All the Dogs in Mexico

Hong Kong: Giving Away the Armadillo

Is it possible to love a city as if it was the first city you have loved, or that loved you?

Start with a definition of love. 

Love is not the adoration, constantly delivered, that keeps your pupils dilated, or the skin flush. Love is more like the horrible sense of self -awareness that your place in life is not going to be easy at first, or that it may sometimes be rather difficult, in fact. But you will get through. 

If love is a mix of the good and bad feelings we feel by living, then Hong Kong is possible to love, and it is possible to be loved by Hong Kong. 

But it is also impossible to do this if you submit yourself to the wiles and hedonism of Hong Kong. There is plenty of it, and it rushes at you, as complex and as imposing as the architecture here.

Sai Ying Pun, just on the western edge of the super-modern Central district, just at the part of the island where the ferry terminals stop existing, and where the island begins to curve south to the pastoral Kennedy Town and the nearly barren Cyperport. 

It smells like fish here, and rotten lizards. Shark fins hang from the storefronts. People are bustling by here, or crawling like the laggard elderly. In fact, many are the laggard elderly, and one must practice patience in their passing. They often fail to pass. 

You will see some, being taken out for walks, for air, to be shown the sun. They stare up at the sun unblinking, peering through the smog in the air and the fog in their brains, mouth slack jawed and drooling. They are the infirm. 

But Hong Kong is a hyper-manic LED explosion that swaddles the ugly, the old, the sick, the dirty. In fact, it tends to embrace the dirty as no other sophisticated city on earth can embrace it. It showcases it, while Bentley’s ply the streets the contrapuntal flip-flops of the garbage scavenger rushes against the traffic. She stoops to pick up cardboard, bind it and haul it away, as a driver pushes forward the ritzy couple’s Rolls Royce (there are more of these per capita than in any city in the world).

Sometimes it is easy to dislike the city that claims to have style, but that is so garish, so crowded, so rushed that there is never any time to enjoy whatever style that would be. And then you see things like the Times Square winter wonderland display in Causeway Bay and you wonder if the etiquette rules need to be written to say, “Do not EVER try to pass this shit off as classy, or style. The fact that you even put the word style in this display is an affront to the laws of physics.” 

But then there are reasons to love it, and to accept that love is not perfect. It has to be said that if love is a journey then this experience pays off in rewards that are too innumerable and even too intangible to count.

And should reward or love be counted? No. It’s a feeling. It’s that feeling of grace. You come to accept things.

I accept that Hong Kong, five years ago, was the place where I became another person. I accept that that person I became was not a healthy one, and not one that was able to appreciate the small wonders of life.

To get that back, I walked up Eastern Street, a steep hill that leads at the top to a road called Hospital Road. At the top of the road is a giant fortress like community center that I think used to be a government building, or a sanitarium. It has huge medieval looking walls. 

In there is an nursery center. I knock on the door. 

I have a stuffed Armadillo, called Dillo, that my friend Marissa wanted me to give to a kid that needed it. I was going to do this in Beijing, but my visa was wrong and I never made it there. So, I pick this day care center out of the blue, walk up and knock on the door. 

One woman, and then another woman, answer the door. They want to know what I need.

“I know this sounds strange, but I have to give this stuffed animal to a child that might need it. My friend in California makes these stuffed animals out of recycled materials and this is my chance to give it to a child so she can have fun.”

She looks at me.

“So is it, you want to promote this product,” she asks.

“No, not really, I want to give this to someone. Do you think the kids will enjoy having this to play with?”

This is incredibly weird for her and she is probably wondering if I have planted a bomb inside the stuffed armadillo. 

She says, “Just a moment,” and in utter Chinese courteousness leaves me standing there, but puts a block in the door to keep the catch from locking. It’s a small gesture to signify that she is working on this issue, and she will be back. No disrespect.

I wait. 

A few years ago, I lived right down the road, and I had some struggles. I probably drank too much. I was bitter. I worked very hard through grad school and tutored kids on the weekdays and the weekends, for just enough money to pay my rent, to pay for food and to pay off my graduate school tuition. 

It’s hard to say this, but I didn’t treat people well during this period. I was selfish. I was angry. I was struggling a lot. It was not easy to be a caucasian journalist in a city that was mostly Chinese. There was a lot of competition. There were rumors. Some of them were true.

Essentially, I didn’t treat my friends very well, and I didn’t treat my girlfriend very well, and whatever cosmic force in the world that exists to humble me, I didn’t listen to it.

So, it humbled me. 

It humbled me daily, sometimes severely so. And that followed me to New York, where it continued to humble me, until I gave up. I submitted to a force greater than myself and I said, “I quit.” 

