The cab ride to work was nauseating this morning.
Most HK cabs insist on having their dispatch radio on full blast, but usually my mind can block the sound out. This morning, though, I found myself counting how many times the woman on the other end said the same thing - with a record of 19 for one destination! When you consider that Cantonese is a rather harsh language (one friend likens it to cats fighting in her garden), this can make your ride into work seem very long indeed. Just to be clear, that's (at full volume and with radio crackling):
"Sam say sam sing dan say Sheung Wan, sam say sam sing dan say Sheung Wan, sam say sam sing dan say Sheung Wan, sam say sam sing dan say Sheung Wan, sam say sam sing dan say Sheung Wan, sam say sam sing dan say Sheung Wan, sam say sam sing dan say Sheung Wan, sam say sam sing dan say Sheung Wan, sam say sam sing dan say Sheung Wan, sam say sam sing dan say Sheung Wan, sam say sam sing dan say Sheung Wan, sam say sam sing dan say Sheung Wan, sam say sam sing dan say Sheung Wan, sam say sam sing dan say Sheung Wan, sam say sam sing dan say Sheung Wan, sam say sam sing dan say Sheung Wan, sam say sam sing dan say Sheung Wan, sam say sam sing dan say Sheung Wan, sam say sam sing dan say Sheung Wan"
And that's just one of them. A 30 minute traffic jam allows room for many more beautiful sentences to be repeated ad nauseum. It really made me feel ill.
I know what you are thinking. "Taxi?! If you're complaining about taking a taxi, get yourself on a bus. Or a tram. On yer bike!" And you would be right, of course. But that's not the point - I think this capacity for taxi drivers to allow such noise pollution to enter their workplace (often accompanied with loud fm radio debates, too) just demonstrates why this country is so unbearable - no one cares about jackhammers and horns and buses and drills and and and. Perhaps if everyone turned their radio off they would hear what an audible mess is going on around them and scale down the unnecessary roadworks that seem to take place everywhere, every day (the jackhammers at the bottom of our building have been there for 10 months now, moving a quarter of an inch a month...)
Be quiet Hong Kong. Then maybe I won't have to move half an hour away to get some peace and quiet (and even there will be noisy).
OK. Rant over.
27 March 2009
25 March 2009
D-75 to D-73, water, water everywhere
Every year in this tropical country, the skies open up for months on end, making commuting miserable and bad workmanship apparent (such as our lovely leaking ceiling in the bathroom, for example). But as soon as they close up again I seem to erase them from my memory, so once again this year, I am really surprised to see so much rain. It's still nice and humid of course, so we get the immense and almost physically impossible pleasure of being hot and sticky all day, while simultaneously getting drenched...
But the rain doesn't bother me because it gets us wet (in fact as a child I used to wait for it to rain to go out and play); rather, I hate the rain because of the killer umbrellas that come out in a crazy bid to pierce my eyes out or drip all of their collected drops on to my neck.
Every year my umbrellaphobia multiplies in strength, and today at lunchtime I worked myself into a frenzy, screaming at people who got anywhere near me with their death machines, trying to stab me with their spokes.
I suppose I need to calm myself down if I am going to go ahead with my plan to convince Krusty to move to a quieter location soon - completely exhausted by the noise of jackhammers waking me up every morning, as well as motivated by recent developments on our rooftop, I have a strong desire to find a new place for us to live.
And only 30 minutes' ferry-ride away lies Lamma - an island forbidden to cars, which has a reputation of being the last Hong Kong refuge of hippies. The cliché is still more or less true (not many investment bankers here, as the last ferry leaves at 11.30pm and most of those crazy financial types like to work past midnight...) but it is also slowly changing, and it is now the only place where one can find space, greenery and peace for a very reduced rent.
Sure there are no supermarkets, but you can order you food to arrive by online delivery. Sure you have to walk up a big hill to get home, but that just means you get a better view from the top! All of this might just be a pipe dream of course, as I haven't found one single place for rent yet, but it's still a dream.
As I said though, I might have to learn to calm down and deal with the killer umbrellas if I am going to live on an island full of super calm, chilled, peaced out hippies... Wonder how they will react to my kung fu umbrella defense tactics...?
But the rain doesn't bother me because it gets us wet (in fact as a child I used to wait for it to rain to go out and play); rather, I hate the rain because of the killer umbrellas that come out in a crazy bid to pierce my eyes out or drip all of their collected drops on to my neck.
Every year my umbrellaphobia multiplies in strength, and today at lunchtime I worked myself into a frenzy, screaming at people who got anywhere near me with their death machines, trying to stab me with their spokes.
I suppose I need to calm myself down if I am going to go ahead with my plan to convince Krusty to move to a quieter location soon - completely exhausted by the noise of jackhammers waking me up every morning, as well as motivated by recent developments on our rooftop, I have a strong desire to find a new place for us to live.
