Sichuan noodles." (The only three characters I recognize.)

But spoken Cantonese? It's eluding me.

At least I'm entertaining the occasional cab driver.

Incoming!

Typhoon Nuri is on the way. It's getting exciting, y'all.

From the Hong Kong Observatory:

"The No. 8 Northwest Gale or Storm Signal is in force.

This means that winds with mean speeds of 63 kilometers per hour or more are expected from the northwest quarter.

At 1 p.m., Typhoon Nuri was centred about 60 kilometers east-southeast of Hong Kong Observatory (near 22.0 degrees north 114.7 degrees east) and is forecast to move northwest at about 14 kilometers per hour in the general direction of Hong Kong.

Gales are already affecting many places in the territory. Local winds are expected to increase further."

This is the second time I've been in town when they've raised the T8 warning, which means the whole city pretty much shuts down. Buses stop running, taxis are scarce, and most offices close. By law, you can't be forced to go to work (though I did last time, anyway, as did most of my coworkers).

It's pretty windy in my part of town, but there's not much rain. It is, however, expected to get much worse. Usually, Hong Kong gets nicked by the outside of the storm. But this one is supposed to hit the city directly -- which last happened in 1999, I understand.

We're supposed to be able to work from home, but the system doesn't like Macs. (Reason No. 5,432 to get one.) So I've been told to think of today as a snow day. I'll bunker down and catch up on "30 Rock." (Why was I not watching this before?) And maybe do some cleaning.

They've just raised it to T9. Definitely getting interesting.

Channel surfing

I don’t understand the Olympics television broadcasts.

A friend called this afternoon. “We’re going to watch the men’s basketball game between Spain and the U.S.,” she says. “Meet us at 9:30 so we can get a table. Game starts at 10:30.”

When I get there a bit before 10, the bar is packed. People are milling about outside, eying tables. Rosi and MinJung are at a table, but it’s practically on the sidewalk. The air conditioner is leaking onto the back of Rosi’s chair. The men’s tennis doubles final is on.

People start getting antsy around 10:35. Tennis has been replaced by badminton. The match is just starting: China vs. Indonesia.

The bar manager begins to flip through the channels. Tennis again. The news. A Yankees/Royals game. Rhythmic gymnastics. Cricket. Rugby. Olympic soccer. More cricket. Badminton again.

No basketball. People are not happy.

One guy walks up to the manager. “We reserved a table specifically for the basketball game, and if you aren’t going to show it, we’re going to leave. We aren’t sitting around watching badminton all night.”

An American man pulls the waitress aside and asks her to turn on the basketball game. When she says she can’t, that it’s not on, he points to the TV. “Can you change it then?” he asks. “I’ll watch tennis. I’ll watch cricket. Anything but fucking badminton.”

I’m thinking the same thing. So is Rosi. It’s 10:50.

“A few more minutes,” she says, pointing to the scoreboard in the corner of the screen. “They must play to 21. They’re at 20 now.

“If it’s not over by 11, we’ll leave.”

The badminton protests have been heard. The channel changes again. Tennis. Match point.

Roger Federer’s celebrations are cut short, and basketball finally appears . . . just in time for the second half.

A realization

Something occurred to me this week: I live in Hong Kong.

I live here:


This has taken four months to sink in, and I mostly have Katie to thank for it.

Katie and I went to college together. In fact, because she lived down the hall from me during my freshman year, she was one of the first people I met in college. And since she had never been to Hong Kong before, it was a great excuse to run out and do many of the touristy things I haven’t really done.

I like living here, but I didn’t really see the city for what it is. For me, discovering Hong Kong has been about less about eating noodles and riding the ferry across the harbor and more about finding a place to live and learning how the buses work and picking up some Cantonese and finding the grocery store and generally figuring out how to live in a new city. I left Hong Kong Island only once during the first month and a half that I lived here (and only because I had to go to Macau to get my visa activated). I carried my camera around, but I rarely took it out of the case. Until this week.

This week, Katie and I were tourists. And I finally began to see just how cool this city really is.

Check it out for yourself:

An ode to salad

As seen on the wall of a cafe in Hamamatsu, Japan:

It eats in the meat borrowing and hopeless.
The vegetables, too,
eat and let’s do the good balance having a meal.
You of the living alone.
You who don’t eat vegetables at the house.
It is slightly in luxury as much as the time
of the eating-out and salad how.
Because the person who doesn’t have money has S size, too.

Granted, I haven't spent much time in Japan, but the English translations I've seen have been pretty much spot-on in the wording, if not the punctuation (lots of things are turned into possessives, whether necessary or not).

So I can't quite figure this one out...

What? Don't believe me?


The ode to appetizers is slightly funnier, but I like the line about "You who don't eat vegetables at the house."

Mmmm, mmmm good!

Hong Kong is full of new experiences. Like, for instance, paying utility bills.

The place I rented in Dallas came with utilities included, so, though I was more than likely paying more than the average apartment dweller, I had to write only one check every month. I liked it – especially because I tend to toss my mail in various places and not open it for weeks. One day, I’ll probably come home to find my power turned off because my electric bill is buried under a stack of Real Simples from 2004.

So, tonight, I sit down at the computer, electric and gas bills in hand. I open the envelope for my gas bill, and out comes . . . a leaflet on “Flame-boiled Healthy Soups” Inside, two recipes: Wood Fungus Lean Pork Soup and Glabrous Greenbrier Soup.

