Two weeks ago I traveled to Hong Kong and China for my job. This is not the first time I’ve been; in fact, the number of times I’ve been is approaching the double-digits. I actually had to add new pages to my passport because there weren’t any more blank pages for my China Visa, which was an adventure in itself but not post-worthy. Everyone is fully aware of government bureaucracy…
This is the first time, however, that I’ve had almost zero down time on my trip. There’s usually a day or so – like a tiny reward – in a trip filled with hours and hours of intense work, weird food and making myself understood very clearly. Communication is key and, of course, being a privileged American, I expect everyone to speak English fluently.*
Here was my schedule on this trip:
Tuesday: fly out of NYC in the early morning. Yes, I flew Business Class on Cathay Pacific. Yes, it is awesome.
Wednesday: arrive in Hong Kong. Go through customs and immigration. Try to look like my passport picture.** Get to the hotel around 5pm. Have some dinner. Fall into bed.
Thursday: Thursday was a big day and a traumatic day for my jet-lagged psyche. I’m going to need some space…
(Note: when I travel to HK I get to stay at the Intercontinental Hotel in Kowloon. This is Not A Bad Thing. There are 3 Michelin-rated restaurants in the hotel, for heaven’s sake. It has a fantastic view of the Hong Kong harbor from the Lobby. I have zero complaints about the Intercon and would live there if I could. I also know that this is a pipe dream and a lot of people work very hard to keep me blissful while I’m there. I pay for my indulgence, just wait…)
I was treated to a lovely sunset when I arrived in Hong Kong.
Thursday morning I wake up well before the alarm at 5am. Go to the Hong Kong airport. Go through Hong Kong customs and immigration. Try to look like my passport picture. Take a flight to Xiamen. Get studied with scrutiny by Chinese immigration and customs. Try to look like my passport picture. Meet the people I am traveling with. Get into a car and drive for an hour. Stop at the most rinky-dink fancy restaurant you can think of for lunch. Please work with me on my painfully detailed description: walk up a crumbling staircase. Inside, imagine the doorway is 7:00 on the face of a clock, dirty mops and buckets are along the wall at 9:00. At 12:00 are small windows that look out onto a muddy river (I have no idea which river). To our right, at 6:00 is a picture menu; each picture is about a foot wide, laminated in peeling plastic and placed on a very large board. Beyond the extensive menu board, at 5:00, are stacks of tanks holding every kind of sea-creature imaginable – and some that I’ve subsequently had nightmares about. At 3:00 is the open kitchen where men and women wearing rubber boots, gloves and aprons are going to cook our lunch for us. They eye me. There is a long consultation among the people I’m traveling with about what we should eat. I tell them I’m allergic to fresh-water fish (which is true). I show them my epi-pen. They take it seriously. There is more consultation. I review the pictures on the menu. There is a picture of a soup with two sea-horses floating in it. I lose what little appetite I had and imagine how someone eats a seahorse. I feel ill. We climb the grand, curving staircase that’s positioned at 2:00 and proceed along the balcony to one of the private rooms where people entertain in grand style in China. I try not to look too closely at the algae growing in the corner. The air conditioner is fighting a losing battle. The stained, floor-length tablecloth is covered by plastic. I sit, hang my bag on my knee, and try not to think about what’s under the table. My host tells me that I should wash my dishes first in tea. This is a first for me. I do so, washing the chopsticks, the bowl and the glass in the hot tea that is then poured into a slop bowl. The first dish arrives. I ask what it is. There is a lot of consultation of iPhones and translator software. They tell me that there is no english word. I smile and take a tiny piece; I am the guest of honor. More dishes arrive. I ask what they are. I am told some things that I want to forget. I take more tiny pieces; I don’t recognize anything. A fish arrives and smiles at me. I remind them that I will die if this fish comes from a river. They assure me it doesn’t. I take a tiny piece. I explain that I’m not hungry (this is true). However, I am the guest of honor and I must eat; they load more things into my bowl. I perfect the art of shredding stuff with my chopsticks and putting it onto the plate as if it were bones. Some sort of spare rib thing arrives with brown iceberg lettuce to wrap it in. The host carefully selects the fattiest piece for me. I smile. Soup arrives. I don’t mind soup; I can eat soup. Soup is easy. I overlook the very odd things floating in it and take a sip of broth. It is the most bitter thing I have ever tasted; like pucker-your-tongue bitter. I ask what type of soup it is; abalone with bitter melon. I look more closely at the floaty stuff: it appears that some fist-sized abalone were pulled out of the fish-tank, plunked into some chicken broth and some bitter melon added for yumminess. There is a slight layer of scum and some green things floating in it. I… Just… Cant… I apologize and say that I’m very jet-lagged as I watch my companions pick up fleshy abalone with chopsticks and bite into them. I’m sure there are worse things, but at that moment, I can’t think of anything… We get back into the car and drive for another half hour to the factory where I will actually do work. It is the dragon boat festival so there are boats on another muddy river that we cross. The traffic is stopped.
