Hong Kong: August to October
This morning, I woke up genuinely a little scared for my life. You see, I’ve found myself in a predicament you wouldn’t be surprised to find as the plot of a silent film. Just over a week ago, I managed to dislocate my acrimioclavicular joint (between my collarbone and shoulder) doing a handstand on the beach in Cyprus. Four days ago, having returned from Cyprus, I had surgery to repair that dislocation. I am now managing the pain of recovering from that surgery with a cocktail of painkillers that really should be upped a little. I can’t move my shoulder a great deal, and I’m drowsy most of the time. Given my situation, you might understand why I woke up truly afraid this morning, knowing I’d have to take a 12 and a half hour long haul flight to Hong Kong, where I’m moving for 10 months.
It’s 9.30 am on a Monday and I’m sat in a café in Manchester airport, hoping my waiter will hurry up with my water so I can take some paracetamol. My journey through the airport was actually far better than I expected. I had a bit of a hitch at the beginning, as Cathay Pacific consulted their medical advisor to ask whether I was fit to fly, but once they’d confirmed this they were nothing but helpful. They let me combine the allowance weight of my two hold bags into one big bag for the sake of functioning one handed, and security let me pass through the special assistance lane (side note: waiting in the queue with me for security was a woman wearing a shirt adorned with an image of le monke and the words oh oh stinky. I imagine the special assistance she needed was not physical). It’s just as well that they let me through quickly as the pain is really started to kick in again. Discomfort, too: I’m very conscious that I have a fiber drilled through my bone connected it to another bone. For a man as autistic as myself, the feeling of something being a little off is truly unpleasant.
In other, better news, I’m wearing a mix of Dior Sauvage elixir and Chanel allure homme sport au extreme that I sampled vigorously in the duty free. I’m also less worried about the actual move than I was when I woke up. Whilst brushing my teeth this morning I was hit with kind of a flash forward, a that’s so raven esque premonition of things to come. I predicted the most diabolical two man of all time. I saw a buddy comedy movie about a 6’4 white man from England and his dazzlingly handsome, Cantonese-speaking Hong-Konger friend quite literally taking over the city. John, my love, a friend I met at Lancaster, is no longer moving to the UK this year, as he’d planned. He didn’t manage to get onto the Master’s course he’d applied to, so he’s staying home for another year and devising a new plan. It’s really a shame for him- especially since his girlfriend lives in the UK and he thinks they’ll have to break up now. For me, though, it’s the best news I could’ve received. I have my *in* to the city. I have my Juliette in Paris, my Christiana in Cyprus, my Dan in London, my Eliah in St Andrews. I have visions of us combining our niches to climb to the very top of Hong Kong high society; chilling in skyscrapers with the continent’s most influential people. Maybe I’m delusional, but we’re charismatic and I back myself. AND, we’ve got the type of every woman in the city covered now: we cover the white fetishists and the Asian fetishists, the tall and short lovers, the soft and the rugged lovers, the rock and the RnB lovers. It’s game on.
As for now, though, the only game I’m involved with is eating the huge burrito I’ve been served one handed. Whilst doing this, I’ve overheard something fascinating. A man next to me has just explained that his friend works for Amazon and his job is to build printing presses. When you order a book on Amazon, he says, they never *actually* have it in stock. Instead, the send an order to the nearest printing press to your address, where they print a new copy of the book to send to you. It sounds far fetched, but this guy seems very sincere and has no reason to lie. That is at least a little cool.
I’m now sat on the transfer bus waiting to get to the plane. I’m about 10 minutes overdue painkillers and I’m waiting until I board to take them, so I’m in a fair bit of discomfort. Fortunately, the lady that okayed me to travel earlier was also at the gate, so she let me board the bus first to ensure I got a seat. I’m very grateful for how willing people are to help me.
Well, I’ve found my seat in premium economy and I must say I’m truly glad to be upper middle class in this moment. My shoulder is giving me a lot of grief but I’ve got enough leg room to almost fully extend them, no one sat to my left to bump me and a complimentary glass of champagne to wash down 90 mg of codeine phosphate with. I have a feeling this will be the most chilled flight of my life. The only issue is that everyone boarding one side of the plane has to go past me as I’m sat at the very front, so I’m afraid someone won’t notice the sling. It’s a small concern though, as the only person that has done so thus far is a tiny, pretty Asian lady sitting next to me, so I don’t much mind.
The film selection on this plane is awesome, which is ideal since I’ll be able to watch around 6 of them. They’ve even got a dedicated A24 section- as if. My only fear is that I might fall asleep and miss them. So far, I’ve got “I saw the TV glow”, the new A24 film scored by my dear friend Alex G, “The Zone of Interest,” “Challengers,” “Moneyball,” “Judas and the Black Messiah,” “Ip Man,” “Aftersun,” “All of us strangers,” “Apocalypse Now,” “Call me by your name,” “Potrait of a Lady on Fire,” and “Into the Spiderverse” all in my library. I’m thinking I might go for the first one once I’m good and high in the middle of the night around 7 hours into the flight so I can be enchanted by the spooky, atmospheric score. For now, I’ll go for a deep, hard hitting drama because I’m awake enough to focus. It’s simply a question of which homoerotic film I should watch and whether it should star Paul mescal or Timothee Chalamet. I’m thinking Ip Man makes sense for when I’m really drowsy, as I’ll only have to focus on the fight choreography. The rest are wildcards I’ll call on if I’m in the mood.
This just keeps getting better. A very pretty stewardess asked me if my shoulder hurt, then brought me an ice pack when I answered in the affirmative. Now I’m sat in my vest, icing my shoulder whilst drinking a pale ale made specifically for Cathay Pacific flights called “Betsy.” I decided on Aftersun in the end, so I’ll drop a review in an hours time.
I’m taking a break to eat my lunch now and I must say that aftersun has been horribly underwhelming thus far. Next to nothing has happened and the protagonist is thoroughly uninteresting. It’s understated Oscar bait that appears to have nothing to say beyond not saying much at this point. I really hope I’m proven wrong soon. I was right- literally fuck all happened. The plot is that a young dad takes his daughter on holiday and then they come home. That’s it. I’m going to review bomb that film to everyone that’ll listen. I heard people say it made them cry! Nothing bad happens in the whole thing. What a load of nonsense.
Call Me By Your Name followed Aftersun and, I know it’s fairly well documented at this point, but what a film. It had me welling up throughout the entire third act. It even had me rooting for evil twink supreme Timothee Chalamet, the epitome of everything I envy and hate in the male figure. The soundtrack, by Sufjan Stevens, was pretty great too, especially since I’m yet to be convinced of all the hype around him. The film worked as the perfect palate cleanser, and now, 5 hours into the flight, I think I’ll take 4 codeine and watch the Alex G movie.
The Alex G movie, I Saw the TV Glow, wasn’t half bad. The cast were fine and the characters were whatever, but the premise- two people realising that their favourite fantasy TV show is in fact their real lives, and their *real* lives are a delusion- is executed perfectly. It’s actually very unsettling at times and the ending acts as the perfect climax to a genuinely chilling crescendo of eerie happenings. The season 5 finale episode, in particular, will stick with me for a while.
Unfortunately the 4 codeine haven’t had the desired effect of knocking me out, which isn’t ideal as it’ll be 6 am when I arrive so I would’ve liked to have slept by then. I guess we’ll see.
10 hours into the flight and I’m not feeling too hot. I just woke up in pain, headed to the bathroom to stretch my throbbing legs, then returned to my seat to find breakfast was being served. At first I thought I might be hungry and that some food would be perfect, but when the waitress placed the piping hot package of pork and noodles in front of me, I felt violently sick. I asked her to take it back and swap it for a bottle of water. I’m hoping to fall back asleep after a little my hydration, then stumble my way to a taxi on the other side and collapse in bed.
