Three days in Hong Kong was either not enough, or too much.
Everything moves faster in HK -- ants on the sidewalk, traffic signals, subways. I'm nearly certain that the escalators rise and fall faster, which is okay by me. (Please, folks -- stand to the right, walk on the left.)
Before we left San Francisco, a former office mate shared some photos of his visit to HK some years back, posted to his proto-blog. The dude in question is a cool customer not given to hyperbole. If something's totally amazing, he would deem it "cool." If something sucked, he'd say, "it wasn't so great."
I distinctly recall him saying, "Hong Kong is crazy," a statement that should have left a deeper impression.
Here on the ground, there were times when I felt distinctly overwhelmed. Sensory overload induced by narrow streets, choked sidewalks, and vertigo-inducing skyscrapers, many still clad in bamboo scaffolding.
(How the hell do you build an 800-foot tall (or higher) building with bamboo chutes and ladders? I'm all in favor of renewable resources, but I feel uneasy in bamboo lawn furniture; the notion of working forty stories above the sidewalk atop some sturdy weeds is beyond me.)
I was aware that we were going to a noisy, crowded place with plenty of tall buildings, places to shop, diverse crowds, and more places to shop. As I said before: New York on steroids -- with perhaps a fistful of amphetamines washed down with several cans of Red Bull.
HK is be the most condensed place I've ever seen; I wanted to drop it into a giant stockpot, add three equivalent portions of real estate, and stir. There were more people and buildings than seemed likely or possible, with more arriving everyday. Each time we turned a corner, there was the dust and noise of another construction site, another shuttle bus disgorging businessmen with briefcases and bargain-minded tourists.
The main benefit of the hurlyburly was that, for the first time since we'd arrived in Asia, I didn't feel like the star of "The Walter Show." Alone and together, Liz and I had drawn a great deal of attention in India, Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam. In Hong Kong, we were merely part of a crowd; the only second looks we got were from those who wished to sell us something.
People come to Hong Kong to do business and/or to spend money, but not a lot else besides. In the airport and around town, colorful banners proclaimed that we'd arrived during some sort of "Shopping Festival," which seemed entirely redundant. Imagine touching down at McCarran International in Las Vegas to see signs promoting "Gambling Days," or some such thing.
In Vietnam, I'd noticed that many homes had walls around them, whether the abodes within were humble or grand. Some of these fences were even topped with jagged shards of glass set in cement. "People really take personal property seriously here," I'd quipped to Liz while pocketing another stack of discounted Hollywood product. "Intellectual property, not so much."
This offhand comment was driven home in HK. Storefronts and touts boldly offered knock-off Rolexes, Vuitton bags and Chanel thotchkes, often in the literal shadows of high-end stores vending the real McCoy -- or Burberry, if you prefer.
"Copy watch, copy watch?" suggested vendor after vendor. A negative head-shake from me, and they'd turn their attention to Liz: "Handbag, madam?" Nearly all the touts we saw, interestingly enough, appeared to be of Indian descent. We stopped in one store selling DVDs of movies that had premiered in the past few days. It was crowded with locals and tourists alike.
Realizing that it was our last stop in Asia -- the final place on our itinerary where weak dollars are relatively robust -- I felt pressured to shop for family. Prowling Kowloon's Night Market, I kicked myself for not spending more in India and Cambodia. We saw many of the same goods for sale, just at higher prices. I got burned buying three DVDs there -- one summer blockbuster was in Russian with poor English subtitles, another refused to play in the iBook's disc drive.
The third movie simply sucked.
I know Western brands seek to protect their multibillion-dollar investments, but the rationale for expending vast resources to stem the trade in knock-offs escapes me. Counterfeiters selling fake watches or handbags for ten bucks (Hong Kong dollars, mind you) encourage consumerism and make materialistic dreams accessible to everyone. I do wonder how it plays out when a woman with a fake Louis Vuitton clutch goes into the real LV store seeking a replacement or addition to her ensemble.
Does the salesclerk acknowledge that the customer is cradling a nasty impostor between elbow and breast, or do they simply hold their nose and "act as if?" I must get hold of an employee handbook for Vuitton employees.
When we'd added Hong Kong to our itinerary, I instantly had a desire to buy a bespoke shirt. I'm not a clothes horse, but owning a piece of custom-tailored clothing has always appealed to me. There were aggressive touts for tailors on almost every block, thrusting cards into my hand, sometimes matching our stride for several yards in attempts to hustle me into the shops for which they shilled so energetically.
I went along once or twice, but we were usually on our way to a destination. Once inside, I'd cursorily examine a few bolts of cotton and inquire about price before asking for a card and making an empty promise to pop in on our way back. Running solo errands the day before we left, I stopped into a quiet storefront and asked about a shirt. Liz had persuaded me not to get two: "If one doesn't fit or if it's poorly made, you'll still be on the hook to purchase both."
A brusque tailor took my measurements in less than a minute, which didn't bolster my confidence. Still, I gave him a 66% deposit and left with a receipt, along with his promise that the shirt would be ready after 3 p.m. the next day.
Reluctant to add even one extra gram to my 12-kilo backpack, we stopped by HK's General Post Office our last day to send some items home. The process was far more straightforward than in India or Vietnam. No need to find a package-wallah to sew items into a linen bag before sealing it with plastic, no declaration forms to be filled out in triplicate. I purchased a cardboard box and some bubble wrap, sealed the parcel with tape, had it weighed and insured, and was on my way.
We'd planned a ferry ride to Lantau Island to take in a giant Golden Buddha, but time was running short. We had an evening flight to Brussels via Istanbul, and I still had a shirt to retrieve -- and then there was the 70-minute trip to the airport.
Liz suggested that we taxi into the hills above Hong Kong to take in some views, so we cabbed up Peak Road, where I expected to arrive in a park or natural vista. Climbing the mountain, and noting the luxury high-rise apartments behind wrought-iron gates, Liz remarked that it was if someone had stacked Pacific Heights atop Telegraph Hill.
My ears popped just as I looked out the window and realized we were slightly higher than the tallest skyscrapers fringing Victoria Harbor. Instead of a grassy vista, we exited the cab in the underground garage of a shopping mall. We rode escalators up -- past a Ronald McDonald in a deep bow, past $7 latte stalls -- finally arriving at the observation deck.
We wandered about for a few minutes, taking in the 270-degree view. Giant container ships looked like toys; the luxury hotels and homes seemed more suited for a Monopoly board. Our view towards Kowloon was interrupted by a new shopping mall under construction; much to the consternation of the "View Cafe" beneath our feet, I'm sure.
Noting the time, we headed back to the garage and took a taxi back to Central Station and caught the subway back to our nabe in Kowloon across the Harbor. Liz claimed our luggage and a spot in the air-con lobby to wait for the hotel's shuttle bus while I dashed back into the heat and humidity to pick up my custom shirt, the last item on my to-do list.
I returned 20 minutes later, drenched in perspiration. I rehydrated with a cold drink and cooled off in an club chair.
We were riding the shuttle bus when I realized that the urgent tone that had been ringing in my ears for three days was finally stilled.