“I got worried for a minute. Thought you were a bomber. That bag was there and I didn’t know where you had gone.”

He was a man I’d guess of about 6’2” with (once) formidable biceps that had softened a bit in his years, dignified gray hair, and a goatee. He was seated at the Starbucks window counter in Boerne, Texas, with my bag next to him that had been left for about five minutes. Maybe a bit less.

“Oh…I’m sorry about that,” I tried to say lightly but with a tone of sincere apology. I knew his anxiety. “I had to wait for the bathroom, and then…” my voice ellipsed. “Gotta be careful these days, right?”

“Shame, isn’t it?”

“Yes, indeed.”

He saw me pulling out my laptop and scooted his more to the side, giving me more room. “Need to plug in?”

photo: BootsnAll Travel


we saw: (a big church

[Two of the blogger’s writing samples from childhood, the first written in Valle de Bravo (along Lake Avandaro in Mexico), the second on the plane ride home.  January 1969; I was five.]



People talking, people laughing, old house, dirty house, people whispering, dirty people, old people, music, Spanish, boys, girls, mother, old father, in rags, old boys, old girls, young father, old mother.





One happy morning, me and my family started to pack up and leave for Mexico City.  So off we went down the steps, went out the door and got a taxi.  Soon we were at the airport, when we got on the plane 1 of the tires popped.  We were stuck there for about 2, 3 hours soon we were at Mexico.  After Christmas we went to Cuernavaca, and we saw:  (a big town and went swimming).  After that we went to Viya Debravo.  And there we saw: (another big town and we went swimming, and went to a house for 3 days.  It took us about 3 hours.  Soon we went to Tosco, we saw: (a big church where some boys rang the bells.  We went to a restaurant and ate lunch.) Then we went back to New York, it took us 4 hours.


[Editor’s Note:  In reality, the return trip took 6 to 7 hours due to bad weather and delays over LaGuardia Airport, with major league turbulence, which was quite fun as I recall.]

I skipped the incense

Deciding prior to my trip to Asia that I would take a second day off while here – though I felt the slightest bit guilty for doing so (the Lovely K will chide me for that) because of the cost and trouble to get here and why not work most of the time – I nonetheless knew that today, Saturday, would be another tourist day.  Thursday I went south, to Stanley Market.  Today I ventured northeast, then northwest.


Stanley Market is maybe seven kilometers south, as the crane flies, but the #260 bus takes a circuitous route by necessity, showing off break-taking views of Deep Water Bay and Repulse Bay near Wong Chuk Hang and Chung Hom Kok, respectively.


Fortunately, the MTR – pronounced MTR-lo in Cantonese (just thought you’d want to know) – goes to where I wanted to go today.


Before I got on the MTR to head out of town, I had to get new earbuds for the iPod, as my current set has frayed ear coverings.  Can’t have that.  I knew I wanted to go to Nathan Road in Kowloon, where the hawkers all have cheap electronics, but I knew that my lack of haggling prowess, demonstrated so elegantly in Stanley Market, was potentially deleterious to my budget.  Nevertheless, I walked several blocks to the north, scoping by sidelong glance the various stores to see who had prices showing (“watch out for unmarked products” cried an insider website,, and who generally had a clean, well-run store.


I doubled back to one I saw near the beginning.  I went in.  “Jo san” was exchanged, and I indicated that I needed new ear buds.  The man showed me a range of types and brands, one box looking like it had been displayed through a dust and grime storm some fifty years before (that worried me), and one set that he said cost about HK$1000 (about US$128).  I finally settled on a pair of Sonys, with lime green accents.


“350 dollars.”  About US$45.


I gave him a pained look.  Like, Dude, you just ran over my foot with your motorcycle.


“Oooh.  I didn’t want to pay that much.”  I placed the package down on the glass counter with an air of finality.  Finality, like, OK, here I stand, and there I walk…but I could be convinced otherwise.  Try me.


He came back, “How much you want to pay.”  I took up his calculator and toyed with the keypad, putting in 350 and dividing by 7.8 to see if my pained look was really painful enough.


