Creativity is great, but plagiarism is faster

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.