I have no idea where they’re going with this. Nothing screams “It’s a zillion degrees outside!” less than flame-boiled soup. But they have their reasons…

Wood Fungus Lean Pork Soup, the leaflet says, “is good for preventing thrombosis. Wood fungus is rich in vitamin D which helps prevent osteoporosis. It also contains dietary fibre that prevents constipation and absorption of cholesterol. Wood fungus is kind of natural food which nourishes our skin and blood.”

After the recipe, which calls for wood fungus, red dates, ginger, lean pork and something called Qi Zi, there is this note: “If one is suffering from illness, keep having the soup for 3 months. Have 1 bowl of soup before meal in the morning and at night everyday. It is recommended to have 3 times a week for strengthening health.”

Glabrous Greenbrier Soup, the leaflet says, is perfect for those who live in Hong Kong because “city people are generally lack of exercises which would slow down metabolism. Therefore, excretion mechanism of people is not functioning well. This soup is good for excreting excess liquid in our body and makes you feel lighter. The soup is suitable for all the family members.”

If only your gas company were so vigilant about healthy cooking.

The more things change...

I move halfway around the world, and what do I read at work?

Stories about Texas, the drug war in Mexico and the U.S. presidential election. A few even have the byline of a woman who used to work at The News.

Some days, it's like I never left Dallas. Except there are windows in the newsroom.

House Hunters

I knew that finding an apartment in Hong Kong was not going to be easy – co-workers told me that I’d have to see at least 20 places before I found one. I figured I would have to look at a few more – after all, I wanted a big kitchen (or at least an open one). But I didn’t expect it to be as difficult as it was.

For weeks, most of my free time was consumed with finding a place to live. I looked at 16 apartments in two days (43 in all). One agent laughed when I told him I wanted a place with a big kitchen and my price range. Three called to tell me there was no use meeting because the place they had planned to show me had been rented. Two others stood me up. Another guy called to tell me that his flat had been rented as I was on the bus to go look at the place. When I finally found a place I liked, it was out of my price range; the landlord agreed to come down on the price, then, before the papers were signed, changed his mind.

I should have known better. I was warned. By HGTV.

When I lived in Dallas, one of my guilty pleasures was coming home from work, putting on my PJs, and turning on “House Hunters.” And right before I left the States, Hong Kong was the subject of a “House Hunters” episode.

The day after it aired, a friend came up to me, somewhat panicked.

“Anna!” she says. “I saw Hong Kong on ‘House Hunters’ last night. And this woman was looking for a place. And they were tiny. And they don’t have kitchens!”

That’s all true. They’re also really, really expensive.

For those of you who don’t know HGTV’s No. 1 show, a typical episode goes like this: We meet someone looking for an apartment and her (eighth) real estate agent. We learn her budget ($1,600 a month or less) and what she’s looking for: a one-bedroom place with space for guests, an open kitchen and some sort of outdoor space that’s close to public transportation. (Nooooo, I’m not picky. No, siree.) We follow her as she looks at three places. Then (and this is my favorite part), the host, Suzanne Whang, breaks it down:

“So, did Anna choose house No. 1, centrally located with a great terrace, but no kitchen? Or, did she pick house No. 2, with built-in storage and a great view? Or is it house No. 3, with the big kitchen and the private rooftop terrace?”

Then, the show goes to commercial while I yell, “House number 3! House number 3!”

Most of the time, I find out I'm wrong after the commercial break. But this time, I'm right.

Goodnight, Moon

I don’t know what it is, but there’s something extra special about the moon in the city. For me, there are few things better than walking down the street, surrounded by tall buildings and bright lights, to look up and see it hovering there.

Tonight, for the first time in Hong Kong, I noticed the moon as I was walking home from work.




There's one thing slightly better than seeing it: having the photos turn out.

Lagging behind

From Day 1, I’ve had grand plans for this blog. And none have really materialized.

At first, it was because I had nothing exciting enough to live up to the name. (Or so I told myself.) And so, for a year and a half, my empty page languished on the Interwebs.

I thought getting a job in Hong Kong would be the kick in the pants I needed – indeed, two very good friends said they wouldn’t allow me to leave Dallas unless I started blogging.

I planned to post something before I left the country. A few photos of the apartment, empty of everything that had marked it as mine. Concerns about moving to Asia. Tales of flying business class. But in the flurry of packing and saying goodbye and moving halfway round the world, the blog once again got pushed to the side.

I told myself I would post as soon as I got to Hong Kong.

And then, I got sucker-punched by jet lag.

I travel a lot, but I’ve never really been affected by jet lag before. Granted, the time change has been shorter than it is this time. But even on my last trip to Hong Kong, it wasn't horrible. I got a bit sleepy in the afternoon, was ready to go to bed at 11 p.m. and was rarin’ to go by 6 the next morning. It’s not my usual timetable, but at least I was able to sleep through the night.

This time, it’s been a different story. For the first week, I rarely got more than four hours of sleep together. Sometime over the weekend, my internal clock shifted, and now I can’t get enough sleep. Two days in a row now, I’ve awoken in barely enough time to throw on clothes and run off to work.

My only reasoning is that I went from not having a routine at home to not having a routine here. Factor in sleep deprivation for the two weeks before I left… I think it all adds up to serious jet lag.

So, despite all the pressure from friends back in the States, I’ve put off the blog because I was too tired to sit, much less form complete sentences.

That stops now.

I’m not promising to post every day, but if I can get something up, say, a few times a month, I’ll consider myself in good shape.

Don’t you agree?