When I go somewhere for the first time, I expect the place to respond accordingly; not necessarily red carpet and flashbulbs, but at least full attention and welcoming smiles. As a direct effect of my visit, the place should be somehow fundamentally changed. This is not a feeling I’m aware of while stepping off the plane or checking into my hotel; after reflection, though, and a battle with the thought of such egocentricity, I conclude—reluctantly—that I like being a novelty.
Recently, I went to Hong Kong for the weekend with Luke. We were already staying in Shanghai, so it was nothing more than a two hour flight down the coast. I’d been planning the trip for several months and had all sorts of things to do and places to see. There were logistical difficulties involving money that had almost nixed the trip, but we’d figured everything out and with a tight budget and tickets in hand we boarded a plane Thursday morning, arriving at Hong Kong International Airport right around noon.
Even in Shanghai—arguably mainland China’s most westernized city, it’s fairly rare to encounter someone who can speak more than a few words of English. The airline we flew was China Eastern. Being a Chinese airline, I was sure it would be an uphill battle trying to communicate with the flight attendants, but much to my surprise, I was greeted in English and directed towards my seat. This was my first indicator that Hong Kong—despite now being part of the P.R.C –was going to be nothing like the China I knew. The food service went off without a hitch. Come to think of it, asking “chicken or beef?” doesn’t require much language proficiency, so maybe I’m giving them too much credit, but besides the attendant responding, “we only have cola,” with a look like I’d just ask her to do a line when I asked for Coke, there was no need to gesture or point to communicate.
At the immigration station, the guard greeted me in English and told me to have a good visit as he stamped my visa. The Burger King in the airport didn’t taste like fish and other white people were seated around us, enjoying fast food that didn’t taste like soy sauce. I told myself the airport was probably overrepresented with foreigners because it was an international hub with long layovers. After buying an Octopus card (the public transit’s version of a skeleton key), we found a bus that took us from Lantau Island, across the bay into Kowloon where our hostel was. After a bumpy forty minute ride equivalent to $2US, we got off the bus and jumped on the subway headed to our stop at Tsim Sha Sui station.
Let me take an aside to sing the praises of Hong Kong’s MTR (Mass Transit Rail). It’s fast, clean, and efficient with great coverage across Hong Kong Island, Kowloon, and even some of Lantau. Although it gets shoulder to shoulder for a couple of hours around rush hour, I see it more as a testament to the efficacy of the system, and it isn’t a real deterrent unless you’re claustrophobic or dislike strong body odor.
So, we arrived at our station, and as we reached the stairs to the street, an Indian man in his twenties tried to block our path. He had a pamphlet and was obviously trying to sell us something, but unlike in China, he spoke flawless English and could give us actual reasons why we needed a new suit. He followed us up the stairs, ignoring our flat refusal , continuing to harass us; just before I turned to tell him to shove off (that’s a euphemism), a man—you would’ve thought we were friends with how many times he used the word—intercepted us, “my friend, my friend. I see you’re not wearing a watch. We have designer watches…Rolex, gold, silver. Come have a look.” We pushed past him only to be met by a man who looked Spanish, asking Luke if he wanted hash. At the next block, loitering on the corner, a group of Africans stared us down, maybe in attempt to intimidate us into buying their product—not a convincing sales pitch. Many of the conversations going on around us were in English, and in spite of the garish neon street signs lining the buildings, I wasn’t convinced I was in China.
After some maneuvering, we found the building of our hostel “Mirador Mansions.” If the name evokes images of elegant British colonial housing, think again. It was a twenty story building under heavy construction replete with run-down hostels, shady businesses, and one internet café—a single room with five computers against a wall and no air conditioning. The hallway leading to our room had a tired, orange mat—red carpet was out of the picture at this point. The woman who signed us in looked at us like just another couple of tourists in for the weekend. She gave us the key and told us to have a nice stay.
There's the old addage that's plagued beefy ex-football players forced to coach gym for years: those who can't do, teach.
In general, trite sayings aren't my thing, no matter how true they may be. This one I prefer, not because of its power to marginalize teachers I don't like, but because my situation allows me to play spoiler to those who use it indiscriminately.