“265,” he said, while I was typing.  This was about US$34.  I kept typing.


“OK.  And I will try them here and if I don’t like, I get my money back, right?”




I felt that I had had some small victory.  So what if they were manufactured in Bangladesh for 50 cents and he bought them wholesale for two dollars.  I got a 25% discount.  That was good enough for me.




First tourist stop was Che Kung Temple, 10 km to the north of the central district of HK, accessible for the grand total of about US$2.50 on two different lines.


The century-old temple is dedicated to a Sung dynasty general who was deified for his devotion to the villagers of Tin Sam.  Apparently, he miraculously cured a plague and also miraculously brought many people good luck, or so said the plaque outside the temple entrance, where people greet you with happy a “Jo san!” in front of their vendor stands where you are supposed to buy incense before going in.  I skipped that step.


Inside the courtyard, which preceded the altar, there are large brass bowls with sand into which you place your 2-foot long incense and bow and pray.  I skipped that step, too.


Once inside the temple, you face a 30-foot high golden Buddha whose gaze down on you feels intimidating, like maybe you shouldn’t have skipped those steps.  People stopped in front and stood, bringing hands into a silent clap position in front of their noses, and prayed.  I also skipped that step.


Behind and to one side of the Buddha statue were five tables with two chairs in front of each.  One table was staffed with an older man who was counseling a young couple.  He was doing all the talking.


The feel of the temple reminded me of many Catholic churches in Italy and France.


Once back on the MTR, I wrote this poem in my Moleskine:


Angry Buddha statue


over me


points me to the


Who stooped to wash

my feet.


I couldn’t help but think of the marked contrast between Buddhism and gospel Christianity:  fear and distance versus love and intimacy.  Otherness and cold separation versus God-with-us and humility.  Sorry if that pisses some of you off; I’m just calling it like I see it.




Second stop.


Took the MTR back south to the Tai Wai station to transfer lines.  I wanted to go the Sheung Shui station out in the countryside, about 23 km north.  I overshot the nature preserve I intended to go to and wound up in Paramus, New Jersey, on steroids.


Now, I must tell you, Dear Reader, that the train ride out was quite lovely.  We went by Tolo Harbour to the east of us, a pleasant stretch of water surrounded by hills up to 700 meters high.  The people-watching on the ride itself was fun, too, which is the same reason I like riding the NYC subway.  Shing Mun Country Park, which is where I intended to go, was accessible with the Tsuen Wan line to the south.  In any event, I ended up about 5 km south of Shenzhen, with a population of eight million and one of the fastest growing cities in the world.


Not exactly a bird sanctuary.


So, it was late morning and I was ready for lunch, and, I admit, I just had to:  McDonald’s.  I had to try it halfway ‘round the world, if just to say I did.  I queued up behind an army of grandmothers and schoolchildren, hungry for their chicken nuggets or “Shogun Burgers,” a regional combo meal choice not widely available in the States.


I got a Big Mac meal for the equivalent of US$3.31.  And I didn’t even have to haggle.


I walked around the mall – c’mon, this is Paramus…you think they didn’t have a mall there?! – and went into a sneaker store just to look around.  The salespeople, all under 10 years old, eyed me greedily with my wallet full of American dollars, which are currently as weak against the eastern currencies as a noodle against a bamboo shoot.


(By the way, this is worth a digression.  Downtown, when work is done on office buildings, the scaffolding erected is made from bamboo.  Not like bamboo that is processed.  Just plain old dried out bamboo, lashed together, some as high as 40 stories.  Couldn’t believe it.  Apparently, it’s as strong as steel…but that would mean that…  Never mind.)


In the mall going down the escalator, I saw a 3-year-old boy refuse to hold his grandfather’s hand.  He wanted to stand on his own while riding.  Same in any language, folks.


Back on the MTR-lo to go back to Hong Kong Island.


In the MTR, which is one long connected tube, so you can ostensibly see everyone sitting some five or seven cars down, they have TV screens every so often.  I was cranking the Cars’ first album on my iPod and enjoying my new haggled-down-yet-still-too-expensive earbuds when the news on the screen showed a 50-year-old woman from the Sichuan Province, where the earthquake’s epicenter was.


