A letter, #4
You will never believe the strange coincidence that brought you to my mind the other day. I am actually glad I can tell you in writing so I don’t have to hear you tell me how there are no coincidences and everything happens for some greater more significant purpose.
Anyhow, what happened was this: I was leaving my night class and one of the people in the class asked me if I lived in the City. I told her that I did and then she asked if I was taking the train home. Again, I answered in the affirmative, and before I knew it, it appeared that surly me had made a new friend. We walked to the train together and chatted the whole way home, she lives just one stop beyond me. In talking she told me that she had heard me talking about Hong Kong to someone and that her husband had lived in Hong Kong. Really? I asked, When? She said he had been there for about five years in the 90s, pre-handover it sounds like. He was a teacher. Wow, what a coincidence, I said. She asked me about living there and I told her that my Hong Kong experience was unique in many ways, mostly because I lived in a really unusual place. She asked where and I told her Lamma. She laughed and said that was where her husband had lived too. I am sure that we must know so many of the same people… you probably know him! She asked if all the expat teachers live on Lamma and I had to tell her only a certain type of expat lived on Lamma… I did not go into a lot of detail.
And it got me thinking of you in your Lamma heyday.
It has been some time since I heard from you. This makes me wonder – are you still alive? Have you actually turned the corner you are always just about to round? It is so hard to tell with you. And frankly, our last conversation was really tediously redundant, which I imagine you know, hence the more recent silence. Still, there are so many things that make me think of you, would it make you feel bad to know that I especially think of you when I consider my finances? In contrast, I also thought of you a lot last week when I had a really sick kitty on my hands. Remember when Matilda got sick that time and we couldn’t tell what was wrong with her, but she was so sad and lethargic and just seemed so defeated? God, that was awful and I was so glad that you were able to take her to the vet, even if I ended up having to pay you for it (how odd in hindsight!) And then when Normie had that weird episode and you called me at work… I was so freaked out. Looking back on it and knowing what was up in my house and who was there with you, I am quite sure you all just got him stoned, which, while totally stupid, is not that harmful. In spite of all that I am still glad you finally got to see what it was like to have pets while we were together.
I am going to Thailand in the spring too and so of course that brings you to mind, we certainly had some raucous times. It is amazing to think how much time we spent there, and I always laugh when I remember sitting in Vientiane having dinner on the Mekong and you were just so desperate to get back to the other side, you kept going, “That is Thailand right there! Why am I not there?” You do love the land of smiles.
I try really hard not to focus on the things I feel like you took from me, because I know in reality you can only take what someone allows you to… And I really, really try not to think about the promises – all of them in their most abstract or concrete manifestations. I try to remember the man I knew you were inside and the way that, regardless of anything else that was going on, you would stand up for me. It was your most manly attribute, like, you really knew how to be a boyfriend, even if you were not doing it all the time. I try to remember the way your mind worked when you stepped out of the rabbit hole and let go of the fractured, slivers of philosophy you wanted to craft into some sort of wild justification for the life you were living. I try to remember how lovely you were.
These days you are still in London, I imagine, pining for Southeast Asia as you always will, never quite able to shake the idealized glamour of the expat life. It was a good life for a while, though, wasn’t it?
Be well, you.
a x
A New Situation.
Whenever people ask me about living in Hong Kong they are always curious about the cost of living (well, whenever people my age ask anyhow… there is quite a wide range of questions from the less chronologically proximal demographics). The thing about Hong Kong for me was that it actually was not that expensive. Let me clarify: the necessary costs of living were not that expensive (anyone who knows me is familiar with my tenuous and ambiguous relationship with the need v. want conundrum).
I chose to live in a kind of unusual place, which was not super popular with Package Ex-Pats and true Hong Kongers. Lamma was too far away, they said. The gweilo ghetto, they said. Among other far more odious comments. But it all kept the cost down. I found a great place to live, surrounded be people who stayed removed from the Peyton Place style drama of the main ex-pat hub in Yung Shue Wan. I busied myself with off island activities. By off-island activities I must admit I mean work, at least for the majority of the time I as in Asia. So, I used my home – all 750 square feet of it (with three – yes THREE – bedrooms) – as my place of rest and respite. Unless I was hosting a party, which was known to happen fairly regularly.
So that was the equation. I had a fairly inexpensive living situation (about US$800/month), which was compounded by transportation costs (a boat was required to get off the island) that ended up being about US$300/mo. I pay upwards of US$1500 in San Francisco for about 500 square feet and comparable transportation costs (not matched by service at all, thank you very much Bart.) I spent about US$1100 on the most basic costs there and here it is about US$1800. Another important variable in this equation however, concerns salaries and additional costs of living.
In terms of absolute values, there is not a huge difference here. Though, I would say it is significant and there are other little things here, like banking fees are stupid (I am talking to YOU Wells Fargo), I pay a fee for Netflix (possibly worth it, though I think more expensive than just buying my pirated discs over there), vet care is more expensive, and there are a few other miscellaneous costs I foot here that I did not there. However, behold the chart below.
18th Street Art: Koi
Art is everywhere. I love that about the world.
It is all in the way you look at things.
I have been missing the koi pond in my old village recently.
And then, today I saw these koi on 18th Street between Mission and South Van Ness.
No matter where you go…
…there you are.
Happy New Year!
It seems impossible to believe that 2010 has come to an end. I remember Gust Proutsos, back in my first year at Procter Hug High School in Reno, told me that I was going to be absolutely blown away at how fast the years would speed by. I was unsure if this was a comment on age, perception, or working in a profession that is so totally locked into a temporal relativity. Regardless, Mr. Proutsos knew what was up. I cannot believe that I started this year in Bali, still a Hong Kong resident, then meandered through Burma and India, then found myself Stateside again in the exact circumstances I had abstractly described as a goal in September of 2009.
It is nothing short of fascinating.
