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
It was one year ago, more or less.
Sometimes your only available transportation is a leap of faith.
~ Rev. Margaret Shepherd
One year ago March 1, I quit my job. As far as I can recall this is only the second time in my life I have quit a job. [The other time being on the eve of my departure in 2005 when I was denied a sabbatical from my former school district.] This decision was a really big deal to me. It solidified the reality that I would be taking that proverbial leap of faith, in quite a literal fashion.
I had been deliberating the move for a while, but under the radar enough that some people were surprised. I would be walking away from a very lucrative (although overly demanding) job, leaving the home I had made for myself – the first home I had made for myself on my own – ever, relocating my cats, and returning to an America that seemed rather uninviting in the more pragmatic arenas. What would I come “home” to? And would it be “home”? These questions loomed, but for reasons almost beyond my ken, I took the chance. I knew that at the very least, I would be received, supported, taken in, by my family and friends and that somehow, something would arise. I felt ready to take the leap.
This was new.
I had to work for two more months, and they were truly intense months; they did not let me go gently into that goodnight. My boss said he had been sort of waiting for this decision, but hoped he could sway me, that was nice. The only thing I knew, aside from the fact that April 30 would be my last day at work, was that I would spend May in an ashram in Karnataka, India and that I would depart Hong Kong on June 29.
I guess I was ready at a more visceral level than I could have known.
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.
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.
Deconstructing my California mythology
I am back in my hometown, or at least the town that was my home for more years than most other places, and during those dangerously formative years. It is pretty cool to be here: everyone can do with a soft landing spot. And now I am looking around and comparing the apparent reality to the mythology I have been carrying around with me as an expat these past few years. Everyone has a million opinions, suggestions and warnings for the expat who chooses to repatriate. The information varies wildly depending on who is offering it (what their state of mind is, where they are, when they left home, why they are in the places they are… your basic 5 W’s of life.) I have heard that there is some sort of expat re-entry shock. 48 hours in I am not feeling it. Some of my expat friends chalk this up to the fact that I always said I would come back to California, but I am not sure. It could just be that California is a nice place to re-enter. I have also heard that people who go domestic after an extended international foray find the life they left far more provincial than they remember. Fortunately (I guess?) I was always snobby enough about Petaluma that I am well familiar with its provincial nature.
I have held a lot of ideas in my head about the America I would return to. I certainly knew it was not the easiest time to come back, but sometimes you just have to jump. For a good amount of time I have been listening to people say “all Americans are fat,” “all Americans are dumb,” “all Americans are racist,” “all Americans are lazy,” “all Americans are exploitative imperialist bastards…” Of course, anyone who starts a sentence “all…” has issues (which in this case is a euphemism for being an idiot) and so there is really no reason to rebut them or engage in any way, because they are not going to hear you. But for my friends who are interested in conversations about why I would want to come back to the US, I have always been willing to share. I want to live in a place where I am not surrounded by smokers, I really, really loathe cigarettes. I want to live in a place with clean air. I want to be closer to my family. I want to live somewhere I can date. Yeah, I said it, and Imma cop to it.
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.
My own comedy of errors. And this shit is true. Seriously.
The only thing that is going to offer any kind of credibility to the following story is the simple fact that I could not really be making shit like this up, because if I could, I would no longer need a day job (and for the record, I DO need a day job, so if anyone has any fabulous ideas, call me.) For dramatic effect (though little is needed) I am going to start in the middle. We’ll see how that goes…
Apparently a funny thing happens to people when they get to be a “certain” age; they start to really re-evaluate their lives and, depending on said analysis, they start taking actions that might be slightly out of character. I am being euphemistic there. Basically, when people get to an age where they start to look at their lives more from the point of how they are ever going to get to do all the things they want to do rather than from the point of view that they have forever to do all the things they want to do, they start doing some whacked out shit. I believe I am at or around that age. Whether I have succumbed to the whacked-out-shit-phase is likely a fairly subjective notion.