And only 30 minutes' ferry-ride away lies Lamma - an island forbidden to cars, which has a reputation of being the last Hong Kong refuge of hippies. The cliché is still more or less true (not many investment bankers here, as the last ferry leaves at 11.30pm and most of those crazy financial types like to work past midnight...) but it is also slowly changing, and it is now the only place where one can find space, greenery and peace for a very reduced rent.
Sure there are no supermarkets, but you can order you food to arrive by online delivery. Sure you have to walk up a big hill to get home, but that just means you get a better view from the top! All of this might just be a pipe dream of course, as I haven't found one single place for rent yet, but it's still a dream.
As I said though, I might have to learn to calm down and deal with the killer umbrellas if I am going to live on an island full of super calm, chilled, peaced out hippies... Wonder how they will react to my kung fu umbrella defense tactics...?
22 March 2009
D-76, now it's war
There was Helen of Troy's good looks, then Franz Ferdinand's assassination - now there's our disco light.
We were watching a film this evening when we heard a big party happening on the next roof. Not a problem as such, until I realised that they had a disco light just like ours. No, hold on - OUR disco light had been removed from the roof and directed out of a window two floors below ours...
Krusty immediately went to investigate and explain to the people in the next building that it was NOT OK to just come to other people's places and take their stuff, and the whole thing seemed sorted out, until, putting the light back up on our roof we realised that someone had also actually taken the metallic shelves we had bought to put out plants on!!!
We have no idea who has taken our shelves (carefully placing our plants on the floor in the process) but now we just feel like strangers in our own home. We are both livid. And Krusty is wondering where to find an industrial-size padlock on a Sunday night to make sure no one takes his pride and joy - the bbq...
We were watching a film this evening when we heard a big party happening on the next roof. Not a problem as such, until I realised that they had a disco light just like ours. No, hold on - OUR disco light had been removed from the roof and directed out of a window two floors below ours...
Krusty immediately went to investigate and explain to the people in the next building that it was NOT OK to just come to other people's places and take their stuff, and the whole thing seemed sorted out, until, putting the light back up on our roof we realised that someone had also actually taken the metallic shelves we had bought to put out plants on!!!
We have no idea who has taken our shelves (carefully placing our plants on the floor in the process) but now we just feel like strangers in our own home. We are both livid. And Krusty is wondering where to find an industrial-size padlock on a Sunday night to make sure no one takes his pride and joy - the bbq...
21 March 2009
D-77, bribes of Beijing
As you might have read earlier, Krusty and I found ourselves in the Chinese capital last weekend, of which there is lots to say so brace yourselves: this is going to be a long one. I'll try to break it up with a few photos to make it worth your while...
Our trip was close to perfect, and we both agreed incessantly on how breathtaking and surprising this city is. Although if you had asked me in my first few hours there, I would have given you a very different story.
Arriving in Beijing is an attack on the senses, in all the wrong ways. I don't know why I keep expecting mainland China to be something it isn't; I have been there three times now, so the lack of (Western values of) politeness is no accident. As soon as I left the airport I was surrounded by lots of teeth sucking, lip smacking people who were spitting, shoving and pushing into the taxi queue, completely disregarding the 30 people who had been waiting before them.
Once in the taxi, I found nowhere to plug in my seat belt, and despite a chilly winter day outside, the taxi driver opened my window as we set off. Did I smell? Perhaps my cheeks were still red from screaming at the queue jumper and the driver thought I looked like I needed to cool off...
And this driver was cool. In the sense of being very relaxed: halfway into town, he missed his exit and so, in the middle of the motorway, with dozens of cars speeding towards us, he stopped dead and reversed to be able to turn where he needed to. I'd like to reiterate at this point that there was nowhere to attach my seat belt...
Once at the hotel, I thought a few laps in the pool would help calm me down from my completely unreasonable and colonial rage against the Chinese population. But of course not: in it stood an old man with tight swimming trunks pulled up to the middle of his chest, with swimming goggles on. He was not swimming, no. Only when I finished a lap or started one would he put his head under the water and - I can only assume - watch me swim. As the friend I was visiting said: "I can understand the pervy part, but why were his trunks pulled up so high?!"
I met this same good humoured friend that night for dinner as Krusty worked, and only then did I start to relax. He took me to the new restaurant and bar area around Sanlitun for dinner, and then we headed to Beijing's first boutique hotel, The Opposite House, for drinks at Mesh. As the name suggests, this bar has lots of mesh curtains hanging around low leather seats, and a cocktail list that changes every week. I sipped a "Model Jessie", of course, and took in the faces of Beijing's movers and shakers. Most lovely. The banter and beautiful surroundings made me feel better about having arrived in the chariot of death, and the morning's discomfort was all but forgotten. (All but forgotten means I have actually forgotten, doesn't it? Or does it mean that I have done all I could but couldn't forget it? I must investigate where this expression comes from...)
The next day, I decided to go for a stroll down Liulichang, the antiques street. Lovely calligraphy brushes and marble stamps weren't enough to distract me from the weather, though, and the wind cut through my cheeks like a sword. I ducked into a small shop, where for the next hour a small lady who spoke perfect English told me everything she knew about pi ying xi, or Chinese shadow puppets. These beautiful leather cut-outs were used in ancient times to tell stories in front of an illuminated backdrop to create the illusion of moving images. I bought a "happy man" and the "monkey king" to thank her for her time. Unfortunately she didn't have a rat...!
