HK Alphabet :: V

V :: Victoria Park

(photo by mikeleeorg)

August 3, 2008: Matt and I, our five month old baby, and 5 large suitcases got off a 14-hr flight and rode a shuttle to L'Hotel (pronounced locally "el-hotel"), where the school put us up for a week while we found housing. Right in the heart of Tin Hau, a neighborhood we came to love and later live in, on the edge of Causeway Bay, a bustling shopping and nightlife district, and across the street from Victoria Park, a sprawling oasis, this hotel was perfectly situated to aquaint us with our new home. But we didn't know that then. It felt sort of dirty to us, and commercial--not at all residential or peaceful. (What, you might well ask, did we expect in Hong Kong? Good question.)
And the park. As much as we enjoyed watching people play basketball and tennis all day and night from 20 stories up, the park's strangeness struck us most forcibly. So much concrete! So much landscaping! So little grass! We walked across the park in search of dinner that first night, both of us quiet, neither one wanting to admit that we couldn't imagine what we had been thinking, how we had made this colossal mistake. Until we did admit it, and found relief and laughter in the common question.

And then, slowly, things began to change. The park became familiar, and eventually a refuge. The playgrounds there are where Finn learned to climb, to swing, to run and to ride his bike. We made friends there, became part of a crew of kids and helpers who came at the same time.

We discovered the lone patch of grass in Hong Kong and took Finn there for soccer and frisbee, and we found rogue bits of dirt for Finn to play in, notwithstanding the disapproving looks and even reprimands from the old Chinese ladies. I ran around the jogging track in the evenings, and I admired the old people doing their tai chi. We found the motor boat pool, we saw Venus Williams warming up before a tournament, we went to flower markets and moon festivals and June fourth celebrations there. And we learned to love Sunday afternoons.

Sundays, you see, are when domestic helpers get a day off. But without a place of their own to gather in, they descend in large numbers on Hong Kong's parks, gathering with friends, sharing meals, passing the time. Victoria Park was a destination primarily for the Indonesian helper community, and the grounds--concrete walking paths, playground, soccer courts, grassy field--were literally covered with plastic tarps and women. Women lounging, sleeping, playing cards, playing guitar, singing, chatting, fighting, sharing their food, reading. Groups of Muslim women would kneel and chant, Christian women would sing and preach. Rebel-types would practice hip hop dance moves (which Finn loved and tried to imitate, much to our embarrassment and their amusement.) Most of the women were physically affectionate with each other, as is normal in their culture, but there were some with stereotypically "butch" haricuts, masculine clothes and foul mouths that seemed to particularly luxuriate in Sunday's freedoms. Some young women carried around large, beautiful dolls, that they dressed and groomed much as I did as a child.

I'm writing this now from Ohio, and we have a few nice little parks we visit, all with playgrounds, and some with walking paths, lakes, or basketball hoops. None of them, however, come close to having the sort of life and vitality of Victoria Park, a vitality unique to urban parks, I suppose. It was a vitality that often saved me as a new mom in a new city, offering contact with people, no matter how anonymous, when that is what I most needed.

HK Alphabet :: U

Yes, I'm returning to this series to finish it up. Most of the remaining letters are already written, and inexplicably unfinished or even just unposted. So here we go, returning to June of 2011, when this was actually composed.

U :: Umbrella

Rainy days in Hong Kong can be really rainy. And crowded streets in Hong Kong are really crowded. Put it together, and you get scenes like this:

Though it can be a little dangerous in there--a little crazy--it's also cozy, and I love how people synchronize their movements, raising an umbrella here, holding it close there, all weaving together and avoiding accidents. Watching it--and staying dry!--from the second story of a bus is a great treat of rainy days, all the beautiful colors dancing in a moving canopy.

U :: Under bridge spicy crab

You can hardly tell what's under there, but it is crab. And what's hiding it is the most deliciously obscene amount of fried garlic and chilis (but mostly garlic) that I have ever seen, much less eaten. Needless to say, this is not for the faint of heart. Or maybe it is, because isn't garlic good for the heart? It's certainly not for the faint of nose, anyway. But it is delicious, and so is the crab, though it becomes almost an afterthought to all that perfectly fried garlic. There are a few restaurants that specialize in this dish, also known as "typhoon shelter crab", and they are all located--you guessed it--under a bridge.

We did our best, but couldn't even begin to finish off the garlic.