One of the things that has fully dominated the psyches of many of the women I know and the men who will admit it within my peer group, is the partnering-up urge. It’s like a latent Sex & the City virus. I have never been married (or divorced – win!) so I will have to speak to some of these things as an observer rather than a practitioner, but I certainly have been on the coupling up bandwagon. Due to some pretty choice moments over the past couple of years, I am much more detached from this phenomenon, but it lingers and occasionally rears its ugly little head into my otherwise pretty satisfying life. One of these head-butts contributed to my creating a profile on an on-line dating site. Yeah, yeah. It was as bad as I could have ever imagined it. But as they say, ‘all my friends were doing it’ – and no, I would not jump off a bridge if ‘all my friends were doing it’ (mom) but, I thought, “Hey, it is the information age, maybe this is how people do it these days… I shouldn’t knock it until I try it.” [Error #1: not trusting my gut instinct that this was a really bad idea, at least for me - people who are unfamiliar with IRL dating should not embark on the virtual variety. Real. Talk.]
After creating a profile and meeting approximately three people, all of whom were really prefect for that scene, and totally repulsive to me, I realized that this was not the way forward no matter how many people told me they ‘met their husband on Match’ or they had a neighbor who found their soul mate in some forum, on such and such website. I was done. I happened to be having this conversation with two of my closest HK friends in October of 2008 as we sat in Carnegie’s enjoying a nice adult beverage. Now, one of these friends is committed to the on-line dating world and she is sticking with it, full throttle and has a clear agenda. The other could not be more of the opposite. I guess I was sort of the one in the middle, on the proverbial fence… but I was getting ready to jump over into friend #2′s yard. We were talking about the ins and outs of all of this: dating, meeting people, marrying people… The pros, cons, pressures, stereotypes, assumptions. All of it. It was sounding worse by the second and I was sure I was making the right decision to leap off the fence. In the midst of the conversation, my iPhone did its little techno bleep letting me know I had new mail. I checked it. It was an email from someone on the soon-to-be-deleted dating website. [Timing adds so much to this story.]
We/I opened the email. I looked at the message which said something along the lines of “I am from San Diego and graduated from UCSD and now live in San Francisco and travel to Asia frequently for business and will be there this weekend and your smile caught my attention and then I saw the UCSD connection and that there was a PoliSci connection and so hey.” In typing this now, the number of red flags seems more apparent than I thought at the time for sure, not the least of which is the implication of bullshit that can be detected from such effusive run-on sentences. I looked at his photo.
I knew this dude.
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.
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.
Ching Ming Festival is B-A-N-A-N-A-S.
Today is the Ching Ming Festival in Hong Kong. With no ancestors buried in the local hills to offer my respects (or Nestea or fruit or Pringles or incense or flowers or cakes or prayer papers) to, for me this day means crazy crowds on Lamma (very good grave feng shui), the occasional hill fire, tons of trash gravesite remembrances blowing in the wind, and an additional day off right next to Easter.
I took an early ferry over to town to go to yoga this morning and saw the heaps of people waiting to board the ferry back to Lamma with a tiny sense of chagrin. I had arranged to meet a friend or lunch in Yung Shue Wan today and this did not bode well for a chill afternoon. True to form, on the 11:20 ferry back to the island I saw that they simply stopped letting people on (fortunately I was there early enough to get a ticket…) The boat was so packed that I stood the whole way back and marvelled at how many a people appear to have never actually been on a boat. Fascinating.
Then the village was upon me. And by upon me, I really actually mean UP ON me. No need to get aggravated. No need to get Type A about it. It is possible that these people have never before seen a dog. Or a restaurant. Or… you get the point. Just need to go with the flow. It is good practice to take all of this in and to realize that it makes no difference if I get there faster or not, and getting irritated is certainly pointless as those to whom I would have my irritation directed are totally oblivious rendering that a completely unsatisfying strategy. Could be time to get with the oblivion. It is slow but I think likely a very good preparation for the volumes of humanity I anticipate encountering when I arrive in India.
On May 1.
Karnataka.
Me.
Aum.