We’ve just landed and I’m realising that I really need to stop taking codeine soon. The pain is still too much to bear without it, but the downside is that it doesn’t just numb the pain, it also numbs pleasure. I should be feeling far more awestruck and elated at seeing the insane surroundings I’ve just arrived in than I currently am. I guess some of that could be put down to my tiredness, but still. At least it’s fairly appropriate to be abusing opioids in Hong Kong, given that-I *think*- the city’s prominence comes from its historical role as a British opium trading outpost during the opium wars, which I should really look into.
The view I’ve been greeted with having disembarked is stunning. The runway stretches off towards green, tropical mountains coated in low hanging clouds. I didn’t get to enjoy it for long, however, as I followed a path downstairs and onto an internal railway towards baggage claim. How technologically advanced.
One thing you notice quite quickly is the British influence. The passports are nearly identical to the old purple ones we used to have. They also use our plugs and drive on the correct side of the road. It’s a lot like Cyprus in that way.
Oh, and speaking of technologically advanced, the toilets in the airport are all marble walled, with a little screen above the urinals displaying a shimmering image of Hong Kong’s skyline. Mad.
I’m in a taxi now and let me tell you, these things are charming. The city taxis are red and white old beaters from the 70s. The “new territories” ones (I’m yet to understand what that means) are green and white. They’re the exact same as yellow New York cabs but somehow more vintage. I love it. Oh my god, the police vans are big stretched out VW minivans. Unreal. One more thing, my taxi driver is a cross eyed old man that hasn’t said a word to me yet. I trust him with my life.
Just as I remembered: Hong Kong is a city that consists of the most buildings you’ve ever seen in your life along with multitudes of rocky outcroppings covered in dense greenery. It’s like a city reclaimed by nature in a post apocalyptic world. The vertical scale is immense. Everywhere you look there’s a skyscraping tenement building next to three more of the same. The roads cut through them like the railway in Amsterdam.
On arrival at my hotel I was greeted by my dear boss Charlie, an English lady that has lived here for 20 years. She showed me to my room, which boasts a double bed, a view of the city and a fairly sizeable shared living space, then to the gym and pool, both of which are impressive. On our way out of the gym, we bumped into a girl named Beth, who Charlie explained is currently entering her second year working for the college. She’s tall, smiley and southern, and I believe she’ll be a great guide for me throughout my journey.
Having finally finished all of the necessary admin and made it to my room, I managed to unpack one handed and have a shower. I popped a few more painkillers then headed out for lunch, knowing I’d need to line my stomach to avoid getting an ulcer. On the way out of my flat I bumped into Beth once again, who offered to direct me to the shops and to a dumpling place for me to eat that has English signage.
The culture shock is HITTING in this supermarket. They’re playing a Cantonese cover of uptown girl on repeat and they’re selling glutinous dumplings and black chickens. They also have ‘live’ fish swimming in a tank that are evidently for sale. This is truly bizarre.
I narrowly avoided having a panic attack in the supermarket and moved into the dumpling place. It’s called Bafang and it’s very quaint. I ordered pork dumplings and milk tapioca sweet tea. Both are going down a treat and reminding me that I do in fact love Asian cuisine. The dumplings are as good as any I’ve had and the tea is super sweet without being sickly- very comforting. The best part was that it took 30 seconds for me to order, pay and take my food.
After lunch, I came home again to unpack my things; some eggs, dumplings, salt, pepper, soy sauce and oil, to be specific. I also cracked open a purple grape flavoured red bull, which I’ve never seen before. I’m planning on collecting all the cool cans I buy and stacking them on my windowsill like a fresher, as I have a huge windowsill and nothing to do with it.
I just watched a big ass fruit fall from a tree and hit the ground with a unsettling bonk. Given the number of tropical storms that hit this city, I’m a little concern that one day I’ll fall victim to such a bonk. Watch this space.
From the same tree that the fruit fell from, I keep hearing the sounds of what can only be described as a bird of paradise. This place is a serious fever dream.
Sir, another big ass fruit has fallen from the tree.
I noted before I arrived that I wouldn’t mind how prevalent advertising is in Hong Kong because I can’t understand what it’s selling me and I was dead right. I keep seeing images of women with entirely unnatural bone structures next to boxes of stuff covered in Cantonese characters and I don’t care at all. It’s great, in fact. Loving the bright lights.
The evening of my arrival in Hong Kong, I sorted out my new SIM and travel cards, then headed into a super trendy area called Mung Kok to meet John for dinner. It’s 4 am as I recount this; I’m sat in bed, watching a lightning storm outside and trying my best to sleep off the intense, stinging pain in my shoulder. Anyway, John was late because he had explosive diarrhoea, so I killed some time by buying a grape and oolong tea, smoking a cig and people watching. The people in Mung Kok are dripped out head to toe and it’s already inspiring me to dress far more eccentrically. I have a strong urge to dye my hair, too, but it’s against company regulations.
John arrived after 25 minutes and we headed to a subterranean restaurant for a kind of Korean barbecue deal at a place called ‘yakukinku like.’ I let him order $200 HK worth of beef, rice and kimchee for me, then we caught up on our relatively peaceful lives over the past year. I declared my plans to take over the city, and he admitted he’d been meaning to do some exploring anyway, which is great news.
After dinner, he treated me to lemon tea, which is all the rage in the city at the moment and I see why. Super refreshing. We drank our tea as we explored a tiny, Afflecks style mall; spending most of our time sampling every fragrance in a 2 metres squared fragrance store.
I must note here that people constantly stare at me in the street, which is fine, but it also encourages me to look the best I can so that I do foreigners proud.
The mall concluded our little reunion date, and I headed home to grab some sleep ready for my first day of training the next day. I woke up without much difficulty at 9 am, made myself scrambled egg and kimchee for breakfast, showered and put on a shirt and trousers, as I'd be heading into the office later.
I won't bore my readers with too many details regarding my first day of training, but I will not some interesting titbits of information about Hong Kong that I was made aware of. The weather stuff is fairly obvious: there are constant typhoons and floods during the rainy season- some so bad that roads are destroyed and underground stations are totally flooded. Fortunately, I do not have to go to school during these storms. Another fairly obvious thing is that I am absolutely not allowed to criticise the Chinese government in any way due to the national security act. I really don't mind this as I much prefer criticising Western governments anyway, but it's still interesting to note. Since Chinese politics are off the table for conversation, my boss suggested a different topic that the people of Hong Kong like to talk about. Unlike the Brits, who are forever talking about the weather, the people here are obsessed with what they eat. They'll ask what you had for breakfast, what you're having for lunch, when you're having it and how much you're eating. To me, this feels like a fantastic cure for any disordered eating habits I might still have. Apparently they're also absolutely unfiltered: they will tell you if you look tired, fat, ugly, spotty, really whatever they think. It sounds like I'll fit in fairly well. The final, and perhaps most interesting piece of advice I was given by my boss was that I should NOT call anyone silly. Supposedly silly means stupid or foolish here, and so calling someone a silly goose is the equivalent of calling them a dunce. What a crying shame.
It's probably also worth doing an inventory of my fellow first year teachers, since I met them all today. There are two other British guys called Ben and Sam. They are flatmates. Ben looks British and has a distinctly British dryness to his humour. Sam is 6'5 and both looks and sounds like Samwise Gamgee, but ginger. He's lovely and an absolute sight for the locals. There are two Black south Africans (an important detail, I believe) called Lulu and Eden. Eden thinks I'm very open and unafraid to give my opinion, which is true, though I don't know if she likes that about me just yet. Lulu is fun; she's teaching the same age group as me at school and we had a lengthy conversation about what booze we like. There is a Trinidadian girl called Sabrina or Bri. She's sweet and her accent is endlessly endearing. All of these people live in the same building as me. Three more first year teachers live elsewhere, specifically with their husbands and boyfriends. One is an Indian girl called Phamida. The second is the most stereotypical Canadian ever: a friendly, outgoing woman in her early thirties. Her husband works in insolvency and presumably makes a killing. The last is a very smiley French girl called Victoire (who has had to anglicize her name to Victoria for the sake of the Chinese kids). I think she's taken a shine to me, but that may be my vanity talking, especially since she moved to Hong Kong for her boyfriend, who's from here. I believe I'm the youngest of the bunch, which makes me the party-loving loose cannon, a role I'm happy to take on. For my first trick, I'm trying to plan a night out on Saturday after parents evening to celebrate the end of our first week. Wish me luck.