Everywhere I look I am hearing people talk about how they cannot wait for this year to end. They are so over 2010. 2010 was so bad/hard/unfair/miserable… I guess, again, I am an anomaly. Sitting at the Latin American Club last week enjoying a cold beer on a rainy night with a very cute and inappropriate compadre, I was considering things, my life and the like. He looked at me and said, “You are such a positive person. I mean, you love your job, your house, your family. You really love your life.” He kind of chuckled and I smiled.
Yes. Yes, I do.
Considering the considerate and a consideration of douchebaggery: wordplay and power
A nun lived upstairs from me once.
This is true. Ani Zamba was my neighbor for a year or so when I returned to Hong Kong after a couple of months spent realizing that I was not ready to come back to the US in 2006. Ani used to do teachings in her flat and a lot of the local Buddhist community would come and see her speak. I did not go very often because a lot of times the nature of the group made me uncomfortable. It had little to do with Ani herself and much more to do with the group of people who seemed to flock to her; these people talked so much about how they were spiritual that they didn’t have a whole lot of time to actually practice their craft. Seriously, they were some of the biggest hypocrites I met in Hong Kong, always preaching clean living and lack of judgement and really just being so fucked up and judgemental that they practically smelled toxic. I suppose Ani would have said that these people deserved the most of my compassion. It was just hard because I mostly really wanted to punch them in their pinched up faces. Metaphorically, of course.
Even though I did not spend a lot of time in Ani’s formal teachings, we would talk pretty regularly. She was kind of amazing in her ability to display the kind of compassion that she talked about. She always had a soft spot for Ex#5 even though I am sure she was fully aware of the cloud of bullshit he was living in; she would still listen to him and allow him to experience that load of shit. Ani had a really great sense of humor too, and so I know she understood my issues with her followers, she just realized, way before I ever could have, that their issues were unimportant. They were not about her.
One day I did go up to one of her teachings and as I sat there, a rush of familiarity came over me. I felt like I used to when I sat in Catholic Church with my grandparents, or when I went in to so many churches of so many faiths all around the world. I felt like a poseur. Sometimes that feeling was shameful, like I was trying to pull something over on some sort of supreme being. Sometimes it was colored with jealousy; even if the communion wafers were going to taste like shit, I wanted to be able to go up and get one with everyone else – as a six-year-old the idea of the “host” sounded a lot like “toast”. Sometimes the type of poseur I felt like was totally fraudulent; like why was I standing in front of this Christ-Buddha-Saint-Icon-Tomb looking at it reverently when I was the self-professed Queen of Irreverence, and blocking some other far more devout individual from getting their reverence on?
Sitting in Ani’s place on the floor I felt like I had interrupted an age-old dialog. I moved to the back of the room. But I stayed. Plus, my parents were there and so getting up and leaving would have been triple-embarassment.
I don’t remember much of what Ani said that day. In fact, there is only one thing I do remember. Ani spoke about the power that we give to words, and the choice to embrace them. Like, how if you leave your house in the morning and you are feeling pretty good and someone sees you and says, “Oh my god, what happened? Are you okay? You look so tired…” Suddenly you go from feeling really okay to feeling really not so okay. And nothing has changed. Nothing. The only thing that has happened is that someone has put some words out there – an abstract concept just kicked your ass. In the same vein, you leave your home and someone – a total stranger – stops and says, “My god! You look fabulous!” And equally suddenly your day has just headed off on some magical trajectory – I can almost hear myself saying: ‘Well, this is definitely going to be a good day!’ And there is no difference, Ani said, between the two interaction except for what we take from the exchange, which is entirely based on what weight we give to the words.
I think about this a lot. In fact, I have used the example a lot.
Last night I was sitting at home deliberating about what I wanted to do. I had been out with one person but opted out of joining them in the second phase of their plans, another person who I was supposed to meet had some issue. I was considering meeting another person, but was unsure of the timeline and so I texted a fourth person. What was she doing? You will guess in two seconds who I am with, she replied. I figured she meant Sonny Liston and I was right. Whatevs. The thing that bothered me about this the most is that Sonny and I – according to him – are supposed to be friends. Though his definition of friend is unclear to me. It could be that British thing where he is trying to be polite and says he wants to be friends but in reality he does not and just can’t say that because it would be rude. Either way, I found myself feeling suddenly and decidedly UNgood as I thought back over the rounds of conversation Sonny and I had had over the past few weeks. This was perplexing to me because frankly, I am not really that interested in Sonny. But the fact that his disdain for me is so clear really irks me. [On a phone call, answering, "Sonny Liston's phone," instead of hello, I say, "Oh, I guess I have been deleted," and he says, "No your name came up," and I think to myself, - the man cannot even say hello lest it be interpreted as kindness --> Douche.] I looked around and realized I had gone from a totally fun afternoon and evening with fun people and good energy to being sullen and cranky. Because of words. Abstract, fleeting, wisps of vapor transmitted through fiberoptics and cellular technology. Bizarre.
And then the phone rang again and it was someone else altogether. Was I up for grabbing a beer around 10-ish? I texted my reply, “Certainly.” This person is someone I have known in abstract terms for about six years. We have never been in each other’s physical proximity. Seriously. Still, the shift in my mood was dramatic and clear. I no longer felt irritated by – wait, who? Sonny Liston? Who is that? I was up and excited and ready to go out.
I thought about Ani’s teaching about the power of words. That one person’s words could be such a downer and at the same time someone else’s the total opposite. And the power of the words seems to have no correlation to the nature of the relationship. How is it that the words of a total stranger can often lift you up or knock you down far more effectively than those of someone you have known a lifetime? Or that someone who you have known but a short time can work out such a direct road to Hurtville, when in reality they are not even that significant to you? I suppose because you know that your “lifers” are there forever there is some safety in their words, so they are less traumatizing when they are harsh, and sadly, less euphoric when they are complimentary. Ironic, but true.
I got up and walked out of my building passing two girls who have just moved in as I went out the door. “Hey! You look awesome! Have a great night,” one of them said as I held the door for her. “Thanks,” I smiled back and headed out to meet a long-awaited non-stranger.