She was looking at a piece of paper with rows of neatly typed characters on it, apparently a list of the dead.  Her face was in profile, her lips parted slightly.  Her eyes followed the list down, her left forefinger guiding her gaze.  Row by row.  Slowly.


The next shot was of two men holding her by each arm, supporting her unsteady gait.  Her face was reddened, her gaze set ahead.






photo:  FDB Graphics

Taai gwai laa!!!

Not until I had been in Hong Kong a full 72 hours did I feel even halfway normal.  That was yesterday.  Today I sit in the ubiquitous locus of international coffee and social civilization, the Starbucks conveniently located near the Island Shangri-La Hotel, whose wireless service for guests I have tapped – not hacked – into.  I read the “Agreement,” which had nothing about Use By Registered Guests Only, but rather called for my willingness to be subject to the Laws of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region should I transgress any of the regulations that I possibly skimmed over as I was letting Dierks Bentley blast through my iPod and wait to see Ironman with Robert Downey Jr. in about 90 minutes.


This morning I took bus #260 from Exchange Square over to the south side of Hong Kong Island to Stanley Market.  I somewhat expected a sprawling sea of vendors with whom I would have to haggle prices – using my sparse but carefully practiced tai haa (just looking), gay daw chin (how much is it) and taai gwai laa (it’s too expensive).  That last one I had practiced with a little New York attitude.  Like, Try me, buster…I’m walking away.


It was much smaller.


Yet, as I bought some cool things for the boys, for the Lovely K, and for my brother and sister-in-law, I encountered people who had dealt with many before me who, like me, had practiced only enough Cantonese to appear fully like the pushovers they were.


Now, there are a couple Texans in my life who could haggle in this situation.  No taai gwai laa would they employ…no, they’d simply open up a can of English whoop-a#@ and proceed to get 10, 25, maybe 35% off.  My new friend at Goldman Sachs Hong Kong, Jovi, told me to make sure to bargain down the price at least 50%.  This is why he works for Goldman, and I professionally beg for money.  There is a divinely structured order to the world, you see, and we both – no we all, including the Stanley Market vendors – fall into place in it.


One vendor’s daughter, who was ringing me up for my purchases, started chatting with me.  She pulled a jade Buddha pendant on a necklace away from her chest out into the fluorescent light of their stall and started talking about how she, her mother and “Buddha-san father” went into China to help people suffering from the “terrible earth shaking in Sichuan.”  She told me she was a vegetarian but not an angel but also believed that Jesus Christ, like the Buddha, would sweep all the evil away, but did I eat beef? she asked, no no no, don’t do that, please, because look at the horses, look at their eyes, they look so kind in front of the cart, why don’t you pray for them, and look at the oxen in the fields, they eat only grass and they are so much stronger than man, they don’t need to eat meat so you shouldn’t eat them.


I was losing the battle with this herbivore and couldn’t find a way to work in Ben Franklin’s oh-so-Western epiphany when he cut open a fish and saw another fish in its interior and exclaimed in his Autobiography, “If they main’t eat each other, then why main’t I eat them?”


I was still swirling with this gal’s theology and also her crusade to keep me from eating the ham and linguine that I was to consume in about 15 minutes – she lost that one…HAH! – but I tell you what:


I paid full price for all that I bought.


And they smiled as I walked away, a bit shell-shocked by these gentle people who have survived invaders for 5,000 years.




photo:  patra

“Did you know I was related to Lafayette?”