The Center Changes Colors
That sounds like some kind of pervy cool candy.
But I am actually talking about The Center tower in Hong Kong.
It is shaped like a star and generally totally disco fantastic.
These photos were shot on the fly off the ferry, hence the graininess and fuzziness.
But still, I share.
Ain’t it purty?
no plan…
Make a little money, take a lot of shit
Feel real bad, then get over it
I have started taking the #5 Minibus to yoga. It is not much faster as it goes to Happy Valley via Shouson Hill, but it allows me the luxury of not having to hop off a ferry onto a bus and off a bus and onto a ding-ding, all with a little walking in between. So, it is good for providing time for contemplation. The other morning I was sort of spacing out watching the world go by, as I am prone to do at 7 a.m., and driving past all of the warehouses in Wong Chuk Hang got me thinking… about… stuff.
This part of Aberdeen/South Hong Kong is really interesting to me; it is totally industrial looking and full of warehouses, many of which look empty. Who knows if they really are, but it has the feel of an area poised on the brink of gentrification. And, even if it gentrification passes it by because the MTR never really gets here, or something else keeps the area as a sort of randomly overlooked place, it would be cool to get a floor in one of these buildings and make it a kick ass loft. Serious. This area has way more potential than Manhattan’s Meat Packing District. Okay, well, at least as much anyhow. Not that I am advocating in the least for Lan Kwai Fong II, but as I watched the buildings go by I thought, “That would be a fun project.”
Wait, whaaaaaa?
I had to shake my head and bring myself back to reality. The reality in which I have no plan that allows for things like buying industrial spaces and converting them into cutting edge living spaces. As I mentioned the other day, I ran into someone I used to know at the Rugby Sevens. He told me he had gotten married. To a local girl. In congratulating him (and trying to not register the “I got the fever” comment) I said, “So, you are in it to win it over here, eh?” To which he replied, “Hell yeah, what, are you going back to Cali?” [*Go LL.] In my efforts to be nonchalant and non-committal I was vague. He didn’t really care either way, but was just like, “What the fuck would you go back to the States for?” It gives one pause, no matter who you hear it from… nd you hear ot from everybody, but seriously, I have no answer. At the same time I don’t have an answer for why I would stay here either.
Back to reality in Wong Chuk Hang, It dawned on me: I’ve got no plan, Stan. I wondered… Who would buy these buildings which could be seriously amazing living spaces tucked up against green hills and with sea views. You could amass square footage unheard of in Hong Kong and have all sorts of options to make them amazing residences.
You know who?
People with a plan, that’s who.
People who are actively squirreling away money for their later years, who have goals of real estate magnate-ness, who are doing for today in order to make tomorrow. And it is not that I am in some dire straights or facing life on the streets or something. It is just that, logistics aside, I have no idea what I want anymore. The more I thought about it, the more blank my mind became. I started trying on all sorts of scenarios. None of them fit. It is not even relevant to write them down here, suffice it to say that no matter how elaborate or outrageous I envisioned things, they did not seem satisfying. Even going the other direction and contemplating the simplest and most ascetic things, nothing seemed like a ride I wanted to get on.
This from the kid who has ALWAYS had a plan. I mean, seriously.
There.Is.Supposed.To.Be.A.Plan.
Shit, even my spontaneity has always been planned -beat that. And then, chilling out on the #5, cruising over Shouson Hill on a Tuesday morning, my brain decides to awaken me to the fact that I have no plan? What? All these people I know, they all have plans. Do this, do that, buy a business, start a business, get rich, move here, move there, go off the grid, get married, be married, have kids, get divorced – okay maybe not part of the plan, but it is happening like crazy… They all have some sort of goal. Why don’t I? I seriously considered going back to school this year, but it was really just so I could have a plan. How is it possible that someone as organized, competitive, basically able, mostly rational, and generally extremely well-prepared as I am could not have a plan – even a goal, beyond the sort of immediate things? Am I defective or innovative? I can’t work it out.
