Kung Hei Fat Choi

The year of the Snake.  The sssneakiest, sssliest creature.  Oh sorry, intuitive, refined and collected.

My whole perception of gifting money has changed since living in Hong Kong.  Here we/they give money for Chinese New Year, money for weddings, money for birthdays and money for funerals.  Basically everything.  

The amounts change depending on the occasion - Chinese New Year you're more or less free to give as much as you want, but no less than the year before and you only have to do this if you're married. For birthdays the money has to have as many 8's in it as possible and for funerals it needs to be in a white envelope (as opposed to red) and an odd number.

So, as a married woman, this week (the week after Chinese New Year) was my big week.  The thing is, you don't want to offend anyone.  Especially those that really matter, namely the doorman, the super and the maid.  Those three have the power to make your life an absolute misery.  You know that if you give them anything less than they think fair, you'll be subjected to doors being "accidentally" closed on your face, leaking air conditioners that "we're too busy to fix" and surprise sick days.  

There are also the singles who have been single long enough to make Chinese New Year a seriously high revenue period.  Take our group secretary.  She's single and essentially works for about 300 of us. Her total annual income is probably more than the CEO's. 

That said, regardless of who you're giving your red packet to, you know they say people are happier when they give than when they take.  

It's so true.  

Relief

In New York, I felt eternally young, while in Hong Kong sometimes I feel like I'm all grown up.  Maybe that's because I was 29 and single for much of my time in New York, while in Hong Kong I'm a married woman who gets her hair done regularly and hosts small, yet entertaining dinner parties.  Yawn.

Just as I was starting to feel particularly desperate housewifey, I was saved by the Nasser concert.  Who's Nasser?  No idea.  Some random French electo-pop group from Marseille who I'd never heard of before.  But the concert poster showed them looking sufficiently wild, sweaty and keen on lasers, that there didn't seem much to lose.  The notification that the concert was going to be held in an old factory somewhere in the depths of Kowloon only added to the appeal.  

We arrived at the concert to find we were literally 15 years older than everyone in the audience.  And boy were they having fun.  Girls were kissing boys who were kissing girls who had their hands up skirts and chain smoking and posing and jumping off the stage.  And this was before the show.

And then Nasser arrived, and the crowd went wild.  And we danced and jumped and drunk out of beer cans we'd had to bring in from 7-Eleven

And then the lights changed colour and more people jumped and sang and sweated as the A/C machines stopped working and the keyboard player took his shirt off 

And then we traipsed back to Tai Hang for dinner.

Refreshed and ready for civilized life again

Return of the haggler

Being foreign sometimes has its serious disadvantages. The biggest one of them all is being perpetually ripped off. All the time. It becomes exhausting paying NYC prices in HK! The thing is, I imagine some people don't even know they're getting ripped off, while I have the blessing (or curse) of local colleagues who tell me before I embark on any purchase - but mostly after - exactly what the price ceiling is. Invariably, I am charged triple the price ceiling -if I'm lucky - and no amount of coaxing will bring it down.

And yes, I know I've written about this before, when I was looking for that bloody cupboard, but I've somehow managed to steer clear of any major bargaining situations over the past year. Probably because I've been limiting my purchases to Park 'n Shop, clothes shops with printed price tags and Starbucks. But I always knew that I was only one off-piste purchase away from being seriously and unfairly overcharged. (I consider Starbucks to be fair overcharging as they don't discriminate).

Just the other day, I called up the A/C cleaning crew to come and wipe down two average size, common all garden A/C machines. Before calling them, I did my usual survey with the colleagues to see how much it should cost. In Barcelona, if we'd had air conditioners, it would have cost, say, about 30 Euros. My colleagues guessed around 400HKD. Well, I was quoted ..wait for it ...2000HKD! And when I told them I would pay 400, the guy on the phone sheepishly said his boss wouldn't go lower than the original price, and that was final. So there I am, a blonde stuck between a rock and a hard place, and no A/C... so I coughed.

Yesterday I had the exact same problem with ribbon. I went to buy ribbon, as any good self-respecting -soon-to-be-bride does, and was warned in advance by my squad not to pay more than some tiny amount. Of course, I was quoted ten times that price, and even after I plonked the ribbon back in the pile, pretended to walk away and shook my head saying "too expensive! to expensive!", the stall keeper (yes, we're talking about a market stall here) just shrugged and walked off to chat to her buddy at the hanging-knicker stall next door.