Later that day, I took the following note:
I think I’ve found my hanging out spot. It’s on a walkway over a main road that divides my street and the bustling area of Kampoa. The walkway is a bridge painted orange and green, flanked by trees populated with bats, I’m fairly sure. It boasts a view of numerous tenement blocks and thousands of windows. I like to watch the lights flick off as people call it a night. I have a feeling there’ll never be a time when they’re all off. It’s a genuine city that never sleeps.
Anyway, the next day we had training in school for the first time. The school is 40 minutes from my flat. It boasts 1000 kindergarten students, most of whom progress to the connected primary and high schools. It's in the centre of Kowloon city and offers striking views of the nearby mountains.
There's also a mall across the street, which is home to a one piece themed sushi restaurant. Of course, I ate there, and they sent me my food on a car. The Luffy meal is literally just a big sausage. That’s so on brand.
If you couldn't tell, I quite like my new place of work. I especially like the fact that, apparently, a parent told my boss once that they were worried about the English abilities of their three year old child, as they wanted them to work at Goldman Sachs in the future. That just killed me.
Well, even if I didn't include every detail, I'm now up to date with this little number. I think the rest of my account will be delivered in note form, as there isn't much point of me cataloguing everything that I do. I mean, you don't care that I'm about to buy bin bags, or that I'm considering doing my laundry soon. You do, however, probably care that I bought cooked duck to eat with some rice for dinner tonight, and that when I opened the package, I discovered that the head was included. Beak and all. Charlie Kelly would be proud.
I’m on my way to school and I’ve just watched a woman on the train put a button up flannel shirt on back to front over the rest of her clothes. I have a feeling the inexplicable will be fairly mundane by the end of my time here.
Ok, it’s been over a week since I wrote that and I’ve been extremely busy the whole time. I’ve been working, I exhausted myself sleeping poorly then got sick, I got wasted twice with my co-workers and I fell into my love for reading again. I also met my roommate for the next ten months. I took some notes during this hiatus, but I was altogether too wiped out to write anything serious. I’ve taken a bit of a wellness day today, though, so I think it’s time to catch up. What follows will be a brief highlight reel based on the notes I took, as well as any details I retrospectively deem worth everyone’s attention. Here we go.
God, Chinese people give their kids some really silly names. You see, once I arrived at school (following the backwards flannel incident) we had some training, then met our local teachers so that we could begin prepping the classroom for the year. They handed me a list of the names and pictures of my students, which included some absolute gems. There’s a quintus, a Kingston, a Winston, a Bevis (no butthead, unfortunately), and even a Torres, named after Liverpool and Chelsea’s Fernando. I’m very excited to meet them all, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to hold in a laugh when a little Asian boy introduces himself to me as Quintus. Also, from what I’ve heard, Quintus is a bit of a genius, so I have a feeling I’ll develop a soft spot for him.
Anyway, as well as being effectively introduced to my students for the first time, my first day in school was significant for the fact of meeting my new colleagues, Mrs Chui, Mrs Chong and Mrs Cheng (I’m not kidding). Mrs Chui seems to be a Tim very nice but dim type; I believe she has quite a bit of teaching experience but she’s only been at Munsang a year and is clearly still learning the ropes. Her English is also not all that great. Certainly better than my Cantonese, but still. Mrs Chong, however, is entirely on it. She’s been there 10 years and it shows. She’s kind, funny and not far off fluent in English. She has been a great help so far. Mrs Cheng is the TA. She’s 23 and ambitious. She wants desperately to be a full teacher and she’s already the head of the TAs despite her age. I like Mrs Cheng a lot; she’s a cutie pie. Then again, I like them all. Once I admitted I was a little hungry and all three of them dumped their snack supplies on my table and insisted I ate them all for fear of me fainting on them. I don’t think that was ever a risk, but I was happy to oblige in eating biscuits, nuts, fruit and chocolate, washed down with a carton of chocolate milk. They also all called me handsome and stylish (the easiest way to win my affections) telling me I’d be a hit with the local ladies. God I hope so.
I’ll skip over the rest of my time in school this week as it mainly involved labelling books and stationary, or designing parts of the classroom while getting to know my colleagues. I will, however, attach a picture of the English corner I designed, as I was quite pleased with myself.
Oh. One more note: I had to host parent teacher orientation day despite only having the curriculum described to me the evening before. The highlight was greeting a man in a city shirt, whose son later recognised me as “the one who plays football for Manchester City.” I think I’m going to keep up the lie.
I lied; I have another note. As planned, to celebrate the success of parent-teacher orientation day, my co-workers and I headed for our first Hong Kong night out. We started at a quaint little pub in Central called The Globe, which is hidden away on a side-street and which we visited on Meagan’s recommendation (she has lived here for a few months) with the intention of watching the bloody footy.
Next, we headed to Lan Kwai Fong, or LKF, the main party district of Hong Kong. This place is cognitive dissonance to the max- like the strip in Ayia Napa or Kos but sandwiched in the middle of the Universal Trade building and a 20th century prison that housed Ho Chi Minh. It’s mental.
Meagan used a dangerous combination of the manners of a Canadian and the shameless forcefulness of a white woman in here thirties to insist that whichever bar wanted to house us could only do so on the condition that they offered us free shots and happy hour prices. Now, like the aforementioned strips, the shots were watered down to shit, but the cocktails hit like a truck and the beer glasses are massive, so I was not complaining.
The night progressed as we moved onto a club called Maggie Choos, which is hidden behind an exterior that looks like an abandoned DIY store and which plays quite shit music. Asian women dance on a stage and shifty men shift around them. I had a good time and my colleagues complimented my dancing, which I appreciated since this sacrifice set back the recovery of my shoulder by about a week. However, the drinks were insanely expensive and I have since been told that it’s a bit of a tourist trap, which makes sense, but which embarrasses me to the extent that I will NOT be returning.
We concluded our evening with a Taxi home, in which I offered to give the driver a 20 dollar note, thinking it was 20 pounds. In fact, that equates to around 2 pounds, so he was less than happy at my assertion that it should be enough to cover our journey.
Anyway, during my first weekend here, I encountered for the first time a phenomenon that happens every Sunday in Hong Kong. On my way to the shops, I noticed that what looked like a homeless encampment seemed to have appeared overnight on my smoking bridge. Women were sat in tents or on cardboard, singing into microphones and filming TikTok’s. Of course, that didn’t make any sense because most homeless people don’t mobilise overnight for karaoke get togethers, but it really did look like the kind of encampment you’d see under a highway in LA. In the end, a local explained to me that the women were domestic workers from rich households in Hong Kong. These women live in their employers’ houses and work Monday to Saturday. Sunday, then, is there only day to let loose, and they do this by leaving their homes and spending the day singing together in tents on the street. I really don’t know what to make of it. It’s bleak for sure and it screams the message that extreme wealth and luxury the likes of which are common in HK only exist at the expense of racialised (these women are generally Filipino) labour. At the same time, it was sweet to see the kind of community they’ve built in less than ideals circumstances. I believe the male domestic workers tend to do the same kind of thing, but they instead descend on the beaches every Sunday. I’m glad to know this, as I prefer my beaches peaceful.
