Sheung Wan
Hong Kong · Days 8, 9, & 10
Three days here have passed quickly. The stifling heat and humidity provide a strangely comforting continuity as my sister and I shift in transit, burdened with the usual anxiety that invariably seems to come with crossing borders.
We’re in a very central, apparently “hip” part of Hong Kong, which means everything of interest—the Asia Art Archive, shops, eateries—are accessible within at most a 20 minute walk. Often, it’s something more like 5, and I’m suddenly grateful for all the time I’m able to save from short commutes.
The sister is heads down on gathering research material, furiously photocopying page after page of obscure publications at the Archive. Meanwhile, I wander into holes in the wall, plopping myself down among surprised locals in the middle of slurping their bowls of noodles. I point at what a tiny old woman is eating across the communal table—I want that—and she looks up, breaking into a wide toothless smile mid chopstick-lift. Her eyes crinkle into nothing, two more long lines in a face of deep crevices. I look sidelong at what others are doing with the mystery sauces on the table, mimic, partake. I brazenly dump a healthy dose of chili sauce into the broth and realize my mistake, belatedly. I finish, mouth and face on fire, out of pride. The cook looks on with pity.
The next day I return to order a different bowl of noodles like an old hand, and do it right with only a parsimonious bit of chili this time. I enjoy four toothsome shrimp and pork wontons which come resting on a pillow of yellow noodles in steaming broth. That and a side of sautéed seasonal greens comes to $3 USD.
Today began with a thunderstorm, and I spent the morning trying to catch some Olympics after working out at the hotel. The rest of the day goes to finishing a book at a tranquil tea house up the hill.
I must admit that I’m exhausted. I woke up with a sore throat, so the body is feeling it as much as the mind.
I’ve been pushing myself hard with personal projects, because momentum is so difficult to come by and I always end up riding it mercilessly before it peters out and I crash. Small price to pay, really, for all the work that gets done, but then I’m fallow for days.
I bowed out of a relationship only a few months ago, too, which is both exciting and scary. This is the mourning period, and it’s deep, and it’s low.
All I can do is look to myself, and pull on the plumb line until I’m above ground, revel as I can in the black. Because there’s always something I can take, and use, when I suffer.