I am making all sorts of changes in the next few months. Stuff that would normally completely freak me out and it is not. But even all that stuff really has no specific outcome attached to it. When people ask what I am getting up to or what I am going to do… like, in the big picture sense, I have taken to shrugging. Seriously. And this is definitely not some ridiculous attempt to appear mysterious or subtle, two traits I run quite low on in general. It is because that is the answer. Real talk. The girl is absent a plan. It is fucking weird. Where’s Lucy when you need her?
Anyhow, someone I wish I could tell all my plans to asked me about my plans this morning, said he wanted to know more. I got nothing for ya, kid. I am going to scream my head off cheering against Coach K and the Duke Bluedevils and all their disciples tomorrow, and I am going to India on May 1st. Other than that….
Oh, I keep pushing boulders
I stay game until sun’ll shake my shoulders
Oh, I keep feeling older
I stay game, stay game, stay game
Veni, vidi, vici: Hong Kong Rugby Sevens 2010
There are some events that become legendary for the impact they have on human history or scientific research or collective genius.
The Hong Kong Rugby Sevens is not necessarily one of these events.
However, the legendary status of The Sevens as one of the most significant things that happens in Hong Kong every spring cannot be denied. Even people, like a grumpy coworker of mine, who hate the event, reluctantly admit the (@*&!#%$) effects of the Sevens on the city. Hotels are sold out months in advance. The tickets sell out too, but that is mostly to do with scouser/scalpers who are somehow able to hoard loads of them form some backwater shithole in Liverpool, and then offload them on the streets all weekend. The bars bank on the weekend as one of the most lucrative of the calendar year. Pottinger Street can barely meet the demand for metallic cowboy hats, feather boas, super hero ensembles and French maid get-ups. The energy – like it or not – is tangible. and if you are up for it… it is a smashing good time. Like them or not, the Hong Kong Rugby Sevens have become an institution. They may be associated with foreigners, and frowned on by rugby traditionalists. Staid citizens may not embrace the carnival atmosphere and spectators’ antics. But during the few hectic days of competition and partying, they garner worldwide publicity and hundreds of millions of dollars for our economy.
Sponsored by Cathay Pacific and Credit Suisse, the Hong Kong tournament of the IRB series has reached a sort of clout in the rugby world that is undeniable. With the addition of the seven-a-side rugby to the 2016 Olympics, there has been much talk about that being the new Brass Ring. Here in Hong Kong, (and I would hazard a guess for many of the Antipodeans and Islanders as well) that is simply not the case. “I remember a big South Sea Islander saying that, in his view, the Hong Kong Sevens were really the Olympic Games of rugby union… the Hong Kong event captures all the really good things the game has to offer – splendid organisation, wonderful sporting spirit, universal camaraderie, admirable field behaviour…” Bill McClaren, RIP.
The impact of Olympic inclusion on rugby should be interesting (perhaps along the lines of the Invictus impact – but more so). As Olympic gold comes up for grabs the general consensus is that non-rugby-fanatical yet competition-fanatical countries will take a greater interest in the sport. That means that the US and China are suddenly going to be taken a little more seriously on the pitch, I imagine. This is not some latent patriotism raising its zealous head either, this seems to be a concept that people are already talking about in earnest. While I was in the South Stands this past Sunday watching the US play Samoa in the Cup Quarter Final match (we started out strong…) some Aussies near by started telling me what they thought of American Rugby. They said that the US was going to be a serious team to contend with as soon as they decided they wanted to win. That America simply has the best athletes, but lacks knowledge of the game at this point. I think they were being serious. It reminded me of a conversation I had with several Brits during the 2006 World Cup in a bar in Luang Prabang; I said that soccer, excuse me, football, was going to have to take notice of the US by the 2014 World Cup. Like, serious notice, because I had seen how soccer had taken off in the states over the past 20 years, rivaling basketball legitimately in youth sports. These guys were in total agreement with me on Sunday. They even bought me a beer. A liter of beer. Take note, people: Team USA – It could happen.
Maybe that should be our motto as we attempt to break into the Euro sports arena.
Amanda