{image from here.}
Do you miss it?
If the way that you need
Is too much like greed
Decide if you are rich or you’re poor
I went to a wedding the other day, or rather a wedding reception, for a friend who is more like family than friend. I went with my own parents and the parents of one of my oldest friends who are more like than family than friends too. Chelsea Clinton got married that day too, I heard. Poor kid probably had a lot more headaches than we did out under blue skies and oak trees where I used to suffer through cross-country races back when I was doing anything I could to win the approval of my high school coach. We were headache free.
The people at this party were people I have known (had known?) since before I was able to construct complex sentences or form lucid memories. There is something wonderfully visceral about being around people who you know this well, or at least that you knew well enough at a certain point that the relationship is somehow indelible. It’s nice. These relationships are like Sharpie markers; eternally satisfying.
I caught up with people I had not seen in enough years that they seemed to have gone from first grade to adult in one fell swoop. The kids I babysat had kids. The aunties and the uncles seemed more relaxed, perhaps a little more grey (who isn’t if they don’t have a hair guy like me) and the parents were free to not be.
Of course I faced the questions that one expects after statement, “I just returned from five years in Asia,” comes out. I am getting pretty good at answering a lot of these questions, most of which I have no real answer for… But one of them has been coming up a little more these days:
“Do you miss it?”
I suppose that is to do with the fact that I have now been home a month and the questions about where I am going to live or about work must seem kind of uninteresting when there is no ready reply – or perhaps people feel badly for me that I’ve yet to work that out, I am not sure. Either way, the question of the day was whether or not there was anything I missed about Hong Kong.
I thought about this. In concrete terms, aside from my friends over there, I gotta say: Nope. This may change, but at the moment, it is categorical. But there are things less tangible that are gone, like that certain flair that comes with saying you live overseas… imagined or not, I always felt flair-worthy when I said it. And there is also the loss of the built-in caveat for all commitments that has to do with the reality that every visit may be the last visit – for a very long time. But honestly, that fact remains regardless of one’s location if you want to look at things as a matter of fact. So, those are the sort of ego-stroking possibilities that are no longer there. But in terms of anything else?
If I had to pick something – one thing – that I miss about Hong Kong it has to be the ease with which I could leave Hong Kong. Ironic? Not exactly: HK is the pinnacle of hubs for travel around Asia in my opinion. Somehow, (is it magic?) it seems like everywhere is 2.5 hours away from Hong Kong. I don’t know how that can be possible, and I’ll grant you Bali is 5, but seriously… I am going to miss going to Thailand for the weekend. Or Vietnam. Or Japan. Or Shanghai. You see my point.
Otherwise, as I felt in Hong Kong, I feel pretty good to be right here, right now. Because you know, if the way that you need is too much like greed… it is all down hill from there.
Just ask Boy George.
WC2010: My second World Cup in Asia
Here we come
Walking down the street
We get the funniest looks from
Everyone we meet.
When the 2006 World Cup kicked off I was traipsing around Southeast Asia. That sounds a lot more idyllic than it was. True, I was in Southeast Asia enjoying a lot of what Thailand and Laos have to offer. That was nice. But I was also running from unpleasantness that I did not want to face in the States thereby making said unpleasantness a shit ton more unpleasant. [Duh.] I was also supporting a junkie on the road. To be fair, he wasn’t on the junk at that time, but he had enough hang ups with ex-girlfriends, lager and indigence that things were not looking really auspicious… and they don’t call it a monkey on your back for nothing. [DUH.] My professional soccer exposure was limited, but because I am American it was assumed that I was a total football ignoramus. Not true y’all. As a basketball coach for more years than I often care to admit, I learned a lot about soccer. That is not a semantic error. Coaching basketball is what taught me about soccer.
One of the hardest concepts to coach in sports is the skill of moving off the ball. It is interesting because the majority of the action in basketball and soccer is actually taking place away from the ball (it is another reason refs are so shitty have such a challenging job, they need to keep their eyes away from the ball too, and they forget to do this often occasionally.) The ball in both these sports works like a magnet; everyone is instinctively drawn to it. This seems to be innate. Don’t believe me? Watch a pee-wee soccer game some time, it is one giant moving cluster of bodies, and it is pretty much the same in basketball, just less bodies. Anyhow, knowing this, I spent a lot of time teaching how to move away from the ball and how to be sure that my girls understood spacing on the floor and how to create space. It is the essence of setting a good screen. Or running an effective press. Both of which my teams did exceptionally well… primarily because of the soccer players that hooped it up for me. Kids who play soccer, and who are good at it, understand these concepts because they are even more important when you are dealing with a playing field, (yeah, yeah, “pitch”) that is more than twenty times larger with only two times as many players. [Basketball courts are standardized 94' x 50' and a soccer field - non-bloody standard btw, averages about 90m x 119m.) So, yeah, I knew a little about the game, if not the European clubs and big money players. And anyhow, I am a sports fanatic, making me a quick study and I went to more soccer games than I can count to watch my kids play. [Superfan.]
So there I was, in Bangkok and the World Cup was kicking off. Soccer was everywhere in the news and I was on the road with a group composed of Aussies, Brits and an Irishman; at least half the group full-on football maniacal. And everyone was getting all nationalistic as the days went on.
“What team are you going to support?”
“The US.”
“No, but I mean after the groups.”
“The US.”
[Imagine the most condescending voice ever] “But, the US aren’t* going to make it out of the group stage, so then who?”
“Who do you support?”
“England.”
“Who do you hate?”
“Germany.”
“Germany it is, then.”
*Semantic fun fact: British English assigns plural verbs to collective nouns. In spite of my general aversion to B.E., I like this.