Leaving

It's official. It's happening. We're really leaving. As if all the farewells and parties and the constant lump in the back of my throat weren't enough to convince me, now I know it's true. They came yesterday to take away the boxes, others come today to pick up donations and freebies, and then on Friday morning they will take away our keys. And we will pay the taxi fare with our last bits of Hong Kong cash, we will pass through immigration with our Hong Kong identity cards for the last time, and we will board a plane.

All these "lasts" are killing me. Really now, to choke up over the last time I wash the mugs we've drunk tea out of for three years, the last time I fold Finn's bright red sheet? --(all of which are getting donated.) It's silly, I know, to get so attached to physical things, but attached I do. These items hold memories for me so profoundly that I have to remind myself over and over that letting go of the object doesn't mean letting go of the memory.

I have been a mess of mixed-up emotions for weeks now--sometimes (surprisingly) fighting panic as I think about leaving here and returning to the states. The panic stems in part, I'm sure, from all the newness, all the transitions facing our little family in the next few months. But in rereading early blog posts, I found something that explains it even more. You see, we talked a lot about this move (to Hong Kong) as a chance to step off the escalator (ironic, I know, given the blog's name.)

Despite the fast pace and direction of Hong Kong culture, it very much was a slow-down time for us. We took a sabbatical from any volunteer commitments, and simply tended to our child, ourselves, our discovery of a new city and culture, and our own thoughts. It was a chance to think and discern and figure out our life's direction, and it was wonderful. We have learned so very much about other people and other ways of doing things (parenting, teaching, living) and so very much about ourselves. And slowly, slowly, a dream has emerged for us. A sense of call--though it's scary to name it as such. A life vision.

And so going back to America? Yes, there is excitement about all the good things awaiting us--family, a yard, a new community, an oven. (An oven!) And yes, there is excitement about starting real work on our dream. But there's also that panicky anxiety about stepping back on the proverbial escalator. Will we just get so caught up in everyday life that we stop noticing the beauty around us? Will we still have the luxury of so much time together? Will we stop thinking and talking about our dream once we have to change the oil in the car and vacuum a whole house and mow the lawn?

Part of this has to do with the difference between living somewhere temporarily and living there on a long-term basis. When you are temporary, you notice more, you see all the strange and wonderful things, and when you get into a rut (as we all do)--there's always something to shake you out of it. Some new island to hike, a new restaurant to discover, a new street to explore. But while you may make friends quickly, you also don't engage on quite the same level. It was easy to not volunteer, to not seek out opportunities, knowing our time was short.

 And though I feel a pull towards the depth of knowing a place (not just noticing it) and of involving myself with people and putting effort into issues that matter to me, I'm frightened, too. I'm frightened of the time it will take, frightened by the barrage of volunteer requests that come from joining an organization. A little frightened of boredom, knowing that we hope to stay in Ohio a good long time.

So all of that is very real, yes. But mostly right now we feel confident that we are making the right move, at peace with the transitions required, so very grateful for our time and lives here, and profound sadness at leaving. This is Willa's first home, after all. And where Finn has lived most of his life. My mama friends here have helped me grow into motherhood, have prayed with me when things were tough and celebrated the little victories with me too. So I expect that little lump will be with me for a few more days yet. And that's ok. As someone once told me, feeling sad about leaving just means you lived well there. And that we have.

HK Alphabet :: T :: Tea-drinker, tailor, trams go by ...

T :: Tea
Our first year here, I found myself in an enormous, industrial-sized lift, going up to the 12th floor of an old factory building on Shipyard Lane. Next to a noisily functioning printing press, I found an oasis of beauty and quiet, all dedicated to the art of tea. I was at the time--and still am--a tea amateur, knowing very little about what makes for artisan-quality tea.

(photo by Chip Smith, my brother!)

And yet, I have become sufficiently enamored with the process of brewing and enjoying tea, Chinese-style, and I have enough respect for anyone with this much dedication and passion for a gustatory pleasure, that I was instantly in love. Vivian, the owner of said oasis (Ming Cha teahouse), trained as an artist in Chicago and lived there for awhile before coming back and pouring all that training into the harvesting and sharing of good tea. And now, hers is the first tea to be included in a Slow Food Convention in Italy.