Outside I experienced brain freeze, literally, and had to go back to wait for Krusty at the hotel if my I wanted to keep my head on. My hibernation was rewarded that night though - our friends took us for dinner at Duck de Chine, a brilliant restaurant in the 1949 complex, where a gong is sounded every time the Peking Duck is brought out to be chopped, and where from a fireplace roasting the ducks emanates a delicious and irresistible smell. I didn't mind having missed Beijing by day again - Beijing by night was so much better!
On the Saturday, Krusty finally had a little time to give me, so we travelled the hour and a half in a car it takes to leave the city and climb the Great Wall at Mutianyu. Of course, this plan would have been incredible had Krusty not rolled over my previously broken toe with his suitcase that morning, but getting away with just a bruise I could still hobble... This fact must have been forgotten when Krusty and his colleague, who had come with us, suggested that we walk up to the wall instead of taking the cable car... I should mention at this point that this colleague was the one who took us mountain biking...
The wall was incredible (we took the cable car up, in case you were wondering) and the four days of leg pain I had subsequently were a ridiculously tiny price to pay for the pleasure of seeing this marvel. I also managed to get sunburn, in my eyes. I didn't even know that was possible... Krusty spent the whole walk saying "we are so lucky to see this", and he was right (even if he did say it about 105 times too many...). We really are lucky to see so much beauty.
Back in town, our friends had another great night planned for us. First we headed to the National Theatre, also known as Paul Andreu's "Egg". The building looks, well, like an egg, but it could also be a spaceship that might have landed on a lake next to Tiananmen Square. We were there to see a ballet interpretation of Zhang Yimou's Raise the Red Lantern, directed by the man himself (if you haven't heard of him, he was the man responsible for the opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympics last year), and it was, again, breathtaking.
The story is of a young girl who, after falling in love with a Peking Opera singer, is taken to the Forbidden City to become the Emperor's third concubine, against her will. There she encounters the Peking Opera singer once more, and conducts an affair that gets discovered by the first concubine. But as she reports it to the Emperor, she is shunned too, and all three of them are executed, concluding the show. Harrowing stuff, eh!
The costumes were stunning, with the coloured satin ballet pointes creating a satisfying effect of bound feet (even if this would have been chronologically incorrect, the mix of East and West was still satisfying). As the young girl's virginity was taken she and the emperor ran though a tall Chinese screen, ripping the paper panels, and as they lay on stage, a huge, blood red piece of silk was placed to cover them... Beautiful. For the execution scene, the guards came out with long red sticks covered in red paint which they bashed against a large white frame of canvas - the noise and stream of red paint were extremely effective. My friend (who studied with me at Hong Kong University) and I were in Comparative Literature heaven.
The next day, we made an obligatory stop at the Forbidden City. We took the audio tour and I couldn't stop oohing and aahing at the intrigues, so much so that Krusty accused me of making it into "Sex in the forbidden city". But consider the facts: Empress Dowager Ci Xi would whisper orders on behalf of young emperors through a yellow curtain (a fact at the origin of a Chinese idiom very similar in meaning to our "back seat driver" one); the last emperor was put in control of the kingdom at the age of just three, crying during his coronation so that his father ominously said "It's finished, it's finished" without realising that the empire was, indeed, finished; and another emperor's favourite concubine had a son that she had to hide away for five years to protect him from another concubine who would murder any babies that were born to keep her status of favourite... And the list goes on.
Walking through the red walled-corridor of this giant structure (which is not called City lightly), we got such a sense of history that it followed us all the way to the yummy dumpling restaurant (where Krusty went for... crispy deep-fried pig's intestine...) and even on to the plane back to Hong Kong.
And so there you have it, three days in Beijing and a lifetime's memories to remember. I strongly suggest you make the trip yourself...
Our trip was close to perfect, and we both agreed incessantly on how breathtaking and surprising this city is. Although if you had asked me in my first few hours there, I would have given you a very different story.
Arriving in Beijing is an attack on the senses, in all the wrong ways. I don't know why I keep expecting mainland China to be something it isn't; I have been there three times now, so the lack of (Western values of) politeness is no accident. As soon as I left the airport I was surrounded by lots of teeth sucking, lip smacking people who were spitting, shoving and pushing into the taxi queue, completely disregarding the 30 people who had been waiting before them.
Once in the taxi, I found nowhere to plug in my seat belt, and despite a chilly winter day outside, the taxi driver opened my window as we set off. Did I smell? Perhaps my cheeks were still red from screaming at the queue jumper and the driver thought I looked like I needed to cool off...
And this driver was cool. In the sense of being very relaxed: halfway into town, he missed his exit and so, in the middle of the motorway, with dozens of cars speeding towards us, he stopped dead and reversed to be able to turn where he needed to. I'd like to reiterate at this point that there was nowhere to attach my seat belt...
