Our summer trip to the US has come to a close, and we are heading back to Hong Kong after spending time in Massachusetts, California and Wisconsin. We managed to fit in time with every set of cousins and both sets of grandparents.  It was also fun to see friends, but our stay was busy and way too short and we missed many we wanted to share time with.  Next year, I’ll get my act together and host an open house so we can touch base with more friends.

This was our first visit back to our old hometown, and our first chance to catch up with friends. Questions about day-to-day life were common, as were queries about what we missed from the US, what the food was like in Hong Kong, and whether we were learning to speak Chinese.

Our life in Hong Kong revolves around the same things it did in Scituate: school, work, the kids’ activities. The boys still play outside after school, but instead of ranging around our yard, they head down to the pool. Our apartment complex does have a patch of grass about the size of a squash court down near the pool, but it’s not to be used for sport. If the kids do play ball on the grass, they get told off by the building staff. I still haven’t figured out what the little field is for other than to look at. We do live near the Zoological Gardens, but the outdoor green space is for promenading or strolling, not running, and certainly not ball-playing or biking.  We do have the Peak nearby, which means there is a lovely hike just up the road, but the boys don’t care for hiking much (actually, they hate it. The last time we walked Old Peak Road, Jed and Ty agreed it was the worst day of their life). Because most of the boys’ outdoor time is in the pool, it is supervised; they don’t have the same freedom they have at home. I am loathe to turn my kids loose on the apartment grounds, lest they end up associated with the feral pack of expat 6 & 7 year-olds that hang around the gym and pool area, or the posturing teens who congregate on the 26th floor skybridge to throw apples (free in the gym downstairs) and do god knows what else.

We all agreed that what we missed most about living in the US was the sense of space.  In Hong Kong, we feel more squeezed. When the boys were small, we lived in London for 18 months. When we returned home, I found the kids would cluster instead of spreading out. The same thing happened this summer. It took a little while for everyone to stretch back into the larger space, but it was wonderful to return to a house with a yard, a lovely screened porch, and plenty of rambling room inside and out. Our time in Scituate meant time the kids could play outdoors on their own, without concern of apple-swiping teens or underage hooligans, and without a supervisor (parental or otherwise) 5 yards away at all times.  Of course this meant they probably were the “underage hooligans” in our neighborhood, but at least they weren’t bothering anyone.

When it came to food, the boys also missed Cosmo’s Pizza, Golden Grahams, Bell & Evans Chicken Tenders and milk that doesn’t taste funny. Everyone was delighted to take advantage of meals at the Satuit Tavern, Cosmos and Sam’s on the Harbor in Scituate, and the Blue Coyote and Dairy Queen in Truckee.  All in all, the food in HK is not nearly the concern I thought it would be. Yes, the pizza is kind of lousy, and hot dog buns are hard to find, but after a summer in the US, we all realized that the return to Hong Kong will be relatively easy. There are enough imported US products to keep us happy (oreos anyone?) and there are plenty of restaurants serving western food. I did enjoy American Diet Coke during our summer stay, but my addiction has waned since I don’t drink much Coke Light in HK. I vastly prefer fresh lime soda – available nearly everywhere in Hong Kong –  not least because it always comes with a little pitcher of simple syrup.

As far as learning to speak Chinese: Hong Kongers speak Cantonese. The language the Chinese government wants its citizens to learn is Mandarin.  All the international schools, including Hong Kong Academy, teach Mandarin.  Unfortunately, this means there is very little opportunity to practice Mandarin during our everyday life in Hong Kong. The boys take classes; I am not taking Mandarin, but have picked up a little Cantonese.  And by little, I mean “waaah” (which is an exclamation something along the lines of “holy shit” or “no way!”) and the greeting “lei ho”.  I think I can also say thank you: “mmGoy”.  One of these day I need to learn to say my address, too.  But many Hong Kongers speak perfect English, and many, many, more speak enough to make getting by as a monolinguist relatively easy.

While we are all sad the summer is coming to a close  – school starts Aug 15 – the boys are excited about the new year, and are looking forward to seeing their HK friends. Our summer vacation in the US was wonderful, but we are all looking ahead to Hong Kong!