Just like Philip Larkin did a long time ago. I remember reading about him in a British literature class when I went to school in London.

Come then to prayers 
And kneel upon the stone, 
For we have tried 
All courages on these despairs, 
And are required lastly to give up pride, 
And the last difficult pride in being humble. 

Flowing then through the kind of hedonistic life that Hong Kong lent me, I lost myself to chasing women, chasing pleasure, chasing money. I chased and chased anything that I thought would relieve me of an existential loneliness.

But being humbled by it brought me to the realization that I had something more in me, something that required me to give of myself, because, as wasted as I became, there was something there, something in the core that throbbed and refused to die.

And that’s in the end what it requires to live. Giving.

I had spent a lot of time in my life rolled up like a little armadillo, shielding myself from real love, from real intimacy with friends, in whatever form, by drinking, by disrespecting women and men, by being mean when I felt I had to, by really refusing to give, or give in. I feared being weak, because in a very materialistic way, I had not much to give. 

But I never realized that I had a pretty generous spirit, that I was made of something that is probably love. I think it’s love. Love has kept me sane. And I have learned to pray. Prayer keeps me calm. It allows me to listen to a soft voice in my head that can tell me what to do. 

Life is tough otherwise, for me. 

The secret of life — if it is even a secret, it seems so obvious and in my face right now — is that one must not have to try so hard, to be. One is what one is, and by just accepting what one is — a mere human — one begins to do what is right. Life is very soft that way. 

Love is really a kind of grace. A platitude, yes, but it’s true. 

Down below the massive community center, the traffic is swarming and hustling. The woman comes back to the door.

“We would be glad to take your armadillo, and the kids will enjoy this,” she says.

It is my silent wish that giving this little gift of a stuffed armadillo will make some kid happy. Made from recycled parts and carried with me for three weeks, through maybe 21,500 miles or more, it sits in my hand. 

So, I take the armadillo from my hands and put it in her hands. And she tips her head towards me in a courteous bow. And I thank her and she thanks me. 

And I take her picture, and that is what I did on Thursday. 

Sometimes My Plans Have Other Plans for Me

I’m standing in line at JFK Terminal One, having found the Air China ticketing desk, which was actually in row J, not row G as it is labeled in the airport directory on four different walls. I’m sweating, because my fleece jacket is too warm for the non-air conditioned terminal, which feels a little like a bath after your uncle gets done showering.

Yeah, that kind of icky feeling.

I’m feeling upbeat about my trip, but a little dismayed that it will take so long, and prospects for a business class upgrade — or simply finding a roomy exit row seat on this 747-400 — don’t seem good. 

In fact, to be perfectly honest, I am griping with myself. But I will soon learn that my own plans have other plans for me. 

“Why are you going to Beijing? It’s dirty, the people in this line are pushy, the people in China will be pushier.”

“And remember last time? The crush of people when the plane lands, the grandmas who even try to climb over seats to get to the exit before the door has even opened.” 

But I’ve planned this for months, and a head cold and slight jet lag from Israel, and the idea of being squished for 13 hours in a tiny seat are not going to deny me my interests in China. 

Then I look at my passport, which I have been absent-mindedly flipping against my leg. How did I miss this? My visa is wrong. The dates won’t work. I had misread my original visa, and I am now stepping out of line, picking up my phone and dialing the travel agent. I need to re-route.

How could this happen? 

It’s not important how. I overlooked something critical. 

Normally, I would have had a freak out. I would have tried to plead for an exception. But in this case, I saw the futility of getting past this kind of mix up. 

I didn’t get angry. I called my dad and said, “I might need a plan B, but I am going to try to fix this.” He said, “do what you got to do.”

Soon, I am talking to Kyle at Orbitz, and Kyle hooks me up with a refund (minus a minor cancellation fee), and a rebooking straight to Hong Kong on an All Nippon 777-300ER (nice!), stopping in Tokyo - Narita for a couple of hours, until I am again on a plane, a 737-800 long ranger in the back row, but comfy, I hope. Then I will land in Hong Kong.

Kyle is an amazing customer service representative. 

And how does this work out for me in the end? 

I get my airBNB refund from Beijing in full, minus the Airbnb fees. The woman, Cindy Xie, was so kind that she said I was actually the “knight in shining armor” for the Australian lady who wanted to extend her stay in China but needed a place to stay. Now she has one. 

I will be couch surfing at my friend Punit’s house, until my new reservation kicks in.

And look at this awesome place I was able to rent for two days in Brooklyn. Airbnb is not only a lifesaver, it’s a life changer. 

Rita and Shell are roommates. Rita is from Zimbabwe. Shell is from Puerto Rico. They cook for their guests.  Rita and Shell both look at my hat and recognize the All Blacks logo. They are fans. 