Once at the hotel, I thought a few laps in the pool would help calm me down from my completely unreasonable and colonial rage against the Chinese population. But of course not: in it stood an old man with tight swimming trunks pulled up to the middle of his chest, with swimming goggles on. He was not swimming, no. Only when I finished a lap or started one would he put his head under the water and - I can only assume - watch me swim. As the friend I was visiting said: "I can understand the pervy part, but why were his trunks pulled up so high?!"
I met this same good humoured friend that night for dinner as Krusty worked, and only then did I start to relax. He took me to the new restaurant and bar area around Sanlitun for dinner, and then we headed to Beijing's first boutique hotel, The Opposite House, for drinks at Mesh. As the name suggests, this bar has lots of mesh curtains hanging around low leather seats, and a cocktail list that changes every week. I sipped a "Model Jessie", of course, and took in the faces of Beijing's movers and shakers. Most lovely. The banter and beautiful surroundings made me feel better about having arrived in the chariot of death, and the morning's discomfort was all but forgotten. (All but forgotten means I have actually forgotten, doesn't it? Or does it mean that I have done all I could but couldn't forget it? I must investigate where this expression comes from...)
The next day, I decided to go for a stroll down Liulichang, the antiques street. Lovely calligraphy brushes and marble stamps weren't enough to distract me from the weather, though, and the wind cut through my cheeks like a sword. I ducked into a small shop, where for the next hour a small lady who spoke perfect English told me everything she knew about pi ying xi, or Chinese shadow puppets. These beautiful leather cut-outs were used in ancient times to tell stories in front of an illuminated backdrop to create the illusion of moving images. I bought a "happy man" and the "monkey king" to thank her for her time. Unfortunately she didn't have a rat...!
Outside I experienced brain freeze, literally, and had to go back to wait for Krusty at the hotel if my I wanted to keep my head on. My hibernation was rewarded that night though - our friends took us for dinner at Duck de Chine, a brilliant restaurant in the 1949 complex, where a gong is sounded every time the Peking Duck is brought out to be chopped, and where from a fireplace roasting the ducks emanates a delicious and irresistible smell. I didn't mind having missed Beijing by day again - Beijing by night was so much better!
On the Saturday, Krusty finally had a little time to give me, so we travelled the hour and a half in a car it takes to leave the city and climb the Great Wall at Mutianyu. Of course, this plan would have been incredible had Krusty not rolled over my previously broken toe with his suitcase that morning, but getting away with just a bruise I could still hobble... This fact must have been forgotten when Krusty and his colleague, who had come with us, suggested that we walk up to the wall instead of taking the cable car... I should mention at this point that this colleague was the one who took us mountain biking...
The wall was incredible (we took the cable car up, in case you were wondering) and the four days of leg pain I had subsequently were a ridiculously tiny price to pay for the pleasure of seeing this marvel. I also managed to get sunburn, in my eyes. I didn't even know that was possible... Krusty spent the whole walk saying "we are so lucky to see this", and he was right (even if he did say it about 105 times too many...). We really are lucky to see so much beauty.
Back in town, our friends had another great night planned for us. First we headed to the National Theatre, also known as Paul Andreu's "Egg". The building looks, well, like an egg, but it could also be a spaceship that might have landed on a lake next to Tiananmen Square. We were there to see a ballet interpretation of Zhang Yimou's Raise the Red Lantern, directed by the man himself (if you haven't heard of him, he was the man responsible for the opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympics last year), and it was, again, breathtaking.
The story is of a young girl who, after falling in love with a Peking Opera singer, is taken to the Forbidden City to become the Emperor's third concubine, against her will. There she encounters the Peking Opera singer once more, and conducts an affair that gets discovered by the first concubine. But as she reports it to the Emperor, she is shunned too, and all three of them are executed, concluding the show. Harrowing stuff, eh!
The costumes were stunning, with the coloured satin ballet pointes creating a satisfying effect of bound feet (even if this would have been chronologically incorrect, the mix of East and West was still satisfying). As the young girl's virginity was taken she and the emperor ran though a tall Chinese screen, ripping the paper panels, and as they lay on stage, a huge, blood red piece of silk was placed to cover them... Beautiful. For the execution scene, the guards came out with long red sticks covered in red paint which they bashed against a large white frame of canvas - the noise and stream of red paint were extremely effective. My friend (who studied with me at Hong Kong University) and I were in Comparative Literature heaven.
The next day, we made an obligatory stop at the Forbidden City. We took the audio tour and I couldn't stop oohing and aahing at the intrigues, so much so that Krusty accused me of making it into "Sex in the forbidden city". But consider the facts: Empress Dowager Ci Xi would whisper orders on behalf of young emperors through a yellow curtain (a fact at the origin of a Chinese idiom very similar in meaning to our "back seat driver" one); the last emperor was put in control of the kingdom at the age of just three, crying during his coronation so that his father ominously said "It's finished, it's finished" without realising that the empire was, indeed, finished; and another emperor's favourite concubine had a son that she had to hide away for five years to protect him from another concubine who would murder any babies that were born to keep her status of favourite... And the list goes on.