Now, as I sit under the one A/C that works - yes the other one never quite got fixed - probably clogged with dollar bills - I'm feeling quite sorry for myself, and thinking some sort of "Local Personal Shopper" agency is just what I need right now. Some sort of ribbon bargaining specialist or something.

Dr. Crackling

I woke up the other night with the most terrible crick in my neck and, after a sleepless night, staring at the ceiling and moaning every time my head moved, I went to work armed with my box of Panadol Muscle Relief. My team took one look at me and ordered me to a)stop-taking-pointless-drugs and b)to go immediately to Mr. M who's known-as-the-crackling-doctor.

It was a particularly rainy, miserable day and so I very reluctantly headed off to Wan Chai to find this Crackling Doctor. I squelched upstairs and into Mr. M's clinic (read: one-bedroom-flat-with-two-hospital beds, a TV-and-a-wooden stool). There stood a rather ancient Chinese man in a white coat who took one look at me, asked me a few critical questions and with a perfunctory nod, pointed me towards the bed, where I guessed I had to take my shoes off etc. Bed side manner not a strong point here.

First of all, he tenderised the area in question with some acupuncture for 20 minutes. After what felt like an eternity, face down, listening to the TV and hearing him potter around, he pulls out the needles (no pain), and then proceeds with the "massage".

If there were an instruction manual, this is what it might read:

- Put on boxing gloves

- Punch patient (read victim) in head and neck. Aim every so often right on the most unbearably painful and tight bit. Do so with urgency and quick, erratic movements

- Remove gloves and vigorously pinch patient on neck. Punch shoulders

- Dive down onto legs and without stopping for air, grab opposite leg to where you are standing and rock patient's entire body (with feeling), rock until patient looks like she's about to roll off bed

- Repeat with other leg

- While patient is still shaking, imagine yourself bouncing back against wrestling ring ropes (think WWF), as you jump on patient and CRACK the side of her neck. Repeat with other side after shaking patient's head and forcing it to look the other way

- Use metaphorical ring ropes again to jump and CRACK shoulders

- Shake and pull both arms with violent insistence

- CRACK clavicular

- Flip patient over and repeat

If patient blubs like a baby. Ignore. This is a normal release of tension, emotion and sometimes fear.

Patient, by the way, left completely cured. Before leaving, patient asked him when how she would know if the crick was really cured. He replied, "Move your head from side to side if it still hurts after three days, come back." Sensible.

I love dog

People in Hong Kong are obsessed with fluffy dogs. It's really rather odd to see pom poms walking down the street in 30 degree weather, with 90% humidity. I honestly don't know how their owners can keep a straight face.

Today I spotted a few getting poofed up at the pet salon:

Trimming the frizz

Waiting our turn

Just another day in Dogotel (note the trademark) where they love dog

Bouncy bouncy music

Justin Bieber - for you NYT readers

T is pretty much THE man when it comes to music around here. He plays more guitars than I care to mention and is an avid reader Les Inrockutibles, which I encourage by renewing his subscription every Christmas. Anyone who comes to our house would say that there's generally a pretty eclectic mix of music playing at all times - from Elliot Smith to Guns n Roses to Serge Gansbourg (who I still haven't quite figured out how he ever got so popular).

I, on the other hand, don't listen to anything. I don't own an ipod and I welcome silence at the best of times. I find music to be distracting, and it will often give me a headache if I'm trying to do anything other than focus all my attention on it.

So yesterday as T and I were watching a Justin Bieber documentary (as one does), I started absent mindedly singing along to all songs. Admittedly, the lyrics aren't rocket science - anyone heard "U Smile"?. But still. Afterwards I went onto YouTube and sung along to Rihanna (Only girl in the world), Lady Gaga (Poker face) and Beyonce (Put a ring on it).

T just sat there with his mouth hanging open. How on earth did I know all these songs when a) I don't listen to music. Ever. b) I don't hear them at home either - T's frame of reference doesn't encompass trashy chart hits. Much like a New York Times reader doesn't know anything about Jersey Shore.

After discarting the double life theory, the answer is simple: E Hollywood True Story in hotel rooms and Cathay Pacific Pop Documentaries. Turns out I'm a pop chart groupie. Tsk.