You can’t walk far in Hong Kong without coming across a Tin Hau temple. Tin Hau is the Goddess of the Sea, a deity here and in many parts of Asia.  Temples honoring Tin Hau are found all over Hong Kong, sometimes separated from their typical place on the shore by blocks of reclaimed land. The Tin Hau temples are colorful and varied. Those wishing to ask favors or protection or luck from Tin Hau burn incense in the temples and make offerings.

The Tin Hau festival, in honor of Tin Hau’s birthday, fell on Friday the 13th this year. I was lucky enough to join a group attending one of the few traditional celebrations left in Hong Kong.  We traveled on a Junk to the small fishing island of Po Tai to observe the festival.  Po Tai is one of the last areas where the traditional celebrations still take place, including a Scramble and the Cantonese Opera.

As you might deduce from a festival dedicated to the Goddess of the Sea, those who earn their living from the sea make up the main group of celebrants.  This is one of the reasons the traditions are dying. It’s easy to see why; pollution, reclamation and overfishing have decimated the fish populations around Hong Kong; livelihoods attached to the sea necessarily follow the catch’s decline. The festival includes worship groups made up of fisher folk carrying elaborately constructed offerings to Tin Hau called Fa Paos. The number of worship groups- comprised of groups attached to a fishing boat or area – has declined dramatically in the past 30 years. The festival we attended on Po Tai island used to host more than 60 worship groups. This year there were only 28.

The 90 minute junk ride on not-so-calm seas took us by boats festooned with colorful flags, and ended at a small rocky island. By far, the sidewalks were the best improvement on the island, far outstripping the ramshackle huts and houses. This sidewalk (with handicap ramps!) wound around the island up to the Tin Hau temple. Facing the temple was a tin and bamboo structure perched precariously on a rocky outcropping, obscuring the Tin Hau temple entirely. This, I learned, was the Opera House, constructed for the celebration.

The most exciting part of the trip for me was wandering backstage at the temporary opera house, constructed of lashed bamboo (remember the scaffolding?) and covered in tin. The stage in the Opera House faces the front of the temple, as the performance is to please Tin Hau. According to our guide, Cantonese Opera is a dying art.  Few troupes still exist, and the expense to hire them means many fisherfolk can’t afford to host the lavish festivals popular in previous decades.  Allowed into the backstage areas in groups of 6, we were allowed a glimpse of the troupe applying makeup, having their hair done, and getting costumes on. Beautiful costumes hung from the rafters and the dressing areas were cordoned off with sheets. I admit I had a moment of vertigo – who would ever have thought that the backstage of a Cantonese opera would so strongly remind me of childhood visits staying in the upstairs of my Grandma’s house in northern Minnesota? The lax security (completely at odds with the ridiculously large police presence) meant soon our entire group of 30 was meandering behind the stage on groaning floorboards loosely covering a jungle gym of bamboo. The combination of 30 be-cameraed, wilting westerners, elaborately costumed, lavishly made-up Cantonese performers, and the slapdash construction gave me pause. Could I see the headlines? Yes, I could. Before the structure had a chance to collapse under the weight of our enthusiasm, the expats moved outside and around to the front of the house for the start of the show.

The Opera was a jangle of twangs and sharp tones that sounded completely dissonant to my ears. While this Opera was part of the main event, it seemed the audience couldn’t have cared less. People wandered in and out, burning incense or grabbing a drink or some food, held conversations, and generally seemed to regard the Opera as a distraction, at best. Perhaps it is not so surprising that it is a dying art. Admittedly, I was thankful for the moving crowd, as I found the incense so heavy, and the music so discordant, that I needed a break more than once in the 45 minute performance. The story of the Opera was hard to decipher.  However, our guide explained that the first few minutes were a Happy Birthday to Tin Hau, followed by a performance lauding the birth of baby boys (never mind that Tin Hau was a real girl herself, long ago). As our guide explained, only women who provided baby boys were appreciated, and women who couldn’t were “not good.”   This cultural preference was made clear to me once when I was shopping with the boys in a local street market. An older woman grabbed my hips, gave me a huge smile and pointing at my three sons, exclaimed “very good!”.  I have a friend who has three girls; she gets clucks of disappointment.