In the midst of all of this World Cup madness I was coerced into picking a Premiere League team because Ex#5 was definitely on the footie-fanatic roster. I told him I could not just “pick a team,” I was going to have to check out this whole “league” concept in soccer (which, by the way, is superceded in stupidity only by the fact that an official game can end in a tie/draw.) But he insisted. Wouldn’t bloody give it a rest.
“Come on, pick a team. Look, here is the listing.”
“That means nothing to me, I don’t even know where some of these places are.”
“Why does that matter?”
[Now imagine the look on my geographile face when he said that.] “It matters.”
“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun, we can each have a team to support.”
“Quit bugging me, it is not even the Premiere League season, I have months to choose.”
“What, are you going to study up?”
“Give me that god dammed newspaper.” I grabbed the sports section from him. There was a giant color picture of a fairly good-looking guy on the front page. “Fine, who does this guy play for? I’ll support them. That is now my team.”
The look on #5′s face was worth the entire breakfast argument as the Tottenham Hotspur loyalist took in the spectacle of the front page that showed Michael Ballack in all of his German glory – signing to play for Chelsea.
“What?!?! You are joking! You can’t pick like that!”
“Look, you made me do it and now I have done it and I am sticking with it. GO BLUES. Now let me have my coffee.”
A Yank choosing to support Chelsea based on the Ballack signing is somewhat akin to a Brit choosing to support the Yankees or the Red Sox based on some equally skeevy signing – think A-Rod or Derek Jeter or a Giambi or something. It was the best revenge. But the Premiere League was hardly the topic du jour. It was World Cup time and people were getting ready.
When a Martian writes home…
In a slew of personal and pedagogical incarnations I have given serious thought to the notion of what a complete stranger to our human culture would take away from it. [It happens to be a great way to teach metaphors and figurative language in English, perceptual and vernacular regions in Geography, the relative nature of History, as well as sense of place in Geography and Literature, if you were wondering whether this might just be another bloody *reflective* rumination.] I am intrigued by this question not only because I am often bewildered by the shit I see in my daily life (in positive and negative ways) but also because since I was very young, I have regularly considered my actions and behavior in terms of how it would appear as a film; a clear euphemism for “in the eyes of others.” I would not necessarily condone this practice by the way, but hey, we all have our own idiosyncrasies – healthy or not.
IN recent years it seems even more obvious that so much of what human animals do anymore is built around creating this virtual movie montage of our lives and our identities and our significance. I don’t think it can really be just me who does this. And further, according to that same sourcce the blogosphere is booming, if not always blooming (or maybe that should be expressed the other way around?) I spend a great deal of time trying to articulate effective comparisons of my Hong Kong life to my homies in the States, and vice versa. I often turn to photos, but still, the experiential differences are often so much richer, and confoundingly more subtle. How can one gift an experience so removed, to others, who in spite of familial or familiar intimacy, have not seen what you have seen?
There was a minor literary movement in the late Seventies in Britain built on what was/is called Martian Poetry. The primary aim of Martian poetry (incidentally ‘Martianism is an anagram of Martin Amis, one of the key contributors to the movement – I like how these guys operate) was “to make the familiar strange… through the heavy use of curious, exotic and humorous visual metaphors… Martian Poetry aimed to break the grip of ‘the familiar’, by describing ordinary things in unfamiliar ways.” Of this movement, loosely associated with several others including surrealist and metaphysical poetry (about which Samuel Johnson dished one of my current favorite quotations: “the most heterogeneous ideas are yoked by violence together”) Martian poets tried to force people to let go of their accepted assumptions of cultural norms regarding behavior and culture both material and abstract. Breaking the grip of the familiar.
Someone needs to get a grip. And by someone I mean: YO.
The type of memories
that turn your bones to glass
turn your bones to glass…
My house is a complete disaster and I have about ten million things to do. So, of course, I am sitting here blogging about it because, wehey! I know how to procrastinate. And what better way to avoid reality than to submerge oneself completely in narcissistic, though cathartic, endeavors? I was thinking about this as I sipped my cappuccino at the Green Cottage in Yung Shue Wan this morning (because I am pretending I have the time and disposable income for these types of things.) I feel like writing about every little detail these past (and last) few days. I look around and reflect. Yeah, how pretentious – I am reflecting. And try as I might, with all intention and seriousness, I cannot stop with this heightened obsession with contemplation.
Every time I get started packing a box, I begin looking through the things I am packing, because, really, I have to – I mean I cannot actually take all this shit with me – and then I am gone. The mental meander is dangerous too because it is apparently infinite. Until you pick up the next item. And so far I have packed exactly two boxes. Yes. Two. That is all. Though, I did manage to bring a few more into the house today, so potential rides again.
And what made it into those two 20kg (ha) boxes? Of all the things I need to pack organize and move… I have thus far filled both cardboard receptacles with: Books. I promised I would go through my library and cull. I have removed exactly seven books from the collection excluding the Asia Lonely Planet library, which I shall bequeath to my friends here because those are simply too heavy and illogical to bring back to the Western Hemisphere. I am not sure how this rates as a packing success, but I take comfort in the words of Briton Sydney Smith (1771-1845): “There is no furniture so charming as books, even if you never open them or read a single word.”
Amen brother. And can you spare a dime to cover the shipping costs?
Some things I know I’m going to miss about Hong Kong
Cheap utilities including phone service – remember that year we all got our electricity subsidized? That was cool. [Seems fair anyhow since our little island provides HK with ALL its power.]
Everywhere you might want to travel seems to be 2.5 hours away by air.
Anna introducing me as “Amanda, my friend from Hong Kong”.
In-town Check-in/Airport Express/Cathay Pacific.
Tirumala Septentrionis Butterflies.
Getting your drink on in the street.
The Inland Revenue Department.
Public transportation.
The Rugby Sevens.
My yoga teacher.
My amigas.
My view.
Norman.
