Hong Kong, baby

So last week, I was out of the country for the first time in over a decade. I flew out for what I swear musta been training; it’s all kind of a blur now. I think there was a conference room. I KNOW there was tea. If you’ve always been kinda curious what tea-bloated people think as they encounter forms that ask them if they carry “blood or blood products” to China, boy, have I got a story for you.

This story starts, as so many travels seem to these days, with the airport. We landed in what people tell me is the HK airport, although for all I know, it could have been Djibouti; that is the kind of deeply culturally-aware mind that we are talking about here.

Regardless, the kind of pretty place is about the size of two minor countries, so the Hong Kong engineers – or possibly Djibouti engineers – figured they’d help people walk. They have escalators that do not, strictly speaking, escalate people, like giant tapeworms. The tapeworms have mechanical speakers that offer you advice in what I think is Mandarin; I presume the advice concerns holding the handrail, although for all I know, it could’ve been telling people that pooping on the sidewalk has a fine of up to $5,000.

From there, we took the MTR (Metro Transit Railway?) and a shuttle to our hotel. The room the company got was cool; I had a window view of a wall, which is always a good view to wake up to. Also, there was an extra bed, presumably for my imaginary friend, Bob.

Two other things struck me about it. One is that there is an ash tray next to the TV. The other is a sign, next to the ash tray, that says smoking in the room can have a fine of up to $5,000. I did not try to make sense of this.

Wan Chai, where our hotel was located, is a business center, kind of like Makati, except people do not suddenly pull your hair if you are within hair-pulling distance. At least I don’t think so. Also, our particular spot in Wan Chai gives Quezon Avenue a run for its money in sheer density of night clubs; think of the delta stretch along Q. Ave except with Chinese characters everywhere and you’ve got a fairly accurate image of the place.

A few intervals between night clubs left a little space open for restaurants, which was very generous of em night clubs, leaving those spaces open like that. Asian food is pretty great in Hong Kong – they have the best dumplings ever, served by people who throw plates at you.

Yep, that is correct. They throw plates at you. And not just plates – chopsticks, bowls, soup spoons, the whole nine yards. I was especially thankful nothing we were served there required a steak knife.

But the point is, the best dumplings ever, and if you so much as blink you will have probably missed your table getting set up. Hong Kong residents get you your utensils faster than it takes most people to wince. I did not try to make sense of this.

The food was pretty great; we had our share if smoked things, roasted things, dumplings, noodles, and an inordinate amount of tea. The thing is Philippine culture can be at odds with HK. Here’s a typical scenario: I drink the hot tea I’m served. It’s good tea, and it’s kinda courteous here to finish stuff you’re served. Someone from the table refills your tea. That’s HK culture – someone serves somebody else, and it displays some of the very best things about society.

This is all nice in theory, but something has to give. At some point, one of these things have to happen:

1) All of the hot water in town is drained and no one can serve any more tea

2) I drink until I am physically unable to continue, turned into a giant walking bowl of tea

Now, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out which actually happened. After meals, when I’ve had enough tea to float a small village, I approach a catatonic state, and I hallucinate, reading stuff like ”mind your head” or a driver must “find the most practicable route” or even “damaging this arm has a fine of up to $5,000.” Either that, or those signs really were there, and man, I really won’t try and make sense of that.

Also, when you’re bloated, you tend to notice weird things. Weird being stuff guys usually deny observing, and things being fashion. Hong Kong fashion was a confluence of cultures, from plain shirts to trench coats (the weather allowed for this – it was pretty close to Baguio’s) and pretty much everything in between, including people sporting hair-dyed Mr. T looks.

China was not all that different from Hong Kong, or at least, the part of China that we visited, Shenzhen, wasn’t. Shenzhen wasn’t all that different from many parts of the Philippines, save that things were pretty clean. The Chinese people we encountered had been superb, although they did give us a form that asked us whether

1) We had encountered poultry in the past few days

2) We carried microbes heading into China

3) We carried blood with us

I did not try to make sense of this.

One particular event stood out in China. We ate at a restaurant where they served tea with a three-foot nozzle. A guy basically had hot water traveling from six feet away to a cup three-inches wide. Now, if you’ve ever operated a hose and aimed it at a three-inch target, you’ll have known this is not an easy task. The first time he did this, it was extremely impressive – he was incredibly accurate, and I thought to myself, “Dang, that is incredibly accurate.” Of course, the next time, he missed kinda badly. I pulled my chair back a little.

Now, I don’t know why, but if you’re serving tea with a three-foot nozzle, you just have to do Kung Fu moves. His started with a kettle flip, went through a series of matriesque motions, and ended with him bent over, the kettle by his hands, with the nozzle running by his arms, the edge of the nozzle and his face both about two inches from my cup. I did not try to make sense of this. Nor did I do any more tea-drinking.

We headed back to Hong Kong shortly after visiting China, and we headed to the Djibouti airport and the tapeworms shortly after that. I did my darndest not to incur a charge of $5,000 for, say, throwing stuff in a trash bin, and man it’s good to be back, where things make sense, such as action-star cum senators negotiating with serial hostage-takers.

It’s good to be home.