After the Opera, the throng moved outside to get ready for the Scramble.  In past decades, all worship groups would participate in a contentious scramble for sticks shot off with fireworks. The scramble tradition has been banned from most celebrations due to the intense fighting that ensued in pursuit of these sticks. When you consider that getting the right stick means ensuring the Goddess’s good favor for another year, it is not surprising fighting used to be the norm. On Po Tai, the “scramble” has been reduced to a lucky draw involving slingshots. These days, each group gets a number that corresponds to one of the Fa Paos. We watched as sticks were slingshot out to groups, and then followed the worship groups into the temporary Opera House to collect their Fa Pao. Here the police presence made itself known by barring many of the groups from heading inside.  They did allow a few of us in, but once an officer told me that I could take a picture, but should leave quickly, I hightailed it out.

Once the Fa Paos are collected, each is carried back to the worship group’s boat and taken on board. The boat then “bows” to Tin Hau by doing three turns in the harbor. Our guide explained that the Fa Paos are then taken back to a big dinner and all the items are “auctioned” off.  The amount paid is a pledge to contribute to the construction of the group’s Fa Pao for the next year.

On the way home, our Junk did three turns in the harbor and set off for Hong Kong island on calmer (pleased?) seas.

The other day, I grabbed a notepad and flipped it open to make a grocery list. For no apparent reason, written in cramped letters in the top corner was “gazellesrock.” All one word, no other references in the notebook, no other information. It gave me pause. Gazelles do kind of rock. They are super swift and can jump really high. They have that weird bouncy gait that makes them look cheery even when being chased down by a hungry cheetah. This got me thinking about all the other little things that rock that I haven’t written about or shared since our arrival here. So here is a list:

Tiny local shops. When our shipment arrived, the boys new beds were minus one bag of hardware. Unable to reach the US company because of the time difference, I took one extra bolt down to a nearby street known for its rows of shops stuffed with plumbing, electrical, stone, or other hardware supplies. At the third storefront, an older Chinese gentleman behind the counter looked at the bolt, fit it with a nut to check the size and threads, then turned around and pulled out a tiny drawer full of the same bolt. Two minutes later, folded in a twist of newspaper, we left with exactly the hardware we needed to assemble the last bed.

Elevator buttons.  When I was about three, my family vacationed in Hawaii. One morning, I left our hotel room, found the elevator, and positioned myself in front of the bank of buttons. I then politely offered to push buttons for each boarding traveller. I still am delighted to push elevator buttons – but I defer to the boys most days. I prefer the older elevators because they have the buttons you actually press, not just sensor buttons.

Banyan Trees. These little babies cling to sheer walls all over the city. Not only do the ropy roots look like something out of a movie set, they also stabilize many of the slopes and retaining walls that hold up the Midlevels, where we live. Banyan Trees’ tenacity reminds you to always bet on nature, even as you are standing in the middle of a concrete jungle.

Sliced Fruit. Watermelon, pineapple, rock melon, kiwi – you name it, there is always fresh fruit sliced and packaged that morning, read to purchase at grocery stores. Often it’s super cheap, too.

Heavy coins & colorful money. There are reasons not to like heavy change, but the way extra thick coins sound in your hand or grouped at the bottom of your purse is delightful – sort of a cross between a click and a clink. The bills here are a riot of color. Different colors denote different denominations. The lack of uniformity (and perhaps my lack of familiarity) makes me look at each bill more carefully than I would a greenback.

Sea Glass.  A few weekends ago, we loaded into a taxi and traveled to the Stanley, a popular seaside area/town on the south side of the island. Although the trip was more to look around Stanley, we decided to take in a beach.  There we found treasure: the beach was littered with green sea glass.  No pecking or hunting for tiny pebbles of brown as we did in Scituate.  Here, every step held gorgeous chunks of glowing green, turquoise, even blue.  My theory is that the relative lack of recycling here means more glass to wash up.  But I prefer to just think of it as lucky treasure!

Bamboo Scaffolding. There is always something under construction in Hong Kong. the scaffolding erected around the buildings is not built of the stout metal Americans are used to, but rather lengths of bamboo lashed together. This scaffolding encases entire skycrapers as they are upgraded or given facelifts. Apparently, scaffolding built this way is light, sways with the wind, and is well suited to the weather. Also, there is no OSHA here.

Our new apartment has come together, and a few weeks after moving in, I am starting to feel like a resident instead of a camper. I am enjoying the new space, with its high ceilings and big windows. One of the things that drew us to this apartment was the volume – not so much the square footage, but the volume of space.