Unconditional Love = Just a Cat
It is raining in Hong Kong today. It was raining yesterday too. Not too unusual for this time of year, really, but I am watching the rain more than usual. Matilda and I sit by the window and look out, apparently unaware of the passage of time – not unusual for a cat I guess, but for me… very unusual. Since I have been back, Matilda has not ventured very far away, and her normally preposterously precocious self has been pensive and sedate. People often say that animals have no sense of time and that they do not have emotions like humans. That is probably true, that they are different from humans. Thank god. I don’t know how animals track time, but I am certain that they track emotions. I mean just look how they behave when people freak out or get sick or show rage. They know. I know my cats always know when I am leaving… they get so clingy (I say I hate it but, I lie) and I know that they can sense good people and not-so-good people; they have a sense about them. They know when I am coming home and often meet me at certain points in my walk to accompany me back to their food bowls.
But I should stop talking about my cats in the plural. Where once there were two, now there is one.
And I must begin in the middle, and say I am so exceptionally grateful that Matilda is still here, because without her, the absence of life in this house would be simply unbearable. I have lived in this flat since August of 2006. Matilda and Norman joined me in the first week of November in that same year; tiny, weaned-too-early, rescue kittens. Their mom had been adopted, and for those of you who know about animal rescue, you know how rare it is that people will take older cats, so when someone wanted the momma she went straight away. And so I got M & N.
From day one, they have been such completely unique little beings, connected by their sibling rivalry, green eyes and matching striped right front legs. Adopting these two cats was one of the best decisions I ever made in Hong Kong, even though right now… it’s a killer. I have the extreme good fortune of living near people who love animals and are willing to look after mine when I travel, which is sometimes not so often and sometimes a lot. I worry off-handedly about the kitties sometimes when I am gone, but always I am assuaged with a quick email home… er, not to my home exactly, but to the surrogate human hosts who take care of things while I am away. I just got back from five weeks in India, you probably know this already. And though I had been warned that Norman had been missing for at least a week prior to my return, it took the return to make it clear that he was gone. This is not the fault of anyone, though I keep wondering how things would be different had I stayed home, had I done this one thing differently or that other thing. I had not been in touch so much, maybe if I had… I thought about them a lot while I was away, all my Indian friends new about my “children” – Didi and Bhaya. I thought about how I had texted Frenchie from the ferry as I was leaving on May 1 asking her to say good-bye to Normie for me since he had been out when I finally made the break and left. The text is, of course, still on my phone.
It is most likely that the nature, which Norman pillaged quite regularly, got him in the end. Most people who are willing to admit that he will not come back think it was probably a snake. [My friends who so desperately want to help me feel better remind me - inadvertently - of the movie "He's Just Not That Into You" as they all have stories of cats who came back after weeks, months, etcetera... Would that I was the exception and not the rule...] Somehow, the idea of nature being nature makes me feel a tiny bit better, like perhaps it really just is the circle of life and whatever. Yeah, it is a miniscule modicum of relief, but one takes what one can get after watching Matilda go from place to place looking for her brother. She sleeps in the chair right beside me as I type unwilling to leave the cushion covered with Norman’s fur. And my helper washed all my bedding and cleaned the house before I returned so the places with Norm’s scent are few, but Matilda has found them all. She went crazy in my top drawer where he used to sleep, when she starts to do her normal run for the window to go out in the morning, she stops short and just sniffs the edges of the window that Norm rubbed against as he went in and out, she has wandered to the hedge behind which they often would wait for me, and she just sits, waiting. She smells all the flower pots he used to lurk around. She sits under the patio table where he would lay in repose. And all the time she is just looking around. Waiting. Watching.
It is fucking heartbreaking.
(I was once) Lost. That series ended, too.
I just finished taking my written exam in my yoga teacher training course. It was not that hard. Or maybe it was, I am not really sure. Either way, with several uninterrupted hours ahead of me (as I finished 2 hours early) and thus far cooperative power, I have been perusing the internets. It appears that there was a television season finale that was kind of a big deal yesterday: Lost. After six seasons this series has come to an end. It is everywhere out there right now with all sorts of love-hate cyber-screaming going on. It is trending on Twitter. It nets 39,700,000 hits on Google (in 0.23 seconds, woo hoo.) A surprising number of my friends are discussing it various on-line formats. Hmm. Maybe I missed something here.
I remember when Lost debuted in 2004. I was knee-deep in misery in the suburbs in Northern Nevada and was not interested in television so much as escape. [Note to self: one often does get lost when running away with eyes closed.] I remember that Matthew Fox was on the show and this was like his post-Party of Five resurrection (only way to go was up, eh Matt?) I think I remember that one of the Hobbits was on it too. And a super hot girl: Evangeline Lily (whose previous work was in things like The Hot Chick and Freddie v. Jason and The Lizzy McGuire Movie. Not that that means anything, just sayin’.) I am not sure why I never turned it on. I guess I was occupied with other issues, like my survival rather than that of a collection of really, really good-looking people out there on what I (yes, mistakenly) assumed was a high-tech Gilligan’s Island. I could not understand how a television program could have much longevity with such limiting parameters (Prison Break syndrome right? I mean, once you get out, where is that show going?) My Hong Kong friends are totally into Lost in the same way that my US friends are, so I totally could have gotten into it. Still, I did not. (Neither did Roger Ebert, so I feel a little less losery.)
My Yoga Journey, Chapter 2: Departure
I wanna thank you... for a real good time... xoxo
I have a funny way of doing things. Like, in preparation for a six-week sojourn to a completely unknown place, I work up until the day before I leave, don’t pack until the day I do leave and then I sort of realize the reality that has settled on me as I am on my way onto the plane.
This may not be the most efficient method.
But then, in spite of my best efforts, I remain imperfect.
I celebrated my emancipation from employment last night with an eclectic and wonderful group of friends. I made a lot of <> exclamations and generally revelled in the surprising turn of events the past year had brought to me. I woke up this morning early. And then when back to bed. I had erratic and interesting dreams of which I remember very little and woke up to look around my house with the knowledge that it would not be my house for a whole lot longer. I made some lists – always a good thing to do when feeling overwhelmed to paralysis. I thought for a moment about how I was really being kind of silly about taking this whole thing so lightly.