Walking through the red walled-corridor of this giant structure (which is not called City lightly), we got such a sense of history that it followed us all the way to the yummy dumpling restaurant (where Krusty went for... crispy deep-fried pig's intestine...) and even on to the plane back to Hong Kong.
And so there you have it, three days in Beijing and a lifetime's memories to remember. I strongly suggest you make the trip yourself...
11 March 2009
D-87, Janelle Padovani
I present you with the latest addition to my extended family, Janelle Padovani, or as I am calling her, red squidgyface... So cute...
In other developments, the tailor has suddenly come up with more fabric to make the dress longer, which is just as well since I had gone into panic overdrive and even put a bid in on another dress... I was impulsive and indecisive at the same time. Krusty says he wants to get into my head and dust.
In other developments, the tailor has suddenly come up with more fabric to make the dress longer, which is just as well since I had gone into panic overdrive and even put a bid in on another dress... I was impulsive and indecisive at the same time. Krusty says he wants to get into my head and dust.
10 March 2009
D-91 to D-88, rude awakening
What a rollercoaster ride our life is at the moment...
First we had a slightly unreal weekend. We were invited to a barbeque on Kowloon, organised by the people whose amazing flat we had watched the fireworks from. I knew these guys were well off, but I had no idea to what extent.
Traditionally, every bbq I have ever been to (or organised myself) has been a short-and-flip-flops kind of affair, with meat casually flung on to a grill and copious cans of San Miguel consumed. Of course that has changed somewhat since Krusty got his giant grilling machine, but still, it's usually quite laid back.
Here we arrived to find a gaggle of girls steeped up high on their Louboutin heels, squeezed into elegant YSL dresses and complaining about how fat they were. (They weren't. They were light years and many, many galaxies away from fat. In fact, isn't the biggest YSL size just a few notches above size 0?).
There were also those outdoor heater parasols to keep us warm, and as many quality grilling tools as you can name. The steaks weren't the usual Hong Kong thin strip of leather, no - they were thick Citysuper affairs, which much have cost at least $300 a pop. The pork chops were iberico, the mozzarella was buffalo, the bread was from Robuchon... Everything was the best of the best.
And to drink? Well, nothing says bbq as much as free-flowing Veuve Clicquot now, does it?! I resisted the tempting orange label to remain true to my self-inflicted alcohol ban, but I gave in spectacularly when a bottle of 1998 Dom Perignon came out. There are limits to my willpower...
I suppose the extravagance of the whole night can be forgiven though, it was a 30th birthday after all. Which brings me to the gifts... We arrived first, so our tiny flat package looked proud on the empty table. But as the guests arrived, so did the presents - a bag from Tiffany & Co, a jereboam of Krug champagne, another big bag from Lane Crawford... It was too late to take ours back, and I would love to have seen the birthday girl's face as she opened it - a guide to swearing in Cantonese! Well, she is trying to learn...
The next day was similarly odd. We went to a friend's housewarming party, and their new flat was huuuggge. It was also really old, and looked like it hadn't been updated since the 30s, which doesn't mean grotty, no - it means beautiful, tiled floors; elegant wooden birdcages; and giant crystal chandeliers. Considering two young men who like loud music are living in it, the atmosphere was very strange. And I am very jealous.
But of course a flat like that comes at the price of living on the fifth floor without a lift. And as my friend Romain pointed out, at our age we have the responsibility of catering for pushchairs... Which reminds me that my cousin is in hospital giving birth right now!
Anyway, we left the party after an urgent call form the man who is making our wedding rings, a character who served in the army before becoming a sailor and then a gem dealer. Not only is this man's history rich in anecdotes, but he is also making our rings for a tiny fraction of the price other shops have quoted us. Anyway, on a recent trip he had found the unfindable - a bag of tiny blue diamonds that I had told him would be my dream to have to match my engagement ring.
I had slipped this in the conversation without any hope of ever seeing it materialise, but here he was, showing me a bag of tiny blue gems that had racked up more air miles than me this year - from being mined in Australia they had flown to Sri Lanka to be cut, then to Israel to be sold and finally to Hong Kong to be on my hand (but not without going via Guangzhou to be set). As our host explained, he mainly does business between Israel and Hong Kong, because neither country has any tax on diamonds, which allows him to slash his prices dramatically, to our great pleasure. Let's see what the result looks like, of course... (you get what you pay for, as my recent wedding dress fitting has taught me - the dress is too short, but there is no more fabric left to make it longer, so I can either make it a mini-skirt wedding, or buy some nice shoes to show off...) We should have our very own wedding bands next Monday. I was very excited.
But then, on Monday, it was back to reality. I now concretely face the prospect of unemployment. And I feel as if I am suspended in mid-air, attached to a rope that is slowly unravelling until my boss decides whether to take out his scissors and puts me out of our misery, or puts a mattress under me and softens my fall.
More to come as the situation unfolds...