As the B-52s punch their words into my inner ear, “down, down, down…skedubidub…hrrrrr…ahhh..ahhhahhh…Rock Lobstah!” I recall a few minutes ago when a 20-something guy with a crew cut, backpack, and wild look in his eyes walks into the Starbucks on 76th and Columbus where I’m doing my evening news catch-up, drinking the requisite decaf, checking out the Red Sox losing to the Cleveland Indians in the bottom of the second inning live on, and he taps my shoulder because, after all, I have these antisocial white iPod earplugs in the side of my head that announce, “Please know that I am occupied with a little Alternative Music R&R,” and he stumbles for words, and I think, Uh, Oh, here we go:  This reminds me of London 1985 when I sat in that hotel lobby with brother Jim and college friend Kim and some dude walks in and convinces me that he lost his trumpet – for real, I tell you, and you thought I wasn’t gullible… – and 101507damo_4701.jpgneeds twenty quid (which then was about only $30) which of course I gave him because he promised to send it back to me later to my US home and he even gave me his name and address, which I am sure now corresponded with some ex-foreman at a women’s girdle factory in Yorkshire.  This is going through my mind.  I am thinking: Get ready for the pitch, Man.

But instead he insists he is lost and needs to get access to his Hotmail account and may he log on to my laptop.  He speaks broken English because he is French.   So I consider the fact of the American Revolution and how his country did all those nice things for us.  (After all, since then, the relationship’s been a little…strained…although now there’s a guy in office who might convince the French Language Puritan Nazis to let in such words as “laptop” and “Starbucks” to the rigid lexicon.  So what if YouTube has a video of Sarkozy drunk at the G8 Conference.  President G.H.W. Bush puked on the Japanese Prime Minister, remember?)  We navigate out of my default Windows Live ID screen and away he goes into French MSN and his email account.  He says it’s hard to get to the “web cafe.”

He finds the street address he’s looking for, on West 107th, and asks how far it is.  Walk?  Train?  Taxi?  I ask.  Taxi, he says.  About ten minutes.  He looks comforted, gathers his things.

He does not ask me for money.  He hasn’t lost a wind instrument of any kind.

I am happy.

photo:  damo 4701

Don’t stare…

On Singing Beach today, apparently there was an eight-year-old boy running around who was … under-clothed.  Grossly under-clothed.  As in, wearing his birthday suit.  The Lovely K, who tonight reported this at dinner, said she saw the father and that he didn’t seem to care.  She said he looked … European.

I declared that any kid over two, or at least three, should wear a bathing suit on the beach.  This was my Puritan Mean Streak coming out and, dadgum it all, I want the beach to be free of all naked third graders.

My brother Jim and I happened upon a beach in Nice in 1985 where we were staying with a family whose matron was in 100607rebeka303.jpgmy college speech class and whose husband had been reassigned to IBM’s Raleigh, North Carolina office for four years.  At the end of the course, the woman invited any and all comers to join her if any of us found ourselves on the Riviera.  One year later, I had graduated, and the gift from my parents for successfully applying their tuition funds against documentable coursework was a trip to Europe for six weeks, where I would join Jim in Rome, where he was for a semester, and we’d take the “Grand Tour” (as WASPs call it) up through Europe, terminating in London.

The beach in Nice was basically every American young man’s dream, with all females over a certain age grossly under-clothed, even partaking in windsurfing while grossly under-clothed.  It was enough to make any Puritan become a French existentialist.  It was at these times when I guess it was okay for Europeans to be Europeans.

There was also the time in 1990 when I was on the Costa del Sol near Fuengirola, Spain, and there was rare surf.  I, anticipating my time with the Europeans would call for a change in beach couture, had packed only a speedo, thinking this was de rigueur.  Wearing this, I got the courage to ask a local surfer – who, with his friends, were all wearing classic, baggy, Californian-style surf trunks – whether I could rent his board for an hour for a few pesetas (this is pre-euro).

I thought I had learned my lesson and from then on wore my speedo only when I swam laps.  Then, two summers ago, I was at the local pool in Texas near my in-laws’ house, and my father-in-law had invited me to go work out with the after-school team.  I was, of course, wearing the speedo.  All the young boys were wearing the knee-length suits, a la Michael Phelps.  They were gathering in small groups, staring at me, and snickering.

Whether it’s Manchester-by-the-Sea, Nice, Fuengirola or Kerrville, I seem to be out of rhythm with beachwear.  I think I will stick to indoor activities when in doubt.

photo:  rebeka303