More true stories.

I am sitting in the office eating a Greek salad for lunch. And garlic bread, though I didn’t want to admit that, but since the title of the blog is true stories I might as well. I try not to eat bread that often [true story] though I love it enough that a friend recently gave me a postcard with a picture of a righteous loaf of sourdough on it that said “Bread Porn.” She gets me. Anyhow, this may be the most fragrant meal I could have chosen for a day at the office. It is a good thing I am obsessive enough about dental hygiene that I carry with me, at all times, floss, toothbrush and toothpaste, those cool Oral-B toothpicks and an assortment of gum [true story.] I sort of wish I was sitting on Santorini eating my Greek salad and warm delicious bread, but mostly because I am conditioned to want to be somewhere I am not. As are most people [true story.] Following yoga this morning I was sitting in a coffee shop having a cappuccino and reading the novel that, in spite of weighing a metric ton, is so good I cart it around with me everywhere everyday, and reflecting on the fact that my life is pretty decent. I don’t really need to wish I was somewhere else, but I still kind of do it out of habit. It is like how people used to talk about the weather, I think. Now when people make small talk it seems to inevitably turn to “Well, you know, working…” And then there is the compulsory addendum that one is creative/interesting/adventurous/intriguing/sophisticated enough to clearly want something more than work on offer for the day.

But I don’t really mind my work [true story] though my office is a little overly reminiscent of my lunch at the moment. I am kind of in a cool groove at the moment where I am doing what I want most of the time and work, I have to admit [true story] is what allows for that. However, I do spend a lot of time at the office. And there is a lot about my office that could make for a good sitcom  (Gee, what an original idea, I bet no one at BBC or NBC ever thought of that…) but if you just do your thing you can kind of just get into the zone and cruise. Autopilot, if you will.

Last night I was pretty much “in the zone,” and winding up a decent day with a little Ibsen and Fitzgerald, with a side of Nietzsche [true story] and getting ready to beat it on down the line for home. I was curious to see if Norm had shaped up and gotten back in the routine where he actually comes back to his own home (in response to my friend Mara’s inquiry as to his recent sojourn I had this to say: “Turns out he’s just a total dude: does WTF he wants for a couple days, comes back, and then he’s like, ‘What’s wrong with you? And where’s my dinner?’ Not sure jail can cure the Y chromosome.” [True story.]) I was also kinda tired from getting up at 6 a.m., working until 9 p.m. and knowing I would be up at 5 a.m. today. Oh, and I had been really wanting to take a photo of the Esprit window display they have going for Chinese New Year. (I am very behind on posting my Project 365 stuff, but I have still been shooting… [true story.])

So, there I went. Out the door, in the elevator, down the escalator (past the really ostentatious Cartier store that currently (for how long??) inhabits the ground floor and more of my building) , out the doors, across the street, past Gucci, Lauren, Miu Miu, Gaultier, Tod’s, Lowe, Hang Seng, Swarovski [true story], to —> Esprit. And with my camera at the ready, the window was as silly as I meant it to be. I took a few shots. (You will have to wait and see…) Job done, and hopefully well, I carried on, headphones in – not on, towards the bus stop.

“What were taking a picture of?”
“Excuse me?”
“What were you taking a picture of? The window?”
“Um… yeah, the window. ”
[At this point I am still walking and wondering if I know this person… but as I now live the life of an ascetic [mostly true story] I think this is highly unlikely. The inquisitor is now walking with me [true story.]
“Why were you taking a picture of the window?”
[Now separated by Causeway Bay flux of people maneuvering towards, MTR, bus, Sogo and BBQ take away.]
“Did you look at the window?” [Re-convergence complete.]
“No, I didn’t, I have to say I did not notice the window. I guess that is what girls notice, not guys.”
[So many things to say here [true story] that I do not.]
“Well, you should have looked at it, it is cool.”
“Do you make a habit of photographing shop windows?”
[We are now getting dangerously close to the point at which I will turn, and I am curious what is going to happen next.]
“Uh. No. Well, yes. I guess. I don’t know. I mean… I take pictures of lots of things. Hong Kong has some pretty amazing window displays and advertisements you know? It’s like, what they do here. I mean, I live here, so I just sort of keep my camera with me, I guess.”
“Oh, I live here too. (Points to random Asian taking photo of billboard opposite Sogo,) What do you think he is taking a photo of?”
“I guess the billboard. That is where they had the second largest Calvin ad that had to be removed when the locals freaked out about Djimon Hounsou. That was a good picture…” [True story.]
“What billboard was that? What was wrong with it?”
“Too big… I guess.” [Insert inappropriate, yet amusing racial stereotype here – he did.]

The conversation continued, including, but not limited to, the following: Have you seen the photo exhibit on impressions of China that is in town? I could send you the link. Ok. How long have you lived in Hong Kong? Five years. Wow, you live on Lamma? So, you’re a hippie? Uhh… Okay, so where are you from? Where do you think I am from? Well, I assume you are American because you have a North American accent and I am American and so by association I lump you in with me. Oh my god – Oh, so you are obviously from Canadia. Why do you say that? Because Canadians are the only ones who get offended when people call them American – it doesn’t go the other way around, that is why people usually guess Canadian, safe answer. But I am an American. By definition, unsafe. So you work around here? Yes, in the AIA Building. Oh my god, no way! Why? I work right across the street! Lee Gardens? Yeah! So, okay, what do you think my favorite lunch place is? It is obviously Inside Out. Yeah, I love that place! How did you know? I know things like that. Do you dance? What? Like professionally? No. No, like salsa. Not well. We should go. [Looks at my legs {true story} – I am wearing a skirt because for the first time in weeks months it was warm today – and is not entirely subtle. Not sure whether to be flattered or concerned. Unclear with what is going on here. Co-worker walks by at that moment and gives an odd head nod. I never see co-workers in public. The universe is being strange tonight {true story.}] Oh, you’re not wearing the right shoes tonight though. Here, give me your number, I am going to call you and we will get a drink and go dancing. Uh, okay? By the way, my name is Amanda if you are curious. Oh, cool, I am XXXXX. [I gave him my number and he gave me his card. I feared I-Banker, but it doesn’t appear to be the case. And he says ‘fuck’ a lot so we have that in common. At least he did not ask if I “had a Facebook.”]

We parted ways and I headed to Aberdeen to catch a sampan wondering what had just happened. [True story.]

Did I just get picked up on my way to the bus? Wow.

Woke up this morning to a missed call from an unknown number. I guess we will see.

[True story.]


About Amanda

I am repatriating expatriate trying to work it all out. Well, to work some of it out anyhow. I am writing here for sanity, focus and general over-sharing.
This entry was posted in Life, Silliness, true stories and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to More true stories.

  1. Pingback: 215/365 « Blog Archive « "wake, now discover…

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s