TADIOTO

Arrived in Hong Kong yesterday—rainy, misty, the heat not so bad.

The flight was crowded and I was upgraded to business class, and sat next to a gorgeous 25-year-old Vietnamese fashion plate, big sunglasses and red and white striped shirts with short white jeans, from port city of Hai Phong. She spoke no English and asked me to fill out her customs form. How many times has she been to Hong Kong? Five. She and her sisters have a textile business, both importing clothes from Hong Kong and exporting her own to many countries.   

The announcements at the airport, on the train into town, and the advertisements were all with an American accent. Don’t know what happened to the British voices.  On the train, a balding man in a cheap suit and rimless glasses was going back and forth between his three cell phones, carrying on three conversations at the same time. Why wasn’t he on a limousine by himself? 

Victoria Secret infommercial on Elite channel on TV in the train – why didn’t I think of becoming an underwear designer? 

From Central Hong Kong station to hotel, the taxi driver, a Mr. Chao Yeung Fat, born some 60 years ago in Hong Kong, told me, “Nothing’s changed,” since Hong Kong’s hand-over from the Brits back to China ten years ago. 

Nice boutique hotel “on the slope” between Noho and Soho – huge staff at front desk: David and Michael and Elvis and Heidi and Keith and Alfred and Agnes. Such typical Chinese names. Not so English either. I was expecting Ian and Basil, or Alastair and Gillian.  

Crawled into bed in hotel at 4pm, slept til 8 in the morning, woke up and felt sleepy so slept some more til 10a.m. When I woke up I remembered I hadn’t slept for days in Ha Noi. For lunch, I found a big Vietnamese restaurant, Nha Trang, down the street. Ignored it at first but the queue was so long, it looked too tempting. I waited 20 minutes for a seat. The noodle bowl looked and tasted nothing like Vietnamese food. Lots of New Yorkers and Australians, and a Hong Kong-born Canadian, and hundreds of locals, loving the food. I buried myself in a Nadime Gordimer short story—outside, it was sunny. 

This afternoon, met up with a former colleague, Hoi-Yee.  We sat in a cafe and she talked about young people in Hong Kong. “Nothing’s changed,” she said.   

We took a tram to Mongkok – Filipina maids were singing Filipino songs. They were out for Saturday shopping. Mongkok was an ocean of people, shopping, shopping, shopping. I stocked up on notebooks and bedding stuff at Muji. 

Hoi-Yee kept yelling at me. “Dude, you can’t smoke here.” Apparently there have been some new laws and there’s no smoking in certain areas. Even outdoors. But there were public ashtrays and they were full. 

I smoked.