Majoring in Creative Writing is an exercise in self-motivation. Sure, you can show up to class and talk about how someone else's story had "a really unique feel to it" and how it reminded you of some obscure author, (which all but contradicts your first statement, but no one calls you out because they're afraid you might say "this doesn't really work for me" when you talk about their story next week), and you can pull straight A's, but if you want to get the most out of your education, you have to work on your own time with no one to coax you along or threaten you with the possibility of a failing grade.
That was a tangent. Ignore it.
Back to what I was saying...
As a CW major, the people who teach me are successful in their field. In fact, a select few of them are near the top of their respective disciplines. So, why do they teach if they can do? Because writing literary fiction doesn't earn any money. That could become a problem for me once I graduate, but while I'm in school, I get to receive top-notch instruction from people who are forced to have one foot in academia and one foot in the real world.
The real purpose of this post is to delay studying for a final in a non-major course, with a professor for whom the saying might apply. Sigh.
- Save the craters! They're quickly disappearing all over the moon's surface. No one wants a smooth orb. Preserve the "edgy look" for future moon-dwelling generations.
- Find a renewable resource to replace moon dust. Let's face it: the more astronauts that come to the moon, the more dust is taken back to the earth, never to return to its natural habitat. Besides, the stuff gets stuck in everything. Just ask Neal Armstrong about chafing in the nether regions.
- Stop solar eclipsing. Although previously thought to occur only during a new moon when the sun and moon are in conjunction, astronomists are now in almost total consensus that it is actually happening between 5 and 6 times per day! Experts have been quoted as saying "If we don't do something quickly, the moon will dissolve and we'll be screwed." Al Gore has started work on a documentary chronicling this potentially disastrous phenomenon tentatively titled The Dark Side of the Moon.
C'mon, people. Imagine a world where you can't play "Blue Moon" at classy parties because nobody knows what the moon really looked like. How will you explain to your kids that God trimmed his fingernail and it never grew back? Stop doing whatever it is that you're doing to harm the moon, whatever that may be, I'm not sure what I'm doing, but I'm definitely going to stop.
Forget the earth--save the moon!
1. Moving up my finals two weeks to go work at a cherry packing plant in Stockton, CA. It's a good thing I'm making twice as much in six weeks here than I would in a full summer in Boise--factory work is depressing. It doesn't help that when you google the city of Stockton, the response is Did you mean: hell?
Okay, that's not what google says, but it should.
2. Driving back to Boise around mid-June. I'll stay in Boise for a week and then fly to China.
3. I'm thinking anywhere between 2-4 weeks in China. I'm planning train trips to Hong Kong and Mount Huangshang (yellow mountain). I really want to hit up Tibet, but the train ride is too long and too expensive.
4. After China, I'll come back to Boise for another 2-4 weeks, then head down a bit early for school (my lease starts on Aug. 1st).
No seminal ideas for the commited few still reading this. I just feel compelled to share that I have four-day weekends next semester.
There are many things I care about:
1. The deep, deep well that is my printer cartridge
2. The whirling source of fresh, stirred air--my Target fan
3. The soft, felt key cleaner that sits next to my laptop
I love and cherish these things for their convenience, but when they stop working, replacing them becomes a dull, frustrating chore.
Another thing I could add to the list is my bed pillow. It's a delicate balance between rock-hard slab and amorphous blob. The case matches the sheets which go with the comforter.
Everything was perfect, until this weekend when I took my pillow on an overnight sail. I've taken this pillow on many trips, never encountering any problems, but this time, in the rush to get the boat cleaned, I left it in the cabin.
By the time I realized it, I was back at my apartment. I resolved to find a pillow and a case for under $10. By the time I got to Target, it was getting late, and I was fading quickly. I found the right aisle, and began searching. Twenty minutes later, I set my pillow and two case set (they didn't have singles) on the checkout conveyor belt. The lady rang them up, and my jaw dropped.
It cost me $25 for an uncomfortable pillow with two cases that feel like astro-turf and don't match my sheets.