We live in the MidLevels, aptly named because we are mid way up Victoria Peak – known here as The Peak. Our location gives us a birdseye view of the Central and Kowloon. We often see Black Kites wheeling in the sky around the apartment, and yesterday I spied two wild cockatoos, yellow crest and all. But the wildlife is nothing compared to the cityscape.
The view is one of the things I love about this location. It changes everyday, depending on the time, the weather, the season. And I can’t fail to mention that we are lucky enough to overlook busy Victoria Harbor. In addition to the city, we are treated to helicopters, all manner of boats and ferries, stately, beautifully-lit cruise ships, and the changes in the color of the water and sky.

Some mornings we wake up and the windows are a bank of white – because of clouds drifting by or fog setting in. Then, the clouds will part to reveal the city below.

When dusk falls, the lights twinkle on and the light show that is Hong Kong at night begins.  The windows in both the boys room and our bedroom look out over the view, so the city lights provide a lovely glow that works as a nightlight.

It’s incredibly foreign, but it is fast feeling like home!

After 6 weeks of living out of a suitcase, I was really looking forward to moving into the place that would be our home. I was focused primarily on receiving our sea shipment, which meant finally having all the things that helped define our daily life back in Scituate. The morning of the move, I sat in the echoing apartment daydreaming about all the things I would find in the shipment: our own pillows, more shoes, Crest toothpaste, favorite books, comfy chairs, some lovely blue glass vases, ponytail holders, the kids toys. As the movers arrived, bringing with them box after box, reality set in. We brought a lot of stuff. Even the movers thought we brought a lot of stuff.

The initial delight at finding familiarity quickly degenerated into feeling completely overwhelmed. I think Jed summed it up best, when, surrounded by piles of his own precious items, he said “this is just so, so stressful.” Reviewing all the “necessities” we brought made me realize that we were doing fine without any of our stuff from back at home. Each box seemed to disgorge more of those bits and pieces that seem to multiply as life happens. A few books here, some craft supplies there, those extra containers you might need to store that extra stuff you might have . . . .  We didn’t need these precious items for more than six weeks, and didn’t miss most of them. The things I really missed – scotch tape, a nonstick pan, a butter dish – were easily and quickly replaced.

Clearly I am not the only one with this problem. Clutter is such a hot button O Magazine dedicated the most recent issue to teaching us strategies about how to tame our clutter, get rid of emotionally loaded items, and manage our closets.  Is accumulation a new American cultural norm? Is the fact that there are enough Hoarders out there to support an entire TV season an indication that our culture has reached some sort of tipping point?  As I ponder these questions, I also have that niggling question in the back of my mind:  which came first, my electric labeler or all my stuff?

In many places outside of the United States, kitchen fixtures are moveable. You buy cabinets, appliances, etc. and you take them with you when you move. Craziness, I used to think. But maybe the crazy is all the distinctly unnecessary things I have shipped halfway around the world to define home. When I think of Jed sitting there, surrounded by things, but so clearly stressed and unhappy with the weight and memory of it all, I am resolved to set an example and shed some (all?) of the extra. If this were a magazine article, I would end with a description of how I triumphantly purged the extra pancake turners and scissors. I didn’t. I really like having extra scissors around. I did, however, put together a sizable bag of books to donate to the school library, and I have a big bag of clothes ready to drop off at a local charity bin.  Like water on a stone, I’ll wear down this hoard. It’s just going to take time. Oh, and the next time we move? Way less. Way, way, way less.

It looked like last Saturday was going to be “cold” and rainy, so we woke the boys up early and headed to Hong Kong Disneyland. The boys were excited by the destination, and Tommy felt the need to be out of the apartment, doing something. Last Saturday Tommy’s grandfather’s wake was held in New Hampshire, and we couldn’t travel home to be there. Great Grampy was an amazing man, with a gift for enjoying the company of others and experiencing life with joy. Luke’s memories of Grampy are few, but Jed and Ty both remember him as quick with a pun, and eager to teach them a trick or three.  It seemed fitting to spend the day of his wake in a place suffused with cheer, laughter and fun.