dragon boats
I just want to get to work and get everything over with. We finally make it to the factory about 1:00. We work until 6:30 when the factory closes. We (there are now 11 of us) get into 2 cars and drive an hour back to the hotel where we’re going to spend the night. Apparently the other hotel in this town does not have air conditioning and so we are going to stay in the new hotel. Cool. New hotel. Not cool. Sex hotel. What, you ask? Just wait…
The area is known for stone cutting. If you have seen a granite or marble slab it has probably come from this town. There is stone everywhere. In the hotel the floors and walls and ceiling were inlaid with stone; the lobby was basically a big stone vault. There was a Ferrari outside the hotel and some sort of fancy roped-off three-wheeled motorcycle thing. This hotel must be where the Stone Lord Swells go to live it up and party. I had 10 minutes to put my luggage in my room and meet everyone for dinner on the 3rd floor. Ok. The first impression was that my room is dark and pretty dismal.
Nothing says “class” like red flower petals in the toilet.
I put my suitcase on the suitcase rack and place my backpack on top of it. (Please note, in any questionable hotel, do not ever put your bags on the floor or the bed. Just don’t.) I meet everyone on the third floor for dinner. I am the guest of honor. Again. We meet in another private room where there is a sitting area with throne-like chairs, a small divider and an enormous table with a lazy-susan in the middle and two glass dragons on it.
Brothel meets Communism.
The industrial lighting is dim, efficient and makes everyone look slightly green. I am asked to sit in the most throne-like chair and spend my time trying to figure out what people are talking about***. I sit, smiling like a nun with dementia, until we were told it was time for dinner. Wine was ordered. My glass was never empty.
The dinner table.
Dinner was a seemingly endless parade of terrifying dishes meant to show my status as guest of honor. Thank you so much but I am still not hungry. More and more food is put into my bowl. Why am I not eating? Don’t I like it? What would I like? Nothing, really, everything is wonderful, I’m just jet-lagged… People from the factory don’t know what this means. There is a lot of explanation. I do my best to do the chopstick shredding technique from lunch. More wine is ordered. My host proposes a toast. My glass is filled again. The only sounds are air conditioner, silence and slurping. No music… A dish of steamed shrimp is brought out and placed in front of me. These are not small shrimp. However, they are beautifully arranged in concentric circles, their antennae waving like tiny flags in the air-conditioned breeze. I take one. Two more are put into my bowl. The best way to eat these is to pop the whole thing into your mouth and spit out anything you can’t chew up. This is not my way. I cut the head off with my spoon and carefully pull off the shell with my fingers. The longer it takes me to eat something the less I have to eat. Everyone is watching me. I smile. Someone else proposes a toast. Rice is brought out in individual dishes. Oh dear; the clams and mussels weren’t washed all that well before being thrown into the rice. I pick. I sip my wine. Another toast is proposed; no one translates into English but I get the gist: Let’s have fun and drink wine for free on a Thursday. Please let this meal be over; I have hours of work ahead of me… Fruit is brought out; finally. It is litchi season. I get a tutorial in how to peel them since I am doing it wrong. A plate of deep-fried dough is brought out. Please stop. They ask me if I want more wine. No, thank you, really…
I get back to my room and immediately start up my computer. No wireless. Fine. I plug it into the wall and connect remotely to my work server. It’s 10:00 pm. I am supposed to write a recap of the work I did today along with pictures. I try to plug in to the outlet and realize that I only have an adaptor for Hong Kong, not for China. I have 72% power. Ok, I will work fast. About midnight I get an e-mail from my boss reminding me that I’m supposed to turn in a recap and that it is very important that I do this daily and that she is disappointed that I haven’t sent it yet, blah, blah, blah. My stress level is rising. I am almost finished when there is a warning that my computer will hibernate soon. I have 12% power. I