I drank tea with her, and we talked. I eventually took a class, learning how to taste and evaluate the aroma, color and flavor of tea. I learned about monkey-pick tea (it's a myth) and discussed the pairing of chocolate and tea. We even discussed my making pastries for the tea shop, paired to match the teas. (Which would have been great, but the logistics just never worked out.) 

And while I'm glad for the knowledge--what little of it I've retained--it is still, for us, all about the simple pleasure of making and sipping tea. We have a favorite tea house, and the gentle, calming rituals of the servers never fails to soothe. It's the attention to small details that is so comforting, I think--the precise temperature of water, of cup, of tea; the washing and rinsing of the tea leaves, of the cups and the pots; the abundant pouring of water ("filled to the brim and even over the brim"). And then, of course, the tiny cups, so that all that work and attention is magnified instead of lost, as it would be in a mug. The whole process focuses and magnifies our attention as well, so that it is impossible to continue in a conversation or send a text or even read. It is, quite simply, a wonderful way of being together with another person--the pouring, steeping and sipping of tea. 

T :: Tailor

Hong Kong is famous for its tailors, particularly for men, and many advertising the famous 24-hour suit. Even though having a suit made is considered a "must-do" for tourists of a certain stripe, it's something the locals do as well. We've sent visitors out to experience it before, but we've only just now gotten around to doing it ourselves, since Matt will be sporting a coat and tie daily in his new job.

He tried both the tourist version (pricy, good English, comfortable storefront and ample discussion of the options) and the local version (minimal English, little discussion, hidden away and cramped storeroom, much less expensive.) We don't know the final results yet for the suit and jackets, but Matt is a convert on the shirts. Even though it's no less expensive than buying shirts off-the-rack, I'm not sure he'll be able to go back. No matter, since a feature of all these tailors is that they retain your measurements indefinitely, allowing you to call and order more to be shipped overseas. Some even take worldwide "tours"--stopping in New York and Paris and Rome--for measurements to be updated. Which means that I think we have future presents for Matt all sewn up.

T :: trams

The tram is yet one more slow form of travel in Hong Kong that we love, particularly for all it's anachronisms: the little bell, the wood, the slow, slow pace, and the low, low price. It's easy and direct, though, and if you can ignore the fumes from all the traffic below, it's a very pleasant way to see the city.

T :: 23
I know, I know, "T" has been epic. Enough already, huh? But I need to give at least a slight nod to the 23, our favorite busline in all of Hong Kong, the one that has shuttled us back and forth to church, to HK Park, to friends' homes in the mid-levels, and to all those baby classes Finn and I took our first year here. He has logged many hours of naps on this line, and looking out the second-floor windows, with a sleeping child on my lap, is how I discovered this city. 

HK Alphabet :: S

S :: Star Ferry

To get from Hong Kong Island over to Kowloon, you have several options: road (underwater tunnel), train, or the Star Ferry. Guidebooks regularly call the Star Ferry "one of the most scenic ferry crossings in the world" or some other such superlative description. I don't know if any of that's true, having little basis for comparison. But I do know that any chance I get to ride on the Star Ferry, I take it.

First, some geography. Not everyone realizes that Hong Kong proper is actually an island, while Kowloon and the New Territories are on the mainland. (Mainland China, that is.) Lantau, Lamma--these are also islands, and there are some 200+ more. Which means that there are lots of ferries plying Victoria Harbor and the South China Sea, along with sampans, junks, and yachts--all of which we have had the great pleasure of enjoying in our years here.

But the Star Ferry is special. Perhaps because it is not primarily a pleasure boat, but simply a means of transportation, a commuting vessel. (Once upon a time, of course, it was the only option for commuting across the harbor.) And what a way to commute! A few minutes of slow travel, a few minutes of gentle lilting and a beautiful skyline.

It is, unfortunately, but a few minutes. It used to be longer--20 minutes, at least, when my dad used it for his daily commute 40+ years ago. But they've been reclaiming land like mad, growing Central out into the harbor, and so consequently the ride has gotten shorter and shorter.

The boats themselves are lovely too, as from a different, more gracious era, from the stars on the seats to the wood floors. But my favorite feature on these iconic green and white ferries? The seat backs that flip back and forth, so that you can always face front, no matter which way the boat is going. And while there is certainly value in a rower's claim that you can only steer your course by watching where you've come from (as this blog, in fact, helps us to do) there is equal validity in facing the future boldly. And perhaps for me now, in these days of nolstalgia and farewells, facing front is what I most need to do.

a good morning

Here is the goodness that can ensue when the boy is at preschool, the girl is asleep, the sun is shining, and the mama has a little energy. Bread is rising, pear sauce for said growing girl is cooking, chocolate (!) granola is made for nibbling, and tea is steeped for sipping. I am grateful for my life.