Picasso and Cirque Calder for dinner

The HK Art Fair is back, and the city is buzzing with fabulousness.

Here's a picture of the fantastic menu my friend put together for a dinner party to inaugurate the event. I thought the art-inspired menu (heavy on Picasso) was rather brilliant.

Elephant and Two Cats (Alexander Calder 1975), Exhibition de Ceramique Maison de la Pensee Francaise (Picasso 1958), Galeries Louise Leiris (Picasso 1960) and Toros en Vallauris (Picasso, 1960)

Back: Elephants and cats and bulls and things

The wrong side of the bed

On our way back from a rather heavy office lunch, we happened to have a particularly cheerful taxi driver. He joked and laughed while my colleagues nodded politely. As my Chinese in non-existent, I enjoyed this time to sneak in a bit of shut-eye. But just as I was hitting that food coma phase, the cab driver eyes me in the rearview mirror and shouts,

"Hey, you! Sorry we speak in Chinese. I love American movies. Haha" He grins cheerily.

"Oh?" I ask, trying to show that I'm more than happy not to enter this conversation, and would-be-quite-pleased-if-everyone-went-back-to-talking-Cantonese-so I can-have-a-snooze.

"Yes, I learn slang." He laughs and translates what he's just said to my colleagues - who all speak fluent English, and so need simultaneous translation as much as I need to be kept awake.

"Oh?" I ask again, sinking in my seat.

"Yes. Like....Shit Head!"

He then switches back to Cantonese and seems to be explaining what a wonderful term this is, as it's much more metaphorical than it is literal.

"And more!" And so he proceeds to list his proudly borrowed words from the movies, interrupting himself to explain all the nuances around each word. Here's the list:

Love handles - that's for boys, not for girls. Girls have a..

Muffin top - while boys also have a..

Spare tyre - which is the inner part of a tyre

Duffus - which means stupid

Monkey business

Eyes over stomach - which means you eat too much

Big wig

Moron

Back seat driver - haha. That's you!

Sleeping on the wrong side of the bed

Ace.

Here's to the Rising Sun

My friend A sent me this videoclip of a Japanese pop group (do people still say "videoclip"?).

She reminded me how stoic the Japanese have been throughout the earthquake and all that it has brought with it, and she couldn't be more right.

After the earthquake hit, my colleagues in Japan approached the situation with utter resilience. They continued to work as usual, and only once mentioned that "perhaps they might need some support from Hong Kong, as their creative team wasn't in the office." There was a conference call on something not particularly important on the Monday after the weekend that it hit, and the entire team called in, insisting that "Tokyo was ok". Only after much pressing, did one of them mention that he had evacuated his family to the south. Every foreigner I know who was there said they couldn't believe how amazingly calm everybody was, how thoughtful and how brave they were.

Here's to Japan.

The dating game

Over a rather delicious plate of foie gras creme brulee with friends the other night at La Marmite, the conversation turned to dating in New York.

Now, anyone who lives or has lived in New York will know that being single and female there is hell. To say competition is rife would be an understatement and, what's worse, is that the prize isn't even that exciting. I haven't done the research, but go to any party and you will see a sea of beautifully dressed women, all looking hopefully across at you as you enter the front door, glazing past you and focusing on your right shoulder in hopes that you might be coming with a man... and that maybe that man might be single.

Upon moving to New York solo, finding a man quickly becomes a full time job - just secondary to building your high powered career which keeps you intellectually superior, more affluent than you were wherever you came from and, inevitably, much more intimidating to a man than you've ever been before. And the fact that there are thousands of women just like you (maybe a little taller, shorter, rounder, thinner) doesn't help matters much either.

In comes the dating game. A game of hide and seek which becomes the only way to stay ahead of the game, keep men calling, keep you on dates and prevent you from getting your heart broken. No, I never said this would help anyone find love, it just helps you keep your head above water, because it inevitably results in your heart freezing over a little (T had to conduct some serious de-frosting - which I'll leave for another day).