The trip didn’t take long – about 30 minutes on the MTR and we were there. The boys were delighted with the MTR Disneyland Resort Line. Even though it appears to be part of the regular train system, the MTR Disneyland line train is done up in full Disney style. Luke thought it was “like riding in a giant limousine.” I particularly appreciated the Mickey-shaped windows, and the bronze sculptures of various disney characters were a nice touch. However, I was most impressed with the cleanliness, spaciousness and speed of the regular MTR. Granted, we were riding at 8.45 AM on a Saturday (very early here), but still! The stations are spacious and spotless, with plexiglass enclosing and dimming the actual track. Signage is clear and in English. When a train arrives, doors slide open and you step into a clean, spacious, quiet car. The whole experience casts a new light on the loud, sweaty, packed journeys I’ve had on both the Tube in London and the T in Boston.

Hong Kong Disneyland was pleasantly uncrowded. The park in general is smaller than other Disneys, but it was a scale that we enjoyed. The exit from the MTR, the actual entrance, MainStreet USA, the rides, the layout – they all replicate the Orlando model. In fact, it is so much the same that the smaller, less majestic “Sleeping Beauty’s Castle” is more disconcerting than it should be.

We were first to Autotopia, HK Disney’s very civilized electric version of the noisy gas driven Tomorrowland Speedway ride in Orlando. We much preferred the HK Disney version, although the steering wheels were on the right instead of the left. Luke was excited to try Space Mountain, and was just as excited for it to end. The Buzz Lightyear Astro Blasters were a hit, as were the Mad Hatter Tea Cups (a fave of mine as a kid that I can no longer tolerate) and the Slinky Dog Spin (like the Matterhorn).

At Jed’s request, we had lunch at The Main Street Corner Cafe, which advertised a “premium American menu”, including “Cream of Wild Mushroom Latte” and “Napolitano Farmers Tomato Soup.” Very warm water (not iced) was offered before our meal, which the boys found enormously entertaining, if not very refreshing. Jed was a bit disappointed; I think we would have had better luck at one of the many places serving local fare. Expectation has a lot to do with how a meal goes for our family. But Jed took it in stride, comforted by the fact that the Small World Ice Cream stand was not far away. As we sat down to lunch, we told the boys about Great Grampy’s death and discussed his joyful approach to life, his love of music and his cheerful nature. As if in celebration, a marching band emerged from around the corner and played its way down the street.

The familiarity of the park was a strong counterpoint to how foreign it felt. Food carts that looked exactly the same as those at Disneyworld served caramel and chocolate popcorn, corn on a stick, “frozen lollipops” or “pizza cones”. Although we were not the only Westerners in the park (not by a long shot) or foreign appearance earned us searching stares from some of the mainland tourists. Tommy was easy to spot, because everywhere we went he was several inches taller than most everyone else. Even I could see over at least half of the crowd. I was physically reminded – more than once – of our cultures’ profound differences in personal space. As we lined up to take in the parade (remember this was an uncrowded day) we were jostled and shoved as those around us looked to compress our space even further – and we already felt squeezed. The other phenomenon that while not unexpected, is still remarkable in its pervasiveness is the desire to take jokey snapshots – even at the expense of everyone else. We seemed to be some of the park’s only “guests” not invested in recording every moment of our visit on video or in snapshots. That parade we lined up for? When the music began announcing the arrival of the floats, nearly every person raised some sort of recording device. Lucky for you, I have no video to share, but I can offer a picture or two – enjoy!

I just booked plane tickets for April break. It took me awhile to prioritize figuring out when (if!) the boys had spring break. Turns out they do, and it is a week and a half at the very beginning of April.  This would give us plenty of time to take in one of those exotic destinations that are now in the realm of possibility for spring break travel. Bali, New Zealand, Fiji and Australia are all close enough to consider.  But in the end, I booked flights back to the US.  I can already hear the howls from those who would love to have the proximity to these locales we have. But here’s the deal. We are all tired – not the kind of tired you get when you’re not sleeping well, or the tired after a long day of hiking or swimming, or even the tired after a 13 hour plane ride. This is a kind of exhaustion unique to those experiencing a new set of circumstances. It’s the tired you get when you are bombarded with “different” all day and then you fall asleep in a bed that feels unfamiliar.