I can’t think of much else to write about my first full week in my new home as I really was quite sick most of the time, though I definitely feel like I’m learning the ropes now. I’ve checked out all of the major social spots in the city, namely Central, Mong Kok (teehee), Causeway Bay and Tsim Sha Tsui. I’ve also found a boozer near my house that I quite like. Well, I didn’t necessarily find it, the returning teachers invited us all for a drink there, but I know it now nonetheless. On the topic of those drinks, which took place two days ago (it’s the Sunday of my second week, now), I had a lovely time but a few things irked me. Firstly, Beth repeatedly compared me to a male teacher she’d been friends with the previous year. Paresh, it seems, had a bit of a tongue in cheek rivalry with her, and she’s obviously projecting that onto me. She keeps having a go because she knows she’ll get a rise, but it’s beginning to annoy me. You see, it’d be fine if she was joshing me because she wanted to Josh me, but I can’t stand being a stand in for someone that so obviously is not me. I’m my own person and a delightful one at that, so I don’t appreciate being the canvas for someone to project their desires onto. She even went as far as to call me a BTEC Paresh, which is truly out of order. I think I may have to call her out on it, otherwise I’ll snap one time. I’m not sure why it’s wound me up so much, but it has. The second thing that wound me up was the behaviour of a male returning teacher called Oisin, a Northern Irish Catholic that made no effort to communicate with any of the new teachers until we went out for drinks. He seems sound enough, but he’s the kind of guy that likes to put others down so that they seek his approval. I can’t stand a guy like that. For example, when we were organising where to go after the bar, I suggested we stop off at home so I could drop my bag, since I’d come straight from work. His response was to say: “see if yous want to go home like, that’s fine. Just go home. No ones stopping ye.” Of course, I didn’t want go home, I just didn’t want to bring a folder full of lesson plans to the club, but he wouldn’t hear that. In the end I convinced them to stop off, but it was far more of a pain than it needed to be. He also burst into a vibe killing rant in the taxi home when his roommate suggested we play some RA tunes through the aux. Now, I do think the rant was entirely fair, because jokingly suggesting to a Northern Irish Catholic that we listen to some songs about the organisation they created to fight against an oppressive colonial regime is a decidedly ill advised idea, but still. Sometimes people are stupid and don’t know any better. Eh, maybe I’m just being selfish because it made the journey awkward, I don’t know.
Well, the day after I felt like death warmed up, having drank 5 pints, a Long Island and a bottle of soju to combat my social anxiety. To remedy this, I planned to meet John for Korean fried chicken in Causeway bay. I spent most of the day reading and drinking water, then hopped on the MTR to cross over to HK island.
It was on this journey, listening to my white boy of the month playlist, that I noticed how MTR stations are usually decorated with little pastel tiles that are all the same colour. It’s a little detail but it has a striking effect when you see it. It’s very easy to romanticise your life when you quite obviously stand out from a crowd of people ascending a steep elevator surrounded by pink-red tiled walls while you listen to Eyes Without a Face by Billy Idol.
On the topic of standing out, I think I finally know a little better what it’s like to be racially othered. I know it’s not the same as being non-white because the gaze lacks the implication of overtly negative stereotypes, but I do feel other. There’s a mix of curiosity and distrust in the eyes of everyone around me, which I suppose is fair. Honestly, I don’t mind the attention, and it’s better than feeling anonymous. Still, it’s a new sensation.
Well, back to the present. I’m reclining by the pool at my hotel and enjoying the heat, which isn’t too stuffy today. I fear I’ve been an idiot once again. I tried to do a few bicep curls in the gym, which didn’t hurt very much, but probably wasn’t a good idea. I’ve also tried swimming with both arms for the first time in a month. I think it was either a great way to ease into improving my range of motion and building back some muscle, or it’ll set my recovery back another week. Maybe it’s somewhere in the middle. I’m in no pain right now and I’ve not taken painkillers, but we’ll see how I feel once I get into my rock hard bed.
Today was my first day teaching, which of course meant it was my first time meeting the kids. I’ll save describing the funniest ones for after I know them a little better. Still, to give a sense of the type of thing I’ve been dealing with all day, I’ll drop this anecdote. At the start of the day, which is split into a morning and afternoon class, my job was to greet the kids. This meant asking their names, introducing myself and directing them inside. I most vividly remember one very tiny girl approaching me with a mask on, accompanied by eyes that were clearly not smiling. “What’s your name?” I asked. “Cham cheuk ting” she responded. “Ohhhh,” I said, “what’s your English name?” “Cham cheuk ting,” she insisted, unflinching. Her English name was Phoebe, but that girl had an energy about her that suggested I shouldn’t argue.
My TA, Kayla, just bought me bubble tea. My heart is melting a little bit.
The day got even better later when Kayla’s friend, a local teacher, came to our classroom to say hi. She asked about my intricately decorated English corner, evidently just to start a conversation, then said something to Kayla in Chinese and giggled. I asked what they were saying about me and Kayla said the other teacher called me handsome. She giggled, then reiterated her praise, asking me if English girls called me handsome much. I told her that English girls don’t like to tell men they’re handsome as the English don’t like to say how they feel. She then asked if they showed me I was handsome with their actions, and giggled again like a school girl. Mrs Chong shook her head disapprovingly and told her to stop being naughty, but she continued, thankfully. She asked my name, which I told her, and she said she was called Mrs Li, but that she’d prefer me to call her Amber. She giggled again, then left with a wave. Amber is beautiful. Unfortunately, she is also married with a 1 year old daughter. I think that interaction was simply love of the game for her. She liked watching the tall, handsome white man squirm under the tremendous weight of her complements. I, however, would die for her. She came by my classroom again later; I waved at her and she blew me a kiss. I love her.
Yesterday, the kids weren’t in school as there was a T3 typhoon warning. This allowed me to get through a number of chores in the classroom that would’ve been impossible otherwise. The T3 later raised to a T8, which meant we got to leave work early and had the next day off school. This announcement was met with ecstatic cheers from every classroom. I mean, the teachers here are insanely committed to their work, frequently pulling 10 hour days to catch up, but they’re also human, and everyone loves a stormy day watching TV under the covers.
The typhoon provided us the opportunity for our first ever typhoon party: flat golf. The idea had been floated by Beth and Irene on the bus that morning, but it really got some traction after the official announcement. As in pub golf, we’d go to each others flats one by one, having a different drink at each one. I, of course, was delighted by the opportunity to show off my mixology skills, along with my incredible capacity for hosting fun events, a skill which surprises me every time I exhibit it.
The golf commenced at Beth and Irene’s flat, with a very potable rum punch. I indulged in two glasses whilst helping Joe, my housemate, mix with the group I’ve known for 3 weeks nearly now. This was particularly hard as Ben and Sam hadn’t arrived by this point, and the music playing was absolute shite, but we managed nonetheless. The turnout was surprisingly good, with all the new teachers that live in harbourview making an appearance, along with two returning teachers. Only Oisin didn’t show his face, which is obviously too cool to be seen at an event so… last year. Our time at Beth and Irene’s was short and sweet, as I suggested moving onto our place, eager to get it out of the way quickly so as to ensure I could leave whenever I wanted later in the evening. Unfortunately, I am the best bartender, the best host and have the best music taste, so my plan backfired and flat became the final stop of the night. I squeezed limes so brilliantly, poured Havana club so freely, played samba so tastefully and hosted ring of fire so authoritatively that no one could bring themselves to leave. In the end, we spent 10pm to 2 am at my flat, chewing the fat and getting rather fucked up. It was a pretty nice night, in all honesty, other than Beth harping on about this paresh character. One thing that really crushed me was the reveal that him and Mrs Li had been the best of pals last year. It made me feel like I was simply another foreign toy to her. It turns out that feeling like a caricature or curiosity rather than a person is not all that fun. Sorry people of colour, I wasn’t familiar with your game. And it’s obvious that I’m not upset by her flirting with other people, she is quite literally married, it’s only the feeling that I’m the next in a long line of pets. Maybe I’m overreacting because I have too much time to turn things over in my head.