I get the tour. I am offered a glass of wine. 

I am told about how the space, which is cavernous, is used as a startup hub every Friday and that, ironically enough, 12 customer service reps from Airbnb come to sit and work at this huge worktable I am working at this morning. 

The night ends peacefully. We have dinner and Rita and Shell curl up on separate bed and a hammock, while Rita reads to Shell from the book Shantaram. (remind me to tell you the story about Shantaram, a book I have read)

I have not lost any money. I am not upset that I cannot get into China until much later. I have friends waiting for me in Hong Kong. 

I have not lost my patience.

I have not lost much at all, it seems, except for some words. I don’t know what to say that things seem to work out so well without me getting in the way of them not working out. It’s a peculiar experience to be at peace with a snafu when they so obviously don’t work out.

And because my plans have made other plans for me, I am awake this morning when I get a call from a friend in San Francisco, who is in a troubled relationship and needs help, or advice, or agreement, or something, anything. 

I don’t normally know what to do in a situation like this, ever. So, since I am already at a loss for words, I listen, without trying to do anything about it. And in the end, she makes up her mind. 

She wants love, so she will listen to the soft still voice in her head that tells her she is already doing the right thing and needs nobody else to tell her right from wrong. 

This must be the plan.

Familiar Rituals

Packing Bags

A week before the trip, I will drift towards the pile of backpacks, shoulder bags, and luggage cases. I will select one, and I will take it over to a different part of the apartment. Maybe I will take it to the corner near the brown sofa, under the Tiffany lamp, near the floor-to-ceiling mirror. 

Maybe I will set the backpack or the shoulder bag near the air conditioning unit, where the blue backpack sits now, on its face, straps facing the ceiling, waist strap snapped together, waiting for the ghost to return who has slid out from its hold. 

I will select small containers of shampoos, buy miniature toothpastes, and pack away dental floss, small soaps, and some peppermint Dr. Bonner’s wash, and stow them in a plastic bag. 

I like how everything looks prepared for safe keeping, either for a journey through millenia, or for preservation like a museum piece. Things have their use and their use is clearly indicated. I write with a black fetlt tip pen across the non-descript bottles: shampoo, soap, body wash, mouthwash. 

In seven days, I will begin a journey of nearly 21,678 miles. 

What happens through those 21,000+ miles? Travel changes travelers and it does so through familiar rituals. 

Repetition creates value and the sense of value sparks a sense of need. Addicts feel this. People with money feel this, when they see something beautiful and they wish to possess it. But travel is different. You can possess nothing in your travels other than what you bring to an experience, and you take nothing back with you home but what you are able to learn in the moment of the experience. 

Find that thing that makes you happy and that gives you time to feel the inherent joy that is found in being alive, so that you are never crushed by the weight of a false hope: that you are going to find love, happiness or some correction in the somewhat chaotic cosmic order, in someone else. 

Beijing Hutong Heretofore

The flight plans are all settled. 

By the end of the year, I will arrive at one of the old hutongs of Beijing, a place called Dong Si. 

But first, I leave for Tel Aviv on November 28 and spend seven days in a land they say is holy but seems to be rife with paranoia, dread of the apocalypse and representing all of the qualities of a fragmented human race. Of course, those are just the news reports. 

Then there is a flight to Paris, which will leave me at the airport for eight hours, long enough to leave the airport, catch a baguette and a kat nap on a bench somewhere overlooking the River Seine. Maybe I can dash into a cathedral I’ve never been to, and say a prayer. 

I will have done that in Jerusalem, where I plan on saying a prayer for my family and for all the women in my life, whom I wish would leave me alone. They seem to be undecided on what they want. Are they coming or going? Do they want passion or platonic intrigue? It’s unclear, and the more questions I ask, the fewer answers I receive. I find that saying a prayer for them, and for myself, asking for mercy and grace does the trick. It keeps the frustration at bay. And when I pray for something good for someone, it’s like blessing myself with patience. 

I want to do that at the Western Wall. 

When I get back to New York City, it’s only one day here, and then I must leave again, in mid-afternoon. It will be cold that day, I’m thinking. It will be December. The blue sky will look more like the pale nightgown of a dowager. It will have lost its luster, and it will look like a bottomless well of light, in which you can throw a penny; a sky so vacuous, if you had interminable strength, you will dissolve the penny in the acidic light of its nothingness. 

See, I will have been in France. See how Derridasque my writing has become? Already, I approach the limits of post-structural, post-human narrative.

From New York, I will fly to Beijing. My host has sent me this link of her hutong, where I will stay. Here are the before and after shots of its re-birth.