Seriously, it's wonderful what a difference two little things have made in our lives. One, Finn has started preschool, which means all kinds of things. Two mornings a week Willa and I can just breathe, relax, and focus on her needs, and then I am so relaxed and rested when I pick Finn up that the rest of the day is a joy for all of us. Plus, the little bit of independence, in a safe, nurturing environment, seems to be just what Finn needed for his growing self, and he's not fighting me nearly so much.  

Two, we've finally figured out that Willa has a sensitivity to dairy items, and likely to soy as well. Since I stopped eating dairy, in all its forms, she has almost entirely stopped spitting up, and more importantly, there's no more of that shrieky, pained crying that we heard so much of, especially at bedtime and naptime. And so even though she still has some bad sleep habits--like an inability to return to sleep on her own--she is much easier to soothe, and we are much more patient and confident in our parenting of her. It's amazing how cyclical these things are--with even a modicum of success, we feel good about what we are doing, which only leads to more success, which leads ultimately to happier children and happier parents. 

And the chocolate granola? That, my friends, is what happens when a dairy-loving mama is suddenly denied all dairy goodness and thus my habitual indulgences. Granola is something we make an awful lot of around here (a GREAT toddler/preschooler project, since he's free to nibble all he likes during the making) and this morning the salty-sweet, nutty oats were just begging to be coated in dark chocolate. Who was I to get in the way of that?  

HK Alphabet :: Q, R

Q :: Quarry Bay

Quarry Bay is where we have lived the last 9 months of our Hong Kong sojourn, but we've been coming here--particularly to the park--since the beginning. And in these last 9 months, we've come to love it for more than its park (though the parks are great too, particularly the long boardwalk along the harbor, the wide walking paths, the many trees, abundant playing fields and even an outdoor elevator!) What else do we love? We love the profusion of flower shops outside our apartment, even if they are due to the proximity of the funeral home. We love the light-and-music-enhanced bicycles ridden by the young teenage boys of this neighborhood, particularly, it seems, those of South Asian descent. We love (love!) Mr. Taco Truck (and find it ironic that we might get more authentic Mexican food here in HK than we will in Hudson, OH.) We love the car mechanics who work outside our building, but spend most of their time playing cards. We love the kind electrician who works from an office in our building and is always willing to come fix something for us, and manages to communicate even without words. We love "Mr. Magic Hands" van-driver-cum-healer, who moves and delivers items all over the neighborhood, and has a special knack for healing while he's at it. We love the wider-and-emptier-than-usual sidewalks, and the "town green" (gray?) area outside the grocery store. We love the mix of old and new buildings, short and tall.
It's not an area, obviously, that we're choosing to live in long-term. But it, like Hong Kong, has become home. And I have learned from living here in Quarry Bay and more specifically, our current apartment, that many of the things I think are necessary for happiness just aren't. I know I can turn any semi-decent space into a home, and I know I can come to love and appreciate almost any neighborhood. And that is a gift for which I am truly thankful.

R :: Riceware

RIceware, or rice grain porcelain, as it is sometimes called, is not unique to Hong Kong. But it is certainly common here, used in many small diners and restaurants, and easily available for the home. (Cheap too!) And, more importantly to this post, it's what we've eaten on the last three years. We chose not to bring our own dishes to Hong Kong, shipping as little as possible, and knowing we would buy things here.

RIceware, I was surprised to find out, does not actually have pieces of rice in it. Who knew? It's merely the name for the decorative technique of poking holes in the porcelain, then allowing the holes to fill with glaze, making a translucent, rice grain-shaped effect. The origin stories differ, with both China and Turkey claiming credit. But regardless, I have loved these dishes--loved the diminutive sizes, the colors, and mostly the way the light shines through the "rice grains." It is frequently cloudy here--but oh, when the sun shines, it's so nice to be reminded of it everywhere I look, even in my dishes. 