This is not to say that I am not enjoying our journey.  There are things I really love, like the way the lights from the skycrapers provide a dim glow at night, like the whole city is a nightlight; or the delight of being able to walk to wherever I want in extraordinarily mild temperatures; or the surprisingly stealthy appearance of a window cleaner right in front of me, 13 stories up as I sit and write. It’s just that when it came to booking a vacation, the thought of enjoying a new place, new foods, new vistas, new rhythms just felt too much like what we are doing here everyday.  We needed a break from our adventure –   a vacation back to the familiar. I chickened out. Don’t judge me.

So we are headed back to Truckee, CA, where (knock wood) the biggest challenge will be the best route down the mountain and the choice between nachos and chicken fingers.  I am sure we will partake of the dizzying travel opportunities presented by living on this side of the world. Eventually. For now, a little bit of home feels right.

“Are we ever going to eat at home again?”

When Luke asked me this one night last week, it made me realize how much I had been avoiding cooking. It’s no secret that I have picky eaters. In fact, my parents will tell you that I was (and still am) a picky eater myself. I worked long and hard to get my oldest to accept something beyond Perdue chicken nuggets; ham was a big step, as were hot dogs, ramen noodles, homemade chicken strips and pizza with sauce. Pasta is still a no go (as it was with me through college and even while backpacking in Italy. I am sure my roommates could tell you how annoying that was).  After checking out a grocery store on our househunting trip in November, I felt I could breathe a sigh of relief: hotdogs could be bought; plain, uncooked boneless skinless chicken breasts were easy to find; ramen noodles were plentiful.  And they all are, but while hot dogs are readily available, buns aren’t.  The chicken tastes terrible and is tougher than any poultry I have ever eaten, and the ramen noodles are an ingredient you would only eat with something else to add flavor – which means they rank alongside jalapenos and spicy curry on the list of things the kids will eat.

It’s not like we eat every meal out or have take out for three meals a day.  We have breakfast at home all the time – cereal and milk isn’t hard to find and cornflakes taste about the same.  Lunches are not hard to put together either.  We have found packaged ham just like we use at home and the bread is good. The boys eagerly try new packaged goodies that I would not buy if I were grocery shopping at home. Ritz with cheese, chocolate goldfish, swiss wafers, small packs of mint milanos, yogurt raisins, cereal bars – they all have found their way into the boys lunches. But the packaged stuff is not where I want to expand the breadth of what they will eat. I needed to get creative about expanding our taste and texture tolerances. Creative and willing to spend some money. The Garden Cafe is a lovely restaurant just a few floors away. It costs a small fortune every time we eat there but it has been worth every penny.

The Garden Cafe is a hotel restaurant which serves an extensive buffet at breakfast, lunch and dinner. There is section devoted to Chinese dishes, an array of Japanese selections, a carving station with several choices of meat, fish and poultry (duck, anyone?), as well as all the choices we find “usual” at a buffet – eggs, bacon, sausage, bread, muffins, bagels, fruit and an omelette station. Each meal we eat at the Garden Cafe begins with the directive that everyone must try something new. With a western dessert buffet for consolation, attempting a new flavor isn’t that bad. Between us, we have tried sliced octopus, sushi, deep fried salmon with noodles, bean sprout salad with some sort of unidentifiable fruit, dumplings, delicious chunks of arctic char with mirin, fried noodle dishes, fruit smoothies that tasted weirdly of meat, tiny sardines (?), and a pepper mousse that I thought was tomato soup.

I credit the buffet with helping the boys’ tastebuds adapt to their new home. We are thrilled that Jed has decided salmon rolls are palatable, and while Luke is not pleased with the taste of the seaweed, he will happily eat cold sliced octopus. Ty remains an adventurous eater, gamely trying all sorts of new textures and flavors.  The boys all love calamari and are also willing to eat chicken or beef satay.

Since the boys are game for different tastes and textures, cooking might get fun again. Next step, more eating in, less eating out!

Both the joy and curse of an expat is encountering and experiencing things foreign. Whether it is food, street signs, mannerisms or cultural expectations, these encounters are all around you every day. In these early days, I have found all the difference as exhausting as it is exhilarating. There are times when all I want is something familiar, and here in Hong Kong, at least, a culture catering to western expectations is available – expensive, but available.  I started thinking about this entry as a humorous account of all the odd signs and creative uses of English words we have seen here in Hong Kong.  But a glass of wine and a really kind waiter made me think twice. First, let me acknowledge that I am fluent in only one language, and therefore have no business criticizing anyone for misappropriating a few words.  During our stay in Hong Kong, most of those we have communicated with have, at the very least, a rudimentary understanding of English – which far surpasses my understanding of Cantonese or Mandarin, spoken or written. I also mustn’t fail to point out how lucky we feel that many signs are provided in English so that we have a chance to read them and be puzzled or tickled or both.