try to send my recap. My computer hibernates. Panic. I go downstairs and bring my Hong Kong wall adaptor. It is 1am. The front desk is staffed by 6 girls; there are two men checking in. They see me. All the girls begin helping the men. No one makes eye contact with me. Everyone moves away toward the other end of the giant stone desk. I move down too. They are now crowded at the far end and no one is acknowledging I’m there. I try to get anyone’s attention by saying excuse me and waving. I have the attention of both men. This is not going well. I am tired. I begin dropping my Hong Kong outlet adaptor on the counter. Over and over and over. The girls look at me. I say hello? They look away. I start slamming the adaptor on the counter, the sound echoing off the stone walls. The men look away. One of the girls has to walk past me to get to the credit card machine. I now know the meaning of belligerent. I hold out my adaptor in front of her. She giggles. I say “this is for Hong Kong; I need one for China”. She giggles some more. Another girl comes up. I say the same thing. I point to a plug and mimic plugging the adaptor in to the wall. I hold out my room card and wave some Hong Kong money. They are both giggling. I start shouting. I am very tired. I realize I have no recourse. I can’t move hotels; I can’t make threats; I can’t get China money because I don’t know where an ATM is and I don’t speak the language. I can do nothing. I slam the adaptor once more on the counter for good measure and stalk away. At the elevator is a girl who is dressed in a pink ruffled polka-dot dress, black high heels, white knee socks and a french maid hat. I stare at her, she stares at me. She is wearing a name tag – it says “Candy”. I get into the elevator with two other girls and one man. He is smoking a cigarette. I am on the 18th floor and I could climb the stairs faster than this elevator moves. There are smokey mirrors on the walls and ceiling, the floor is stone. I think about how much faster the elevator could go if there weren’t stone in it. One of the girls bites the boy on the arm; he squeezes the other one on the ass. I wonder if I have died and this is purgatory. I get back to my room and try to figure out the phone.
The long, dark hallway back to my room.
I almost pressed the “recreation” button.
How do I call the people I’m traveling with? I don’t even bother with the front desk; I start pushing buttons and end up connecting with the right person. I ask if she has a China adaptor. I am sorry that it’s 1:30 in the morning but I have to send an e-mail. She tells me to send it from the factory tomorrow. I tell her that I absolutely have to send it tonight and I will come to her room to get it. She says ok. I finally send my e-mail at 2:00am.
I start to look around my room. All is not well. This add is beside the bed.
um, yeah… beauty center.
I have a hard time believing it is for a spa. Maybe “spa” translates from “whorehouse”.
There is a mini bar beside the bed.
A cornucopia of sex supplies. Reasonably priced.
I see a vibrating condom. I am glad I haven’t taken off my shoes. I carefully look at all the offerings in the sex mini bar. I am grossed out, skeeved out and generally worked up. It is now 3am. I e-mail my Better Half who is sympathetic but tells me that there’s nothing I can do and to try to get some sleep. I thoroughly inspect the bedding. Stains are minimal and there’s nothing on the tiny edge where I’m going to lie down. I dress in long knit pants, a long-sleeved t-shirt and long socks. I tuck the pants into the socks. I put the t-shirt that I wore on the plane over the pillow. I turn the air conditioner up so that it’s warm in the room. I lie down with my hands folded on my chest and pray that I don’t get an STD. Overreact much? Yes. Jet lag; that’s what.
This is the reassuring sign on the door regarding fire. Red star?
* This is sarcasm. I try to learn a few words in Mandarin (if I’m in Hong Kong) or Cantonese (if I’m in China). My pronunciation is great but I promptly forget whatever I’ve learned. What can I say? New York is 12 hours behind and it’s hard to catch my brain up…
** At every immigration desk the officer asked, “Is this you?”. Um, yes…
*** I have found that I can usually follow a conversation pretty well just by watching body language and picking up on the few english words thrown in.
little girl in Gotham 
this is a great post – i love the phone. love it.