Anyway, I’m writing all of this from a new spot I’ve found in my area. It’s a Japanese comfort food place that serves all manner of fried things with tea. I’m eating fried chicken with rice, curry sauce, cheese and veg, washed down with ginger green tea. I’m doing this as the typhoon continues unloading itself outside and Japanese pop blares from a speaker. I think I’ll enjoy the ambience for now.
It appears the next generation is cooked globally. A girl in the MTR station is actively league of legends gaming on her iPad with headphones on, giving full on comms. When a game ends she switches to TikTok before moving back to her game. Lunacy.
On my way to work this morning I saw an Asian man wearing a shirt with the Welsh flag on, captioned: “Wales, Golf, Madrid. That order.” I have to assume the man either liked the dragon on the tshirt or is an avid fan of late 2010s Gareth Bale. Bizarre either way.
Today I witnessed my first ever flag raising ceremony at school. I spent the whole time looking like Speed trying not to laugh at the kid who’s mom is kinda homeless.
This morning I felt fairly awful. Yesterday, I had a tough day at school due to factors both within and outside of my control, but they’re fairly unimportant. What’s more important is that at the end of the day, my local teacher Mrs Chong, who I really quite like, not so subtly expressed her disapproval with my performance. Then, when I asked for some advice on something we were doing today, she responded with a gut wrenchingly condescending: “Think” and a tap on the side of her head. Rather than flying off the rails and ranting about all the reasons it was completely unreasonable to expect me to be able to “think” my way through a new and unfamiliar job, most of which is conducted in fucking Cantonese, I held my peace. I instead ranted about these things to Joe on the way back to our flat. You see, I think the thing that annoys me most in the world is being condescended, because I have a very high estimation of myself and don’t believe anyone has the right to talk down to me. Not that anyone should talk down to anyone, but I think it really shouldn’t even be in question for some people (me). It’s probably due to being condescended by my father on a daily basis throughout my upbringing, but we’ll leave that for now.
Anyway, I spent the evening making tomato and mascarpone pasta sauce from scratch, which I enjoyed with tuna and fusilli. This grounded me a little, and showed me that maybe my reaction had been more emotional than logical. After all, I really didn’t do my job all that well yesterday. I concluded that I should probably simply get better at my job, rather than taking on a toxic workplace culture so deeply rooted that teachers with their own children pull 12 hours shifts most days.
This morning (and this is where the real melancholy came in), I admitted this revelation to Joe, who agreed that I’d overreacted. Now, everyone knows that the response I was looking for was: “sure, but you were still right to be upset,” though that’s not really what upset me. I apologised for ranting and told him he could tell me if he didn’t want me to any more. His response: “it’s ok, I just tuned out. Like the time you were telling me about you ex girlfriend. I mean I hardly knew you after all.” Gut punch. He admitted he was lip service listening to me as I poured my heart out. I know I said that being condescended is my least favourite thing, but maybe it’s not feeling listened to. Really it’s anything that makes me feel small. In that moment I felt tiny, something that I, as a confident white man, very rarely feel like. I mean, people almost always listen to me.
This discovery and the feeling it stimulated in me caused me to spiral into overwhelming sense of insignificance. Hong Kong doesn’t help with that feeling; it’s so unknowably dense with stories- what’s mine to all that? That new and unwelcome feeling of otherness really compounded the whole mood for me. When people stare with vague distrust at me on the MTR, I feel more like a projection than a flesh and blood person, like the sum of a population’s assumptions about me. No one here knows me closely and intimately just yet, and that’s a very hard reality to deal with. I mean, even when people are friendly I’m a little apprehensive about why. Does Mrs Li (or Beth?) really have any intention of getting to know me, or am I the replacement for Paresh, the new handsome foreigner to toy with at work (the new egotistical male to poke over and over).
Maybe I need to temper my ego a little and realise that only a select few people have any interest at all in listening to me, and why should anyone else? I’d like to think I listen to people, and I mean really listen, but maybe that’s not true.
I feel much better after a decidedly successful day at school and a long bus-ride home chat with B, my boss, who I’m really coming to like. I assured her she was doing a stellar job as a senior teacher and she assured me that my teachers were just like everyone else’s teachers, overly harsh. Maybe I’ll get close to her? I wouldn’t mind that, she’s lovely and has the familiar edge of a fellow Aries.
It’s a Friday night now. 10.07 pm, specifically. I find myself sat in a bar called The Kowloon Taproom in TST, the busiest area outside of Hong Kong Island. It’s a craft beer place that sits opposite the world famous Ned Kelly’s Last Stand, famous for being the oldest pisser in the city. I’d planned a solo mission tonight to check it out, but on arrival I concluded it’d be best to build up some tension by observing it from across the road over an 8% IPA and some chicken wings. I’ve not eaten yet and the Double IPA is revealing itself to have been a dubious choice, though I do feel pretty good. I’m in a pink summer shirt and blue trousers, hoping to be approached by someone either willing to make a dent in my steadily increasing loneliness or buy my drinks for the rest of the evening.
The bar has one of those big screens to list all the fancy beers, which I’ve found is the mark of a place that serves excellent beer nowadays, from Stockport to Tsim Sha Tsui. It’s open at the front, allowing me to observe the clientele of my later destination. Currently it’s a pair of girls and a camp gay guy taking innumerable photos outside. One girl, in white platforms, white knee high socks, a white skirt and a white blouse, is holding my attention at the minute. Anyway, the bar that I’m in is decorated with cool, quirky posters for beers that they sell or have sold, all of which have silly names such as HK Lovecraft, Monkey King and Machine Men. I’m very tempted to steal a few, given that I like beer even more than I like quirky, cool things.
After my beer and wings I think I’ll foray across the road to enjoy a live jazz band and worse beer for more money. What a rock’n’roll lifestyle I live.
Well, I’m now in the famed Ned’s, sipping on a beer I believe I paid £10 for due to the £1 tip they took without asking. The band are on a break right now, so I’m hoping the atmosphere will improve with their return.
The atmosphere improved immeasurably. The band consists of 5 old men, 4 of whom are Asian and one- the front man- British. He’s a sixty something Geordie who does a mean Louis Armstrong impression and brings genuine fun to the performance by messing with his band mates throughout the set. When I walked into the bar, people were sat, huddled round tables and talking amongst themselves. By the time I left, 3 hours later, all but the most interesting people had left, and no one could help but dance in the tight spaces between the tables. In fact, I think I was the first person to start dancing, soon joined by the beautiful girl in white that I mentioned earlier. We shot each other glances from opposite sides of the bar and beamed smiles during breaks in the near relentless tempo. At an actual break in the set, I met her and her friends outside to ask if they came to Ned’s often, and for any other recommendations. I presume her English wasn’t great, as my conversation was almost entirely conducted with her friend, but that was nice anyway. On the whole, although I spent 60 pounds on beer and wandered home alone, I proved three things to myself last night: I love dancing, I can cold open and I can walk home from TST. On a personal level, those first two realisations mean a lot to me, as they seem to represent that start of the rebirth into a shamelessly expressive young man I’d hoped would take place in Hong Kong. The final realisation is important because that walk home is spectacular. Most of it takes place on the avenue of stars, which provides one of the best views Hong Kong has to offer. I used the walk to call my friends for a catch up. Jack is finally moving into his new apartment. I miss him more than I can explain.
Anyway, it’s the following morning now, and I’m not feeling all that rough. A black coffee, vanilla yoghurt and some scrambled eggs should revive me sufficiently to complete some chores before I meet John and his friends for his birthday later.
It’s been about two weeks since I properly updated this as I’ve been feeling pretty tired from work, but today I have a day off because I’m deathly sick and have a huge lump in my throat again. Accordingly, I thought I’d finally get round to catching up over a mug of lemon, ginger and honey tea.