But then I had another thought; over thinking this trip would be silly, in fact, as I have little to no idea of what to expect I think that to over think it would likely just cause panic. My relatively irreverent attitude towards things has not been ridiculous, it has been a matter of self-preservation.
I got up and went out to get some last-minute things that I needed and do a couple of errands. I finally got a hold of my parents who are in Bend, Oregon on their way home and that was calming. I ate some really hot tom yum and then on the ferry back, ran into one of the most lovely humans I know on Lamma. Actually, I thought he had moved back to NYC, but it turns out he has moved into my village. I smiled as I thought, ‘Isn’t that always the way.’ And I said goodbye.
I still have not packed. I have contemplated packing. I am hanging out with my cats and trying to get the things together that I need to get together like money and documents and such. I will leave my house in three and a half hours. My flight will leave a few hours after that.
And then the departure becomes an arrival.
Damn it feels good to be a gangster…
Our high school guidance counselor used to ask us what you’d do if you had a million dollars and you didn’t have to work. And invariably what you’d say was supposed to be your career. So, if you wanted to fix old cars then you’re supposed to be an auto mechanic. I never had an answer.
Today is my last day at work. I feel totally gangster about this. I feel like such a gangster because, for the first time that I can remember, I am going forward without a plan totally lined up. This may not actually be gangster, it may actually be total lunacy. But I am rolling with it. Someone sent me the link to the Johnny Paycheck classic, Take This Job and Shove It, which made me laugh (I actually prefer Canibus/Biz Markie version, but anyway…) Still, that song does not really capture how I feel about this change. You see, I like my job. This has been a very mutually beneficial employment situation for nearly four years (a milestone in itself because I broke the “three-year hurdle” for the first time ever) and I am not leaving with any sort of animosity. I love the kids I work with, and have worked with, here and I have learned a ton. I have experienced the total ridiculousness of office politics [it is pretty bloody sad to literally not recognize your own sorry ass in a photo, but that is a story for another day] and not gotten dragged into them, resisted the temptation to lambast the instigators, and I have come out ahead. WAY ahead. (Another new skill to add to that old ‘Life Experiences’ CV.)
No, today I feel free, but in an interesting way; dare I say contemplative, rather than unhinged.
Things that I would expect to totally put me over the edge, like creative accounting, micro-managing, and general office silliness… just don’t matter. It all is what it is. I feel grateful to be able to have the opportunity to do something different. I am pleased when I look at my office and realize I am not coming back. I am ready to do something really different and to work out my own answer for the Geto Boys question:
“Cause when the fire dies down what the fuck you gonna do?”
Well, actually? In five minutes I will be joining friends for margaritas in Lan Kwai Fong and then in 24 short hours I will be boarding a plane for Bangalore and I am going to take it from there.
“Damn it feels good to be a gangsta!”
Oh, Yeah. You blend.
Waiting for coffee this morning, I notice four people staring at me. Not subtly, or even with the smallest intention of trying to look like they might not be gawking – straight staring. Two of them are an elderly couple, say in their late sixties, the other two are a mother and a young daughter, maybe 30 and 7-ish, respectively (obviously, it’s not like I am in Kentucky or something.) I do the quick mental once over… nothing that unusual – I am fully clothed, basically well-groomed, not carrying wild animals or assault weapons; I am positively the morning version of Joanna Generic. Nothing-To-See-Here-People. But that does not matter. Since the day I arrived here, locals have been staring at me in much the same way. One little kid asked his mom if I was a man or a woman when I first got here. What? She said it was because he had never seen “such a big lady.” Wow. Look at my ego be resilient.
Turns out I do not blend.
Initially this bothered me. I would get really uncomfortable on the bus or the MTR as I felt heat rising to my face when I realized that people were staring at me with the fascination (horror?) with which they may behold a tribe of Na’vi casually embarking on the train. Then I went through the phase where I stared back or raised my eyebrows and said “What?” Not a great strategy, I must say, as it seemed to only offer validity for the previous staring. Pretty soon I became mostly oblivious to it.
The fact is, I am 5’10″, I have blue eyes and (basically) blond hair. In a Cantonese community in Hong Kong, blending is not gonna be happening. It makes me wonder what it feels for people who feel different where I come from. I cannot remember staring at people so overtly, but that may be only a function of culture, and I probably managed it in other (possibly) less obvious (unlikely) ways. Still, where I am from there are people from everywhere. You cannot assume that someone is “not from here” on the basis of looks in California. You kind of can in Hong Kong. Granted there is a large ex-pat community population, but once you get away from where the white people are (and those places are pretty specific), it is a different scene.
When I first moved here I lived on Kowloon-side, in a Thai neighborhood (Kowloon City – f’realz.) I was THE only Westerner there. [For the record, I like to say White person not Western person because there are so many non-white people who are culturally super Western here, including vast numbers of Hong Kong Chinese... But people are always on my case for saying 'White' and say I am being racist. I am not being racist, I am being obvious. What distinguishes me - initially - is how I look. Full on gweipo.] Anyhow, in Kowloon City, it was me and the neighbors and it was great. They all knew me in no time and the sense of community was weird, but real. Like, they would have never socialized with me, but they were always there to direct me, lend a hand with packages, and of course, sell me shit. It was totally safe and comfortable. I was the one odd ball and I imagine they were soon tired of looking at me; I was their White person, they did not need to stare.
When I moved to Lamma – The Gweilo Ghetto – the places I hung around changed. The locals who live on Lamma [Chow Yun Fat!] are a special breed and are totally uninterested in the fact that they are surrounded by White people. It is what it is, and they go about their business. As a Lamma resident I often socialize in Hong Kong, but again, this generally takes me to the places WTWPA. Soho, LKF, Wan Chai if things have gone wildly astray, etcetera. However, I do rely almost exclusively on public transportation and my hub is the former fishing village and still economically slower district of Aberdeen. It is in Aberdeen that I get all the attention these days.
