January 19, 2009

  • Departure

    I went karaoking in Hong Kong.  The last time I had gone was at Olivia's birthday party, years ago.  We went to Neway in Mong Kok.  The two guys in our group sang Cantonese songs fluently, made selections to keep the playlist going, and cut songs as they became repetitive.  I wished I could read Cantonese like they did -- and as it turns out, they learn songs by looking the Chinese characters up in a dictionary and by listening to the song many times.  I will continue my Cantonese language study in the States using the links they have provided me and additional resources I have gathered.

    I have yet to buy a lottery ticket, but I bet on a horse race in Shatin.  I marked off horses 3 and 11, "Quinella," and handed it to the lady at the betting counter with ten dollars.  Horse 3 was bound to place, given its odds on the factsheet.  The huge TV screen by the racetrack gave me hope when "11" was coming in second.  "If 3 is a shoo-in for Top 4, and 11 is charting, then I might really have a chance at winning," I thought.  When the final results came out, Horse 3 was third, and 11 did not win.  The possibility that both would be in the top 4 had been so exciting and surprising, I felt lucky even without winning.  I did not bet again.

    The operator finally gave me the number of a taxi.  "5 minutes," she said.  I was relieved because I had called 3 taxi booking companies before that and been told there were no taxis available, and this was the last number I had.  More than 5 minutes passed.  Headlights finally wound their way down the I-House slope.  The driver got out to put my luggage in the trunk.  I said my destination as we wound our way out of CU, "Wai wa jung sam."  Goodbye UC...  Goodbye central campus...  Goodbye to SRB look-alike...  We headed out the west exit and got on to the highway I had crossed four months earlier.  The highway speed was faster than I was used to, and every once in a while, a vehicle would merge in from the left entrance ramp.  I confirmed that I wanted to get off at the diksi jaahm--the taxi stand.  From there, I would board a bus to the airport.  A departing bus honked at me as I attempted to cross the street.  I braced myself as it rushed by in front of me.  When the bus arrived, the middle-aged man behind me in line gestured that he would help me board the bus.  He carried one piece of luggage and I carried the other.  In a blink of an eye, he disappeared to the upper deck.  I struggled with securing my luggage in the designated space as three passengers observed me passively from their seats.  As I took a seat, my backpack must have been too big to fit through the aisle comfortably and nudged the man on my right.  The younger man, which I later realized was his son, looked over alarmingly.  I effused three sorry's, one for each of them, before I took my seat and sat, immobile, for many minutes.  When I got to the airport, I was informed at check-in that my flight had been delayed until 2.  It was not even 9.  It might have been the longest single stretch of time I had ever spent at an airport, and this time it was by myself.  I went downstairs to the arrivals area and tried to approximate where I had stood on the Tuesday of my arrival.  I looked for the large Olympic clock but it was no longer there.  I snapped a few pictures standing in the expanse in front of the elevators, of the arrivals hall, of the 7-11.  I found myself at the Ground Transportation Centre, where I had boarded a minivan to get to CU.  I sat down among empty seats, took out my cell phone, and won a game of chess.