Nearly everyday we walk by a relatively mundane clothing store inexplicably named “Stage of Playlord” across from another (womens!) clothing store called “Wanko.”  Or there’s the sign we came across where a pink cartoon character holding a bubble (spit?) wand imploring “Please Wrap Spittle.”

My favorite, though, are the signs on the mid-levels “travelator/escalator” where amidst detailed instructions about holding handrails, not loitering, and not obstructing entry/exit points, you find “Do not wail against the flow.” It is important enough to be number 4 on the list of instructions, before “Pets must be carried” and “Do not activate the emergency switch except in an emergency.” 

Even though it’s a completely foreign use of English, I get it.  It is important here to go with the group, obey the rules, follow the arrows – even though in many ways Hong Kong and its people “wail against the flow” of mainland China.

Wailing against the flow as an expat can make for a miserable experience.  Ultimately, it is impossible to live an American lifestyle outside of America. The space is different, the culture is different, different principles are valued.  I do think that with equal parts determination and money, we could approximate our old lifestyle.  But in doing that, we’d be missing the best parts of this experience. We’d be frustrated by the dearth of solid antiperspirant for purchase, confounded by the never-on-the-hour (American!) TV shows, or annoyed by the lack of breakfast spots –  instead of appreciating the quirky signs, the surprising number of Mexican restaurants, or the generous use of English.  So although I still have my moments, I am trying hard not to wail against the flow of the expat experience.

Plum Blossom

Hang up some lettuce and wait for the Lion – it’s Chinese New Year! Yesterday was the first day of Chinese New Year. Here in Hong Kong, that means lots of Lei See packets, red decorations incorporating carp, dragons and chinese symbols I can’t read (but probably mean good fortune and good luck), fireworks, a parade, and special performances in the malls, schools and hotels.
Chinese New Year, or the Lunar New Year, is a big family holiday here and in China. We have been told it is comparable to Thanksgiving, as families travel to be together and celebrate the potential of the upcoming year. 2012 marks a particularly good year, because it is the year of the Dragon. Those born in the year of the Dragon are particularly blessed, and are believed to be destined for success, power and prosperity. It’s a good time to move to Hong Kong!

In everyday terms, it means the kids have a week off school and Tommy has three full days off. Some local businesses are closed for the holidays, buy many stores serving westerners remain open. Many expats use this week to travel, but we are happy to stay put and enjoy the break. Our temporary apartment hotel/complex hosted a dragon/lion dance Monday morning, and we have enjoyed numerous live musical performances down in the mall. There is traditionally a huge night parade with lighted floats, but we elected to skip the crowds and watch a replay of the Pats/Raven playoff game. We did visit the flower market in Victoria Park, one of the famous CNY attractions here in Hong Kong, but we all felt overwhelmed by the incredible crush of people.  We did enjoy the displays of flowers (briefly), and the oddity of kids “fishing” for goldfish with plastic cups in a kiddie pool as a type of carnival game.   It reminded me a bit of a state fair, but with more directions (which everyone seemed to be ignoring) about how and where you were supposed to walk. We lasted about 10 minutes, then lost each other in the crowds while exiting.  A bunch of texts later, we found each other and a cab. We were relieved to finally get back to our hotel.

Tuesday, the second day of the holiday, will bring a huge fireworks display over Victoria Harbor.  Fireworks and firecrackers play prominently in CNY celebrations and decorations, as traditionally they scare away the evil spirits so the new year will have a positive, auspicious beginning. Other symbols that are new to us include the carp, said to bring good fortune, lettuce hung over a door to bring a lion (which eats the lettuce and scares away evil) and mini mandarin orange trees, which symbolize good fortune.  The boys have enjoyed handing out Lei See packets, which are red envelopes with a small amount of money in them  – usually two bills of some sort, to indicate double happiness and good luck.  Many of the decorations here include the mini-mandarin trees and plum tree branches decorated with red and gold.