First we had a slightly unreal weekend. We were invited to a barbeque on Kowloon, organised by the people whose amazing flat we had watched the fireworks from. I knew these guys were well off, but I had no idea to what extent.
Traditionally, every bbq I have ever been to (or organised myself) has been a short-and-flip-flops kind of affair, with meat casually flung on to a grill and copious cans of San Miguel consumed. Of course that has changed somewhat since Krusty got his giant grilling machine, but still, it's usually quite laid back.
Here we arrived to find a gaggle of girls steeped up high on their Louboutin heels, squeezed into elegant YSL dresses and complaining about how fat they were. (They weren't. They were light years and many, many galaxies away from fat. In fact, isn't the biggest YSL size just a few notches above size 0?).
There were also those outdoor heater parasols to keep us warm, and as many quality grilling tools as you can name. The steaks weren't the usual Hong Kong thin strip of leather, no - they were thick Citysuper affairs, which much have cost at least $300 a pop. The pork chops were iberico, the mozzarella was buffalo, the bread was from Robuchon... Everything was the best of the best.
And to drink? Well, nothing says bbq as much as free-flowing Veuve Clicquot now, does it?! I resisted the tempting orange label to remain true to my self-inflicted alcohol ban, but I gave in spectacularly when a bottle of 1998 Dom Perignon came out. There are limits to my willpower...
I suppose the extravagance of the whole night can be forgiven though, it was a 30th birthday after all. Which brings me to the gifts... We arrived first, so our tiny flat package looked proud on the empty table. But as the guests arrived, so did the presents - a bag from Tiffany & Co, a jereboam of Krug champagne, another big bag from Lane Crawford... It was too late to take ours back, and I would love to have seen the birthday girl's face as she opened it - a guide to swearing in Cantonese! Well, she is trying to learn...
The next day was similarly odd. We went to a friend's housewarming party, and their new flat was huuuggge. It was also really old, and looked like it hadn't been updated since the 30s, which doesn't mean grotty, no - it means beautiful, tiled floors; elegant wooden birdcages; and giant crystal chandeliers. Considering two young men who like loud music are living in it, the atmosphere was very strange. And I am very jealous.
But of course a flat like that comes at the price of living on the fifth floor without a lift. And as my friend Romain pointed out, at our age we have the responsibility of catering for pushchairs... Which reminds me that my cousin is in hospital giving birth right now!
Anyway, we left the party after an urgent call form the man who is making our wedding rings, a character who served in the army before becoming a sailor and then a gem dealer. Not only is this man's history rich in anecdotes, but he is also making our rings for a tiny fraction of the price other shops have quoted us. Anyway, on a recent trip he had found the unfindable - a bag of tiny blue diamonds that I had told him would be my dream to have to match my engagement ring.
I had slipped this in the conversation without any hope of ever seeing it materialise, but here he was, showing me a bag of tiny blue gems that had racked up more air miles than me this year - from being mined in Australia they had flown to Sri Lanka to be cut, then to Israel to be sold and finally to Hong Kong to be on my hand (but not without going via Guangzhou to be set). As our host explained, he mainly does business between Israel and Hong Kong, because neither country has any tax on diamonds, which allows him to slash his prices dramatically, to our great pleasure. Let's see what the result looks like, of course... (you get what you pay for, as my recent wedding dress fitting has taught me - the dress is too short, but there is no more fabric left to make it longer, so I can either make it a mini-skirt wedding, or buy some nice shoes to show off...) We should have our very own wedding bands next Monday. I was very excited.
But then, on Monday, it was back to reality. I now concretely face the prospect of unemployment. And I feel as if I am suspended in mid-air, attached to a rope that is slowly unravelling until my boss decides whether to take out his scissors and puts me out of our misery, or puts a mattress under me and softens my fall.
More to come as the situation unfolds...
06 March 2009
D-93 to D-92, long live the arts
I hear people complaining about a lack of art in Hong Kong all the time. But then the annual Arts Festival comes around, and they don't even go to see any of the shows.
Well, as Krusty and I can now attest, there is most definitely not a lack of art in Hong Kong. I can't count the number of gallery openings we have been to, art walks we have been on and indie film screenings we have missed. But back to the arts festival.
First we went to see a French girl from our group of friends perform in Agnes of God, the play by John Pielmeier. The story is about a young nun who is found unconscious in her room with a strangled foetus in her waste paper basket, and the pschiatric investigation that ensues before she appears in court for manslaughter/murder. You can imagine how happy Krusty was that I asked him to leave early from work, turn his crackberry off and watch a nun give birth...
Our friend was playing Agnes, the young innocent virgin who is questioned about her pregnancy and birth, and apart from a smoky voice that told more of late nights in Wan Chai than quiet afternoons in the convent, she was absolutely perfect. The theatre it was playing in was tiny, just 50 seats of which only about 25 were filled (which made the lady shaking an aluminium tin of mints behind me all the more disrespectful), and we could feel every tremor in her voice and see every tear on her cheek. The tall, mannish, court-apppinted psychiatrist and deliciously bossy yet vulnerable Mother Superior were also outstanding, and we really got carried away with them in the story. Every slap of the floor by the birthing nun made my seat vibrate and I couldn't believe that this girl, who I had last seen dressed up as a thundercat on our rooftop had so successfully become a nun. I definitely want to see the film now.