So, John’s birthday. That was a very nice evening. I met him and a friend in Mong Kok station after being told to look out for said friend, a quote “Asian twink.” I pointed out to John that Mong Kok is perhaps the global capital of Asian twinks, and that it might be easier to look for a white twunk, which helped the three of us link up after 10 minutes of fruitless searching. His friend is called Andy and he’s very lovey. Tall and slim, full of confidence and apparently John’s closest friend here. John goes to Andy for all of his restaurant recommendations, including the one we were on the way to that night. I forget what it was called, but it was on a rooftop with a stunning view of the city. At the restaurant I met the rest of his friends. I can’t remember all of their names but they were an interesting and welcoming bunch. One coaches football, works in finance and earns thousands betting on sport. Another, they simply call “group leader,” which irritates him immensely because he is the least forceful of any of them. I think the most interesting thing I learnt is that none of them knew John had had a girlfriend for over a year until a day or two before. Clearly they don’t talk about their personal lives much, which is a little foreign to me. Anyway, we picked a few main courses to share (as is the custom here) and a bottle of wine. It came out fairly expensive but the food was as good as anything I’ve eaten since I’ve been here.
After dinner, we headed back to ground level where we filled up on some street food; assorted, questionable meat skewers for about £1.40 each.
Our next stop was a shisha bar that had just opened in a nearby building. Again it offered a stunning view of the city, but I’m not really a shisha guy and the flavours they ordered were BAD. I stuck mainly to beer and cocktails, though it was clear that none of them were huge drinkers, so I kept it tame.
We ended the night by exchanging Instagrams, posing for pictures and promising to meet up again after John has left. I still haven’t seen anyone but Andy since, though I have faith that we’ll link up for the football one time.
The next day I decided I’d go on a solo exploration trip to TST in search of some good food. Kayla had recommended a Korean place to me a few weeks before, so I thought I’d finally try it out. On arrival, I discovered that the restaurant was on the pricier side and clearly designed for people to share larger portions, so I looked elsewhere. Just outside I found a street food vendor that professed to be, and indeed was, in the Michelin guide as a place that served simple, good quality food. So, I bought myself a few pig intestine, turkey giblet and octopus sticks to put me on while I decided where to get something more substantial. I landed on a New York style pizza place nearby, as I’d been craving a slice and these were as big as any I’d seen. I forget it’s name, but it really had the vibe of a Joe’s pizza esque shop. Unfortunately, the pizza wasn’t all that good, though it’d certainly do if I wanted to cater for a party one time. Well, with my mediocre slice in hand, I crossed the street over to Kowloon Mosque, which is huge, and slipped by up some stairs to Kowloon park, which is also huge. At the top of the stairs I was met with a children’s karate showcase, involving fighting with bo staves and dancing in those big dragon costumes. To my vaguely hung over mind, this was quite ridiculous, though it was really nothing to my next discovery. I followed a path through the park to “bird lake,” hoping to see some exotic, jungle-type creatures. I was thinking parakeets, parrots, macaws if I was really lucky. No- flamingos. They have a colony of bright the fuck pink flamingos in the middle of Kowloon’s busiest neighbourhood. Nothing about this place surprises me anymore.
I didn’t get up to much for the rest of the day, and a date I’d had planned cancelled on me, which left me feeling a tad lonely. My response was to message a girl that Tooba had put me in contact with. The girl, Megan, was an acquaintance of hers from Warwick uni who had recently moved to Hong Kong, having been born here but raised in the UK. Tooba insisted that Megan is fun, beautiful and a witty flirt, so I thought we’d probably get on well given that all of those words describe me too. We arranged to meet the following evening for dinner at a traditional Cantonese place in Central.
We met at around 9 pm at the restaurant, and I’d just finished an hour long catch up with Marshall that provided a fair few shocking reveals I shan’t get into at the minute. I only mention this to indicate the fact that I was feeling a little shaken up in the moments before meeting Megan. The feeling was dispelled almost immediately, as she behaved from the start as though we were lifelong friends. My delicious crispy duck noodles also put me at ease.
Anyway, Megan works in marketing here, having studied psychology at uni. Of course, that is about the most insidiously capitalist career path one can follow, but you wouldn’t guess that by talking to her. I think that, like me, she feels very strongly about politics but has almost no hope that things will get better. In fact, as mentioned, she’s a lot like me in many ways. Funny, unafraid to show her intelligence, and unwilling to make friends with ugly people. The main differences between us, I would say, are that she insists she’s not all that interested in romance, while romance is pretty much what I live for. Oh, there’s also the fact that she’s an Asian woman from London and I’m a white man from Manchester. Technicalities, really.
If it wasn’t apparent, I think we got on very well, as we extended our hang out beyond the restaurant, sitting in a kind of amphitheatre nearby and drinking 7/11 booze. She told me she hadn’t met anyone like me before, referencing my strange, utter transparency. I see that as a complete win. I’d like to spend more time with her, not because she’s established a genuine social life and (potentially permiable) friend group here- though that’s certainly a bonus- but because she’s a very magnetic person.
We parted around 10, meaning I only got 7 hours of sleep before work the next day. This decision set me up very poorly for what was, by far, the worst week I’ve spent here.
To begin with, I spent 12 hours at school on the Monday marking the kids’ writing homework, as it was the first time I’d done it and I’m a very meticulous man. On arrival at home, I remembered that it was the day of mid autumn festival, which is a big deal here, and there was supposed to be a “dragon dance” in a park on the island that seemed worth watching. I believe it was supposed to be a dragon made of sparklers carried by a procession, though I did not end up seeing it. Not because I didn’t go to see it, indeed I did, even after my shift from hell. No, I didn’t see it because the heavens opened as soon as I arrived at the park, dumping an amber rain warning on the pyrotechnic display and soaking me to the shaft.
Tuesday was the only pleasant day that week, as I met Megan and her friend Erika in Wan Chai, then headed to Big Wave Bay Beach, a major surfing spot here. Erika is a laugh- she’s a finance girly who shares a personality type with Jordan Belfort and who is a Jordan Peterson apologist. On a man, these would be obvious character flaws, but on a girl I find them very entertaining. The girls brought snacks and Prosecco and we spent the day chatting, reading and swimming as the sun inched towards the horizon. I’d like to see Erika again, though I believe she isn’t in the same circles as Megan, so I can’t imagine I’ll see that much of her around and about.
The next day, I dropped my phone in the fishbowl at school. It still works- indeed I’m writing on it right now- but it wouldn’t charge properly for the rest of the week and I felt very bad for the poor fish.
On Thursday I made it all the way to the MTR station before realising I’d left my lunch at home. I then had to run home and back in the heat to avoid being late.
Thursday evening was a marked improvement, though, as I went for dinner at John’s house with Andy. John’s parents’ apartment is very cute. It’s spacious, which is rare for Hong Kong, and decorated with oriental trinkets, knick knacks and presumably some Buddhist iconography.
It has a great view of the city and he has a plant covered balcony to top it all off. I believe their domestic helpers made us dinner, which is still a very strange concept to me, but I wasn’t going to complain as it was the first home cooked meal I’d had since arriving, and a delicious one. We had pork belly, chicken, scallops and rice with a nice Sauvignon.
John’s Dad is lovely- very easy to talk to and completely unintimidating, which explains John. His Mum arrived after we’d eaten, so I had less time to talk to her, but she’s an absolute angel. She insisted I call her aunty and gave me my first red pocket- a red envelope with money inside- which I genuinely needed, having not been paid yet. John, Andy and I wrapped up the night by watching 30 minutes of the reboot of The Crow, starring bill skarsgaard. I found him an odd casting choice given that the original starred Brandon Lee, Bruce’s son, and the film an odd one to reboot given that Brandon famously died on set after being shot with a faulty prop gun. The film was terrible, but fairly entertaining to laugh at.
I got home fairly late, which made the Friday at school even less pleasant than it already would’ve been, but I don’t remember anything *especially* bad happening, which is better than the alternative. I also don’t remember what I did in the evening, likely because it was overshadowed by the memorable events of the next day. Also likely because I drank a lot of beer, as I so often do.