I mentioned earlier that the first thing that distinguishes me is the physical part. There are of course other elements of my non-localness. The way I dress. Where I shop. What I eat. The fact that I speak about… umm… 50 words (?) of Cantonese. Myriad other preferences – like wishing that all the public smokers would curl up in their own little bubble of smoke and die float far, far away, my aversion to the wet markets, my tendency to exercise common courtesy with regard embarking and alighting trains, buses and elevators – make it clear that I am not one of the Westerners that hails from Hong Kong. Though there are a good number of them. They move a little easier through the HK milieu, mostly because they often speak the language (go figure.) But they still stand out.
China says, with regard to Hong Kong: One Country, Two Systems. It is a silly platitude to justify the capitalist behavior of Asia’s World City under the dominion of Beijing’s Pseudo-Communist principles. I reckon Hong Kong people operate the same way: One ID Card, Two Social Strata. Locals are paid way less for the same work that Westerners do. Locals get different prices in the markets. Locals speak two or three languages, Westerners not so much. They live in different areas. They have totally different education systems. Of course, within each of these strata exist infinite sub-strata, which is not so much my point here. And I hate to consider that it may be totally economically based… though it could be as that is always the most effective and long-lasting kind of imperialism isn’t it? (Case in point: interesting article discussing the difference between ex-pats and immigrants here.)
How is one supposed to assimilate in such circumstances? Or are you supposed to? It is the melting pot/salad bowl dilemma I guess. If one (like, say, me…) has no chance of blending should you got for highlighting that which makes you stand out or make yourself less conspicuous by always surrounding yourself with like-looking people? That seems counter-intuitive if we assume that people who tend to move from their home country, generally have some interest in getting “out there” and seeing something different. Celebrate Diversity? Well, yeah that it what we are taught in American schools (a lot of good it is doing us: Evidence = Teabaggers.) I think it has more to do with embracing the zoo-like phenomenon of being stared at all the time. Perhaps this is what it feels like to be famous! I used to want to be famous when I was little so maybe this is the universe’s little joke on me…
As I sip my coffee, I smile at the four people who are still looking at me. They do not turn away hurriedly or with any sort of embarrassment. They simply smile back.
And that is a pretty nice way to start any day.
I get these two questions a lot. I’ve got some ‘splaining to do…
“So, how did you end up in Hong Kong?”
“Wait, you support Chelsea? Whaaa? Why?”
Fair enough, I have been asked these questions often enough that perhaps I should offer a confession explanation on both accounts. So, here goes. (Taz Ahmad, this one’s for you.) They are vaguely related… and totally logical. [Not.]
I came to Hong Kong in the late summer of 2005. Why did I come here? Well, I was deeply dissatisfied with my job location relationship life. I thought I could stick it out, you know, like play through it, suck it up, the standard drill. However, the way things unfolded that began to seem… untenable. It was like I kept making deals with myself; if this worked out then I would be okay, or if that happened, then I could make it. Clearly I was swimming in ripe Reno bullshit. When I was told that I would be losing all of the courses that I had worked so hard to create at the school where I was teaching because the new teachers “could not teach anything else” and I had the “ability to teach outside my preference” (who says that?) I decided a sabbatical was in order. Only a sabbatical was not on offer. So, I quit. Not with animosity, more with self-preservation, and honestly, the work situation was simply the catalyst that sparked the whole pile of kindling that had become my suburban demise. Regardless, I found myself in a situation where I needed to find something else to do. [ironically, I now find myself in similar circumstances... perhaps I will get to that eventually.]
I thought I might go back to Latin America. Get my Spanish on and enjoy all the finery of the Latin scene. But my parents suggested Asia. I responded with the typical aplomb that accompanies my attitude towards the unfamiliar. “Uh, you guys are the ones with Asian fetish not me. Why would I want to go there” But, you know how it is when you have parents like mine: they are usually at least one step ahead of the game – or at least my game. With a very reliable (and now dear) friend in Hong Kong, my parents convinced me to give it a go. So, I did.
Soon, I found myself in the most foreign of places, on my own, without my cat, a boyfriend (mostly) or a clue. It was remarkably refreshing. Certainly there were some dodgy moments and I would say some less than fun ones… but through it all, my Thai ghetto neighborhood, my first forays into LKF, my eventual landing on Lamma… somehow I became a Hong Konger. Oh, and the work? It sucked… at first. I mean, I suppose for a newbie fresh out of college or a gap-year kid it would be great. But for me? Not so great. I quit that shit decided there may be better opportunities elsewhere.
I was right.
I headed out on the road through South East Asia, first stop: Thailand, in April of 2006. Though I must admit, I looked back on occasion, it was not often and when I did it rarely to the suburbs of Northern Nevada. I eventually found myself in Laos PDR at the height of the World Cup frenzy. And it was mad fun. I was in Luang Prabang and reading the Bangkok Post one morning when Ex #5 (a Tottenham supporter) was telling me I had to pick a team. A team? In soccer? huh??? I told him that of course I would support the US. He laughed and said “Well, that won’t take a lot of energy as they’ll be out in the first round – but I mean in the Premiership. You need to have a regular team to support.” Now, bear in mind that I am and have always been a sports fan of a fairly intense variety, so I was game. I grabbed the paper from him and there was a big color photos on the front page of a good looking guy and I said, “Okay, he’s cute, who does he play for? I will support them.” Ex #5 almost shit himself. It was the front page story announcing that Michael Ballack had just signed with Chelsea. He said, “That Kraut? Are you joking? And Chelsea? Good grief.” [And yes, he did say 'good grief.'] I had no idea that, a) Ballack would turn out to be sort of a dick (though, he is dark and dirty and in general – that is right up my alley), or b) that supporting Chelsea as a Yank was akin to a Brit coming to the States and being like, “Oh yeah, I think I will support the Yankees” (or the Red Sox – either one would make me vom.) But, the effect it had on #5 made it all worth it. And they wear blue, which is good because I really just cannot get behind any team that wears red.