The next stop on the art train was an Alice in Wonderland ballet set to music by Tchaikovsky and performed by the English National Ballet. The tickets were given to us by my favourite lecturer from Hong Kong University via her son, whom I work with, and we were so lucky as to have two empty seats in front of us to see everything clearly.
The ballet was suitably childish but engaging too, with colourful costumes and men and women looking like they had smuggled bricks into their tights... No not there, down where their calf muscles were. In fact the good thing about kids' ballet is that most of the "packages" are hidden away from impressionable eyes, so our own eyes could concentrate on something else than the dancers' crotches. (Am I the only one who finds this difficult to do in "adult" representations?)
We spent the first act with Krusty whispering in my ear "ballet really isn't my thing", and "I think I have learnt my lesson", but when I forced him to go back in for act 2, he started whispering with increasing regularity "I'm really enjoying this" and "this is amazing". Good job, too - we are going back to the ballet in Beijing next weekend...
To round off a week of artistic satisfaction, my office held a KFC-off today - three boys had to eat a bucket of chicken each, with the first one to finish becoming the Office KFC Champion.
Who said the arts were dead?!
Well, as Krusty and I can now attest, there is most definitely not a lack of art in Hong Kong. I can't count the number of gallery openings we have been to, art walks we have been on and indie film screenings we have missed. But back to the arts festival.
First we went to see a French girl from our group of friends perform in Agnes of God, the play by John Pielmeier. The story is about a young nun who is found unconscious in her room with a strangled foetus in her waste paper basket, and the pschiatric investigation that ensues before she appears in court for manslaughter/murder. You can imagine how happy Krusty was that I asked him to leave early from work, turn his crackberry off and watch a nun give birth...
Our friend was playing Agnes, the young innocent virgin who is questioned about her pregnancy and birth, and apart from a smoky voice that told more of late nights in Wan Chai than quiet afternoons in the convent, she was absolutely perfect. The theatre it was playing in was tiny, just 50 seats of which only about 25 were filled (which made the lady shaking an aluminium tin of mints behind me all the more disrespectful), and we could feel every tremor in her voice and see every tear on her cheek. The tall, mannish, court-apppinted psychiatrist and deliciously bossy yet vulnerable Mother Superior were also outstanding, and we really got carried away with them in the story. Every slap of the floor by the birthing nun made my seat vibrate and I couldn't believe that this girl, who I had last seen dressed up as a thundercat on our rooftop had so successfully become a nun. I definitely want to see the film now.
The next stop on the art train was an Alice in Wonderland ballet set to music by Tchaikovsky and performed by the English National Ballet. The tickets were given to us by my favourite lecturer from Hong Kong University via her son, whom I work with, and we were so lucky as to have two empty seats in front of us to see everything clearly.
The ballet was suitably childish but engaging too, with colourful costumes and men and women looking like they had smuggled bricks into their tights... No not there, down where their calf muscles were. In fact the good thing about kids' ballet is that most of the "packages" are hidden away from impressionable eyes, so our own eyes could concentrate on something else than the dancers' crotches. (Am I the only one who finds this difficult to do in "adult" representations?)
We spent the first act with Krusty whispering in my ear "ballet really isn't my thing", and "I think I have learnt my lesson", but when I forced him to go back in for act 2, he started whispering with increasing regularity "I'm really enjoying this" and "this is amazing". Good job, too - we are going back to the ballet in Beijing next weekend...
To round off a week of artistic satisfaction, my office held a KFC-off today - three boys had to eat a bucket of chicken each, with the first one to finish becoming the Office KFC Champion.
Who said the arts were dead?!
04 March 2009
D-95 to D-94, my bottom between two chairs, as we say in French
I spent the day in Macau yesterday, braving the immigration officers who were telling me that I had overstayed my welcome (our visas are being renewed at the moment), to interview two big wigs from the confines of a luxury hotel. Life is tough.
But actually, life is tough. Nobody can really tell me what the future holds for our magazine, as no ads are coming in although the sales guys keep saying they will. I don't know who to trust, I don't know who has whose interest in mind, and I don't know how to get motivated about content that I don't even know will see the light of day. It's a tricky one.
So I just went through the motions of listening to a beautiful and engaging lady tell me why the most expensive cigar in the world should be in everyone's living room, and another very amiable man tell me why his new hotel will be the best thing to have hit Asia since... well, forever... All the while, I just kept thinking "what's the point?"
I feel a little deflated to say the least! But then again, I also wonder whether my sudden lack of interest in what I am doing might not be because it has been three months now since I started and my boredom has kicked in. Just as I can't seem to spend three years in one place without getting itchy feet, it seems that I can't seem to enjoy a job for more than three months. Which is why freelancing is soooo the way forward for me...