John asked me to join him as he got his first tattoo. I obliged in spite of my phobia of needles, partly because it was going to be his last day in Hong Kong, but also partly because getting a tattoo with your friend sounded like a really fun motive. In the end it was exactly as I’d hoped; it’s a three hour boozeless hangout in a quirky space deciding how to permanently alter someone’s appearance. The setting and artist helped, too. The tattoo studio was in a skyscraper, like most things here, with a great view of an area called Diamond Hill. The view inside, however, was far more interesting. The studio has a three sofas, four tattoo chairs, a seat hanging from the ceiling, a motorbike and- get this- four hairless cats. That last thing alone was enough to sell it to me. I’d never seen one before, never mind four of the little mobile scrotums. John entertained himself by holding his hand out towards them and, when one approached him, repeating the line: “mind control, aura bro.”
My only complaint about the venue was that for about an hour, the speakers blasted every single version and cover of “dancing in the flames” by the Weeknd, and no one would turn it off. Everyone knew what was happening but no one had the courage or willpower to take the remote control and change the god awful, corny song. In the end, I stepped up to emcee, playing, in collaboration with John, a medley of Brent, Bryson, Drake and even D’Angelo. Thankfully, our music choices seemed to impress John’s tatto artist. She was a very pretty 20 year old Chinese girl called Mel, who myself and John put on a tour de force two man in pursuit of. In the end, nothing came of it, which is a bit of a shame because she happened to be a city fan.
Only a bit of a shame, though- she was a little jarring in all honesty. Even the other customers were amusing: I saw a Chinese guy with box braids. Anyway, she jabbed wings onto John’s ample chest, a process he described as “like a massage but I hate it.”
The result was one that almost no one but John could pull off. It’s just like his constant talk about W rizz, aura and being a toxic king. On anyone else it wouldn’t be the same. In fact, John’s insistence on only listening to rnb, his religious gym-going, his rizz and his tattoo all go hand in hand perfectly.
I’m already missing him. Oh, I’d best explain why I’m missing him. I mentioned that John didn’t get into his desired university and would thus be spending another year at home, but I failed to mention that a week later he received an offer from his second choice, meaning that his move to London was back on. He flew to London the next day.
By this point, my string of bad luck was officially over, and so too is my detailed recollection of what I got up to. So now, back to snippets…
I’m getting dinner at a Thai street food place. It’s very small: the seating area is outdoors, facing the kitchen and covered by an extending canvas. I’ve ordered duck rice noodles, but if they’re good and I’m still hungry I think I’ll grab a skewer too :p. I’m so naughty.
There’s an old Chinese man smoking a cig whilst stood watching the fish tank at a restaurant on the walk from the MTR to work. It’s 8.09 am. Not criticising, just observing a raw vibe. It’s also pissing down rain and he has no umbrella or rain coat.
It’s the same day. I’ve just seen a guy in a mesh tank top with a photorealistic drawing of popeye the sailor man on it.
Again, same day, and I’ve spotted a man wearing a tshirt that says “everyone smiles in the same language” but also wearing a face mask. What’s in the water today, ladies and gentlemen?
Oooooooh this was really bad. So, I was on my way home from work one night, and I happened to run into Sabrina, my Trinidadian coworker. Naturally, we got on the MTR together and chatted away. This turned out to be a fairly egregious mistake. The MTR was packed full of kids leaving school and some, stood by us, were being a little obnoxious, kind of sprawled out, jabbering and watching loud videos. Nothing too crazy, though. The MTR came to a sudden stop and one of these children fell over near Sabrina. Mind you, she didn’t fall onto her, just in front of her. Sabrina, in response, shouted “WHAT DE FUCKUH?!” at the top of her lungs on a dead silent train, causing everyone to stare at us for the rest of the journey and me to feel like crawling inside myself. Her reasoning was that “Trinny people swear a lot and I’m loud.”
The next day was the school birthday party for kids born in August and September. The birthday parties are essentially a day of games and pissing about in themed attire. This month’s theme was sports, which revealed to me that basketball is by far the most popular sport here, which I never knew. I mean, there were plenty of Real, united, Liverpool, psg and some city shirts (one in my class)- even one Ronaldo Saudi shirt- but they were swamped by NBA jerseys.
The VAST majority were Kobe, the Bron and Jordan, though I saw a few currys, two Giannis shirts and one djokic, for some reason. The only real bummer about this situation was that my beloved Amber was wearing a United shirt. When I interrogated her about it, she got shy, apologised, asked me not to be mad and then ran away. I love her. She later admitted it belonged to her husband; of course her cuck husband is a United fan, and a Lisandro Martinez fan at that.
Oh, there was one more bummer that day: another loud Sabrina incident. Myself, Joe, Lulu and Eden decided to eat our lunch together in Sabrina’s classroom. Due to our get ups, we got onto the topic of football. Sabrina brought up racism in football and, obviously, we all agreed that it was fucked. This did not satiate her appetite for blood. She launched into a loud, shouting, table banging rant about racism in football and how no one does anything about it and can you imagine how terrible it must be etc etc. Now, of course, she’s right, but it’s not like anyone was arguing with her, she was just ranting and raving and shouting in a classroom full of agreeable but uncomfortable people. Admittedly, I made the mistake of pointing out that her team, Real Madrid, are notoriously bad for having racist fans. This did not go down well and in fact led her to assert that Real are the only team doing anything about racism in the entire world. I restrained myself from highlighting the fact that Real Madrid were effectively owned by Franco, the fascist dictator, for the duration of his rule and that Real only started taking a stance on racism after realising that their entire squad is black.
Anyway, the next day I had an awesome barber experience. I got my hair buzzed again in a train station. It cost £7 and took 20 minutes. I spoke very little to the guy, but he was quite friendly. At the end he vacuumed the loose hair off my head and then gave me a free comb. Such a W.
Ok, I have one final anecdote before I’m finally back up to date with this jawn. The anecdote regards a night out I undertook with Ben and Nancy. Ben and I headed to the Globe in Central to watch the bloody footy as our teams were playing each other. The match was a fairly uneventful 1-1, though the conversation was pleasant and became even more so once Nancy joined us. After the game, we descended on Lang Kwai Fong, the club area, to get a little nasty. I was drunk, which gave me the courage to cold open not once, but twice, getting a girl’s Instagram the second time. I really think I’m getting to the point I’ve been aiming for: the point at which I can delete hinge for good and meet people exclusively in person. It’ll be a while yet, but I’m making progress. So much progress, in fact, that, after Nancy and Ben left, I followed a group of guys I’d met to a club, where I had my first ever club pull. A girl was dancing near me, very obviously in my direction, so I simply turned her around and gave her a smooch. It was fine! I was really quite shocked with myself but so hammered that it almost didn’t register. I never even got her name. I guess that tends to be how it goes. Then, on my way home, I approached a girl at the bus stop and engaged her in polite conversation. I got her instagram too and I’m waiting on her response to my proposition of a drink of sorts. Look at me go.