HK Alphabet :: P

P :: Pineapple buns

In the dark early morning, Matt arrives just as the buns are pulled from the oven, and he gets a fresh one for the bus up the hill to school. There is nothing particularly remarkable about pineapple buns--squishy white bread with a sweet, crunchy topping--nor do they taste like pineapple. (We kept buying them from different bakeries when we first moved here, determined to find one that actually tasted like the name. Then we realized the name is all about the visual--but of course! They look exactly like pineapples, don't you think?) They are often served in little cafes with an insanely thick slice of butter inside--I was sure the many pictures we saw on menus actually showed cheese until we bought one. Sure enough, it's a butter sandwich they serve.

So why do I write about this bun I've never attempted to recreate at home? (Though if I was to try, I would go in the direction of the Mexican "pan dulce" rolls.) Pineapple buns are one of those things--like milk tea, like "pork chop crispy bun", like egg tarts--that are so iconically Hong Kong we just might end up sighing over them, wanting them more when we're a million miles away than when they fuel every morning. Which is exactly why they are fueling so many mornings right now, and why I've drunk more milk tea (or more colorfully, "pantyhose tea") in recent months than in our first two years.

It's not a glorious food experience, to be sure. But it is right now, and that's good enough for me. 

P :: HK Post

There is much to love about the HK Post. Surprisingly low prices, for one. You can mail any size envelope all over Hong Kong for $1.40 (about $.18 US). And a letter back to the US is only $3.00 (or $.38 US). But more than that, I love it that packages are still wrapped in paper and tied up with string. I love it that they still use stamps that have to be licked (though a Hong Konger would never lick a stamp), and that the postal clerk scribbles the various stamp amounts on a piece of scrap paper, then totals it on a calculator for me. I love it that he then flips though an old notebook with cardboard dividers to find all the various denominations of stamp needed, and that sometimes an envelope will end up half-covered with stamps. I love it for its surprising simplicity in a city that is surging ever forward, fast-paced and high tech. I love it in the same way that I love seeing a delivery man carrying fuel tanks on a bike, or a construction worker carting debris in woven wicker baskets, or a park maintenance person sweeping with a branch broom. And maybe I am romanticizing these bits of nolstalgia--but the anachronisms delight me, jolt me into awareness, and remind me that always, always, there is more than one way to get a job done. 

HK Alphabet :: O

O :: Oranges

You may see them tucked into a corner on the ferry pier or hidden in the shadows of an alley. Sometimes they sit prominently outside the door to even the most modern, Western shop. But I suspect I miss most of them, on their red plates, in front of urns overflowing with ashes, quietly offered to the ancestors in hope of blessing.

I read once that Hong Kong has the highest per capita consumption of oranges in the world, but I don't know if that's true. If it is, it's certainly due to all the offered oranges. (I do wonder, though, if the oranges have to be eaten in order to count in this statistic. And did they figure in the ancestors too?) (Our neighbor's ancestors seem to be more fond of saltines and cigarettes than oranges. Try explaining to your toddler why there is a pack of crackers on the little altar next door.)

What is true is that I can't imagine a Hong Kong winter without a particular kind of little orange, sold with the leaves attached. I don't know what they officially are called—tangerines? Mandarin oranges? We call them the perfect toddler food—easy to peel, easy to eat, self-separating into little bites. Little jewels of sunshine, every one a gift on those dreary days from December to February.

O :: Octopus

The Octopus is an aptly-named card that allows you to go to work, buy lunch, buy afternoon coffee, get groceries on the way home and not carry a bit of cash, nor worry about losing a credit card. It's an indispensible cash card accepted most eveywhere. As a three-year-old, Finn has proudly joined the ranks of kids wearing their cards around their necks, ready to swipe whenever they get the chance. Our friends discovered the hard way that vending machines accept Octopus, after their son gleefully got Coke after Coke, thrilled with his newfound power. We're trying to keep Finn away from this particular joy ...

weekending

and oh yes, plenty of this too:

When you're in the middle of a job search, it's unavoidable ... But thankfully the sun lured us outside for much of our days. And what sun it was! How one's perspective on life can change so drastically, given a little sun and a little fresh air. It made all of us happy.

The kisses had nothing to do with it. Nope. Not at all. 

Hope your weekend was full of sun and whatever makes you happy, whether it's hunting for the perfect walking stick, getting kisses from one you love, making one you love smile, or digging holes. ("I just love to dig" is something we heard often this weekend, both before and after the beach. And while there? Well, the smiles said it all.)