So, here are some thoughts on how I think the game works, and how to play it:

How things go when the girl doesn't play the game:

1*. Boy meets girl at party/bar/club. They get on well blah blah

2. They kiss goodnight and end up going to his apartment

3. Girl says goodbye to boy in the morning as she's already made brunch plans to gossip about exactly that night with her friends. Boy says he's so happy to meet her and promises to call

4. Girl goes to brunch

5. Girl waits for boy to call. Boy doesn't call. Ever.

How things go when the girl plays the game:

1*. Boy meets girl at party/bar/club. They get on well blah blah

2. Girl leaves the party earlier as she has another party to go to. Sorry, mate, bye! Boy sniffs a chase and asks her for her number

3. Three days later (two is ok, one hits the ego - if they met on a Friday, he won't text until Wednesday), boy texts girl (no call) to ask her out for dinner in three days time (same as above re ego and risk management)

4. Girl replies 6 hours after receiving text (she's busy, thank you) that yes, she can meet

5. Girl text boy on the day of the date that she will be a little late

6. Girl arrives 10 minutes late. Dinner proceeds. Girl is warm, friendly etc but distant

7. Girl says she's going home after dinner. Boy walks girl home. Girl makes it quite clear she won't be up for any kissing

8. Boy texts that night that "it was a wonderful evening". Girl replies she enjoyed it to (throw a bone).

9. Next day (or two), boy texts again to meet again later that week. Girl agrees.

10. Repeat points 7-9 ad infinitum, adding day dates, afternoon walks and candle-lit dinners where appropriate

*Same applies to online dating

Inspiration

I attended TEDx Pearl River Women the other day, and found it to be incredibly inspiring. 6 speakers presented. Each with their own story of a dream they had to dramatically change something in the world and how they were in the process of accomplishing it.

Alexandra Harney (Author of the China Price) spoke of her mission to train factory workers in Southern China so they can actually have transferable skills to build their own autonomy. Vivian Lee discussed her path from Olympic disappointment to Asia Olympic swimmer success. And Mara McCaffery led us through her heart wrenching story on saving the orangutan in Bhutan.

What to me was most remarkable (and most attainable) was that all these women had actually started quite late in their endeavors, and had re-starts and detours in their journeys. Mara had started working with Orangutans at the age of fifty, Vivian had started young but then reinvented herself years later to become a business woman, and Alexandra had started as a journalist and now moved into philanthropy only in the last couple of years.

So there's hope for all of us who work in a bank, ad firm, consulting box, office job, being a wife.. it's never too late to pick up and start working towards something we are truly passionate about.

Seasons greetings

There's something about the note in the lift that sends a shiver down my spine. I can only think it's the interweaving of well-wishing with flashes of imagery of your children getting hurt, you getting arrested and someone from "Leisure and Cultural Services" coming by your home and hoisting them off to a workhouse, to become pauper apprentices.

Top 5 myths about Hong Kong

#1. The food is "dégueulasse"

#2 It's too hot to do anything

(no, those aren't my skinny little legs - those are care of T)

#3 Congestion congestion congestion

#4 Supermarkets don't carry ...

#5 There's no "art" darling

Pictures taken of (in case anybody gives a toss):

#1 Dessert at Caprice

#2 Marriot Hotel pool where you can eat-and-dip

#3 View from Dragon's Back (I now know I loath hiking and I have a hole in my toe to prove it - why go all the way up and then have to come all the way down?)

#4 Supermarket in Repulse Bay stocks everything from Devon's Custard to Dijon Mustard (as does every other supermarket)

#5 Damien Hirst's sadism at his worst (yes, those are real wings) at the Hong Kong Art Fair

Little Boxes

The hillside

I was looking out the window this morning, and the song, Little Boxes came to mind.

I haven't thought of this song in years. It's been stored away in the depths of my memory under S for School Concerts. I sang it along with everyone else in J3, with great enthusiasm, as directed by our severely left wing music teacher, Mrs K. This was then followed by some equally disturbing left wing propaganda, like Knocking on Heaven's Door and the Sound of Silence, while our parents coughed and clapped politely.

Anyway, here's my thinking on Hong Kong at the moment.

Lyrics, for those of you who like to sing along:

Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky tacky,
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes all the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

And the people in the houses
All went to the university,
Where they were put in boxes
And they came out all the same,
And there's doctors and lawyers,
And business executives,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

And they all play on the golf course
And drink their martinis dry,
And they all have pretty children
And the children go to school,
And the children go to summer camp
And then to the university,
Where they are put in boxes
And they come out all the same.

And the boys go into business
And marry and raise a family
In boxes made of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.