Today, Tuesday the 1st of October, having recovered from the illness I was suffering with yesterday, I met Megan and two of her friends for lunch. I had a lovely time, and I got on well with one of her friends in particular, called Alissa. However, I’m more interested in writing about some thoughts that the hang out provoked in me about my growing relationship with Hong Kong. Of course, the girls all asked me what I liked about the city, and I entered into my usual talk about how, although it epitomises so much that I hate about late stage capitalism and surveillance, the aesthetic of it is almost enough to make me forget that, and I still believe that’s true, though I think it’s more than that. As we were stepping onto the MTR to head home, Megan asked me if I was still enjoying the city as much after nearly a month and a half as I was two or three weeks ago. I admitted that I was. I explained that, though I hate the intense alienation of London- the feeling that you could drop dead in front of a crowd of people and they’d be more bothered by how it’d affect their commute time- a feeling which is undeniably present here, it doesn’t quite feel the same. At the time, I said that it was because in the UK I expect a degree of warmth and openness to interaction based on shared identity, values, community and of course language, so it’s less painful when I feel it from people who have every reason to be apprehensive of me. I’ve thought a little more on it, though, and I don’t think that’s quite it. I’ve said a few times that the people of Hong Kong remind me of myself due to their honest, straight-talking nature, but I’m realising that there’s more to it than that. In a way, the city reminds me of myself. It’s flashy, metropolitan and safe just as I’d like to think I’m charismatic, welcoming and harmless, but it’s also, like I say, alienating; it’s lonely. For most of my life, I’ve felt very intensely lonely. Not because I’ve lacked company; I’ve got a wonderful family, had mostly supportive friends and generally doting partners. I’ve felt lonely because I’ve always found it difficult to understand people, including myself. I struggle with emotions because they aren’t logical, and things that aren’t logical confuse me, so when people (again, including myself) act emotionally, it doesn’t quite compute. There’s also the fact that most people aren’t as transparent as I am, and their refusal to admit why they do the things they do has frustrated me to no end. I’m sorry, it seems like I’m rambling in a tangent here, but I think I’m going somewhere. Now, Hong Kong is a lonely, alienating place; a stolen glance from a friendly face is a luxury during my commute, and the locals tell me endlessly that nobody here talks to one another. And yet, everybody shares their food. Everyone from this city insists (against all logic) that it’s “easier” to order 5 meals to share than everyone ordering their own meal. Everyone from this city refers to older colleagues in auxiliary, supporting roles as Aunty and Uncle. Everyone lives piled the fuck on top of one another, shares tables at bars, shelters in the rain. There is a striking intimacy to be found here and it stares you in the face as soon as you take the time to look. Perhaps that’s why Chungking Express’ tale of a man desperate for connection in the black and neon of the city resonated so strongly with people here. Looking inwards, I’d say I’m a very lonely person, but pushing beyond the surface of my insecure self-perception, I’m also a romantic with a global network of friends and family that I adore, that I’d do anything for. Hong Kong is a city of love masquerading as an obtrusive, disconnected technoscape. I think that’s why I love the city.
I’m currently sat at the hotel pool having read a few chapters of crime and punishment and been for a little swim. I’d intended to go for a hike to a beach in Sai Kung today, but my Hong Kong ID appointment in the morning, along with my stops at the office to pick up my cash wages and the bank to deposit them, left me with too little day light to do it. Now I'm here, watching a happy couple play in the pool and thinking about jumping off the rooftop.
My HK ID appointment was a real ball ache as I forgot to do the preregistration form, so it took half an hour longer for me to get my ID than everyone else. However, I ate in my ID photo, as you can see. A slight, sardonic smile that screams a confidence I only pretend to have.
After my appointment, I found myself strolling through the markets of Yau Ma Tei, being endlessly tempted by vintage artwork to decorate my soulless room and fun little jade trinkets that are probably as fake as the Gucci bags on sale next to them. I’m hoping to return with a local who can haggle on my behalf.
The bank trip was equally frustrating, as they so often are, but I do finally have an account and debit card, so I’m no longer broke.
Well, now I’m really up to date. I’m hoping to upload this ASAP so I can put a link to it in my hard launch of my move here on Instagram. I achieved this impressive feat by writing for a good portion of today. A little by the pool, a little at the bank, a little at the bar I’m at on my own right now. The band is playing careless whisper and honestly doing it a lot of justice. Liverpool are 1-0 against Palace and I’m planning to go home after finishing my wheat beer, purchased as part of an Octoberfest deal along with a schnitzel burger, to watch City and drink some red wine. God this guy is pouring his heart into this song. He just hit a note so high I got chills.
I’m on my way to sai Kung for my hike right now and I’ve just seen a woman wearing a tshirt with all the moon in characters on with the caption “Birmingham.” How does something like that even come about?
This city continues to astonish me with its strange beauty. I’m getting the bus from yau ma tei MTR stop. It’s one of the larger ones in Kowloon and sits next to a busy highway. As such, there’s a large walkway and stair complex that allows people to get around safely. This giant tangle of metal is all painted a light, turquoise ish colour and it winds its way through a more natural tangle of vines hanging from towering trees, dappled light spilling through the mess of blue and brown. It’s bloody hot though. 29 degrees, 8 UV and glorious blue skies.
I’m now on the bus to sai Kung village, which should take 45 minutes. Do I dig into Crime and Punishment a little more, or take in the views of the city from the upper deck of the bus? Decisions, decisions…
I read a chapter then put it down to soak up the views of the Sai Kung peninsula. Like all of the outskirts of Hong Kong, Sai Kung is a dense jungle, though its coast line breaks up the green with a vivid blue, dotted with white sail boats on yachts.
It appears to be half fishing village, half playground for Hong Kong’s nautically minded millionaires. There’s also a temple here, the first I’ve seen since arriving in the city, which is pretty neat. And fuck me it’s hot. I need to find a green taxi soon so I can get out of the concrete and into the jungle. Need to pop the shirt ASAP.
So, I tried to hail a taxi and the driver refused to take me to Sai Wa pavilion on account of it being too dangerous. That can’t be a good sign. Maybe it’s because they’ve issued a yellow fire warning. I mean, they issue warnings for everything so it’s probably fine. Plus, I’m hiking to the beach- there can’t be a fire on the beach. It’s probably fine.
Well, I’m on my hike now and a Chinese woman just asked to take a selfie with me. I have no idea why. I was happy to oblige, though. Maybe it’s because I’m shirtless.
Having just crested the fuck out of the brow of a hill, I’ve been met with a fairly breath-taking view. The crystal blue water is interrupted by green mounds rupturing its surface, like a tropical alternative to the hills of the highlands or the peaks of the Rockies. The image is framed by vines hanging from trees; crickets and dragon flies chirp and buzz.
A big spider just walked across my path with a giant cockroach looking thing in its mouth. I stoped to take a picture and it dropped the bugger. I almost feel bad for interrupting nature. A few moments later a lizard walked out in front of me, and now I’m passing by a pool full of various sized fish. I’m really in the boonies now. Just praying I don’t see a snake.
COWS!!!
Sipping a coconut and eating a plate of piping hot, Singapore vermicelli by an unspoiled beach is not a bad way to spend one’s Sunday afternoon.
Now I’m off to Ham Tin, after my very pleasant stop in Sai Wan. There, I fueled up and booked my boat back to Sai Kung later. On my journey I’ve passed the same kind of groups of Filipino women you see gathered in the city on Sundays. I also saw a group of what I can only assume are Uighur Muslims, which is interesting.
Ham tin is stunning. A Caribbean paradise in the middle of tropical jungle, equipped with a bar to boot. There are two very pretty Asian girls lying near me, and I think they might be British. I plan to investigate, as nationality is usually a great opener.
Ok it didn’t work, they seemed a little repulsed by me. It’s strange because I’m very handsome and they were indeed British. However, I am wearing speedos and reading Crime and Punishment on the beach, so I probably make a queer figure.
Anyway, I just saw a man take a picture holding up a Chinese flag on the beach. That feels like it’s in poor taste.
Well, I’m on the speedboat back to Sai Kung now, and I have to say it’s a fairly bumpy affair. Far too many French for my liking. Still, I had a glorious, relaxing day at this unspoiled haven, even in spite of my very mild rejection. The thing about solo travelling is that it reminds you that being alone is fine, peaceful, even beautiful at times. Nonetheless, the “solo” part is really quite lonely.
Actually, the speedboat home was a highlight of the day, as the waves got so choppy my arse started to hurt from the impact. The woman sat next to me was old and Asian, holding a can of coke and a half finished cob of corn between her middle and index finger like a cigarette. Some killer rock formations too: hexagonal pillars like a very tall giants causeway. The whole place looks a bit like Jurassic park in the second film. You know, the one on the island.
I’m on the bus back to the city now, and the sun is almost finished setting. The sky is a dusty, sandy yellowish and I’m excited to see it scraped by the city’s tallest.