Then again maybe all of this is just a defense mechanism against the impending loss of my job. Wow, I might be credit crunched. Feels odd. And yet, I would rather just be fired right now than wait to find out what will happen...
At least today we are going to the theatre. That should help...
But actually, life is tough. Nobody can really tell me what the future holds for our magazine, as no ads are coming in although the sales guys keep saying they will. I don't know who to trust, I don't know who has whose interest in mind, and I don't know how to get motivated about content that I don't even know will see the light of day. It's a tricky one.
So I just went through the motions of listening to a beautiful and engaging lady tell me why the most expensive cigar in the world should be in everyone's living room, and another very amiable man tell me why his new hotel will be the best thing to have hit Asia since... well, forever... All the while, I just kept thinking "what's the point?"
I feel a little deflated to say the least! But then again, I also wonder whether my sudden lack of interest in what I am doing might not be because it has been three months now since I started and my boredom has kicked in. Just as I can't seem to spend three years in one place without getting itchy feet, it seems that I can't seem to enjoy a job for more than three months. Which is why freelancing is soooo the way forward for me...
Then again maybe all of this is just a defense mechanism against the impending loss of my job. Wow, I might be credit crunched. Feels odd. And yet, I would rather just be fired right now than wait to find out what will happen...
At least today we are going to the theatre. That should help...
02 March 2009
D-98 to D-96, to kill a pigeon
I have given up drinking for a few weeks to squeeze into *that* dress and as a result I am suffering from fun Bobby syndrome - you know, fun Bobby, from Friends: great company when he's had a few, but boringly depressive and cynical when he's sober.
But, despite realising this boring side of myself pretty early on in the weekend, I resisted and didn't break my promise to stay "dry".
Of course, usually Krusty would have loved this as he is always trying to drag me away from parties with exaggerated yawns that escalate into full-blown pleas and guilt-trips, but what should happen when I want to go home early? Yes, Krusty (for the first time in the history of our relationship) wanted to stay out all night on Friday, jovially dancing and grinning at me when I asked him to come home, and saying "Anything for my baby, let's go. But first... let's dance!"
Rather annoying. But also quite cute - turns out, when Krusty is drunk, he looooooooooooves me. He kept telling me that my hair was "amazing", that I am his "world" and that he "might be drunk but that doesn't mean" that his love "isn't real." So it was worth it at least for that!
The next day, we went off to Lamma Island to eat some pigeons. We have done this a few times now, and although I really can't eat the birds myself, it's quite a nice little adventure: you take a ferry for about 40 minutes, then walk through the lively evening unfolding at Yung Shue Wan fishing village only to walk for about 20 minutes through the Lammaite countryside, in the dark, to find a house in the middle of nowhere with children running around screaming and a lovely team of staff who speak perfect English. It's quite odd.
But, to explain why I can't actually eat anything when I go there, here is a picture of the plate post massacre - the pigeons arrive in a big glazed pile, heads and beaks attached... Urgh.
Which means that I had no alcohol, and almost no food - the dress is going to fit like a glove!
But, despite realising this boring side of myself pretty early on in the weekend, I resisted and didn't break my promise to stay "dry".
Of course, usually Krusty would have loved this as he is always trying to drag me away from parties with exaggerated yawns that escalate into full-blown pleas and guilt-trips, but what should happen when I want to go home early? Yes, Krusty (for the first time in the history of our relationship) wanted to stay out all night on Friday, jovially dancing and grinning at me when I asked him to come home, and saying "Anything for my baby, let's go. But first... let's dance!"
Rather annoying. But also quite cute - turns out, when Krusty is drunk, he looooooooooooves me. He kept telling me that my hair was "amazing", that I am his "world" and that he "might be drunk but that doesn't mean" that his love "isn't real." So it was worth it at least for that!
The next day, we went off to Lamma Island to eat some pigeons. We have done this a few times now, and although I really can't eat the birds myself, it's quite a nice little adventure: you take a ferry for about 40 minutes, then walk through the lively evening unfolding at Yung Shue Wan fishing village only to walk for about 20 minutes through the Lammaite countryside, in the dark, to find a house in the middle of nowhere with children running around screaming and a lovely team of staff who speak perfect English. It's quite odd.
But, to explain why I can't actually eat anything when I go there, here is a picture of the plate post massacre - the pigeons arrive in a big glazed pile, heads and beaks attached... Urgh.
Which means that I had no alcohol, and almost no food - the dress is going to fit like a glove!
01 March 2009
D-99, Behind the scenes of our glamorous fashion shoot
Turns out, fashion shoots aren't that fabulous. It's more about standing around while shots are millimetred to perfection... At least I got a surprise: models eat! A lot!!! The girl was skinnier than any girl I have ever seen, yet she managed to scoff a whole bag of Doritos!
Here's the day in pictures, from the man model arriving and going straight to bed, to the "family" looking very united at the end of the day...
Here's the day in pictures, from the man model arriving and going straight to bed, to the "family" looking very united at the end of the day...
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