We watched World cup games in the pub in Luang Prabang, a dodgy hotel in Vientiane, an even dodgier roadside restaurant in Vang Vieng, on Koh Sahn Road in Bangkok and on the beach on Koh Pah Ngan. But my favorite was when we were staying in this tiny village called Mong Noi up near the Chinese border with a local family and a randy group of three Aussies, and Irishman, and two Brits. There was no power or running water in this village – and it was in a very heavy land mine area. We had spent our days wandering around with local kids who showed us how to not get blown up and all the cool little back woods places. We mostly had to be out and about during the day because everything was shut down. Then in the evening the family would do Laos-style barbeque and we would all sit around and eat eventually heading to the bar/restaurant/picnic area by the river where they had their one television that they would turn on for the football around 2 a.m. when it came on. They saved all their power all day just for the football. And they were so excited to have a group of nutters to watch it with them.
And so I watched the Americans lose (though I stand by my assertion of that year – beware, we are coming after you all sooner than you think, and I mean on the football pitch), the Aussies achieved some heroic wins (before being defeated by a bad call and a great foot -Totti the Hottie) and Peter Crouch be called a “lanky streak of paralyzed piss!” loud enough to almost get us kicked out of a fully packed bar. Ballack played for Germany, of course… but soon found his home at Stamford Bridge – winning farily regularly, much to the dismay of my English friends. [But really people - West Ham? Leeds? 'Spurs? Ouch.]
The summer of ’06 turned out to be a great introduction to Asia and what it had to offer as well as the world of soccer.
Five years after my Asian arrival, I find myself single (for real), employed (at least for the moment) and well versed in the language of the Premiership. That seems like a win in this day and age.
And so that is why I am in Hong Kong and why I support Chelsea FC (Gooooo Bluuuuuueesssssss). Or at least, that is most of the story.
My Yoga Journey: The Prologue
I bought a yoga magazine yesterday. It is the first time I have done that. Ever. I wondered if it marked some sort of transition in my yoga journey… Or if I really just felt the need to spend nearly US$10 (?!?!) on a magazine. I think it is a marker of a new level of interest rather than fiscal irresponsibility, but I guess we will see. One of the articles I was reading had to do with someone’s yogic journey. Yogic Journey. I think I have embarked on one of those…
My interest in yoga has been on a fast track. I have only been practicing since April 2008. Two years. Though my practice has been regular, my understanding has only just begun to expand to really broach the vast concepts of yoga. I mean, it is great to be able to do push-ups again, and to be able to stand and walk on my hands again, and to have discovered that I do, in fact, have oblique abdominal muscles (and I love them)… but the physical part of yoga is the easy part. Really. I struggled initially with even the most basic elements of the spiritual side of the practice; I had to concentrate really hard be very focused not to giggle through the aum-ing. Don’t even get me started on aum-shanti-shanti. And the breathing presented a challenge that was herculean, which I found incredibly ironic in light of the fact that breathing is, like, the only thing I can honestly say I have ever done for more than five years (my general threshold before I reach the point of intolerance of anything.) I mean, I have been (ostensibly) drawing breath forever. What then, could be making it so bloody hard?
But I persevered. And much of this had to do with finding a really inspiring teacher. Through it all my yoga journey thus far has not been without its bumps and obstructions. Some physical: the discovery of a back injury that is most likely the result of years of athletics and requiring a great deal of tedious attention now. Some personal: the conscious choice to alter my lifestyle to accommodate my yoga practice has been met with some friendly resistance from… friends. Some mental: the plain truth that I do not know how to quiet my brain on command.
What I have noticed about yoga is that it makes me feel a lot better. Always. And not just physically, though that is definitely true, but it improves my days in subtle ways that, when combined, add up to significant differences. A yoga teacher named Rod Stryker says one reason that yoga makes us feel so good because it activates our parasympathetic nervous system (the part of the nervous system responsible for “telling our muscles to relax, improving digestion and assimilation, boosting immunity, helping with sleep, normalizing blood pressure and lowering your heart rate.) Basically this system counteracts the daily grind. But since lots of people do not do the type of yoga that focuses on the parasympathetic nervous system, Stryker concludes that what really does it for us is…
Life Force.
Okay, I know, it sounds silly. But until you try it, you are just going to have to trust me. Prana means life force, and yoga gets it moving. Prana is breath – it is breathing. Simple in concept if not reality, but awesome to know you’ve got it in you all the time. Think about it. Every time you ever freaked out – like really freaked out – about something, what were you told to do… “Take a deep breath…” In pain? Having a baby? “Breathe…” Hard workout? “Exhale, inhale…” Panic attack? “Take a few long deep breaths.” Hiccups? “Breathe.” I find it pretty bitchin’ to realize that the best tool we have to make ourselves feel better is right there with us, all the time. I am glad I have stuck with the breathing.
I switched yoga studios about 15 months into my practice. Best decision ever. I did this because the teachers I liked were all leaving the McStudio I belonged to, which really caters to a certain type of yoga student that I am not. This choice took me to a whole new place literally and figuratively and in a small, quiet, clean and serene setting I have been able to really try some new things and develop a level of trust with my teacher that has totally changed my practice.
And this has all been the prologue, my lengthy and mostly cautious embarkation on to the yoga bandwagon. The journey is really about to kick off because in three weeks I will go to Bangalore to participate in an intense yoga training at an ashram for a month. That should be a very interesting chapter. I have my airline tickets, my visa and my place in the course.
I suppose that means I am going. Watch this space…
Is it the journey or the destination that matters? I am not sure. But both are bound to be interesting. I started doing yoga as a way to deal with some things in my life that were no longer satisfying to me. Escapism? Maybe. And now yoga is offering me a way to change things in my life that are no longer what I want them to be. Perfect. Aaaauuuuuummmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
Amanda
