words & photos marissa brodney

Living in Hong Kong it is easy to get caught up in the exertions of everyday life and pass by those little, familiar peculiarities that give this city its character. It takes a newcomer to see the city as more than just an all-day rush hour…

Two months ago, I stumbled out of a Cathay Pacific jet that had just flown halfway around the globe, passed beneath a sign welcoming me to Hong Kong on behalf of the Royal Bank of Scotland, and stepped onto one of the cleanest forms of mass transit I’ve ever encountered. Hong Kong for a summer. Asia for the first time.

I’m from New York. That gritty city thundering with trains that clank against the metal tracks of underground tunnels, of tin-can sidewalk entertainment and steam-belching grates, of brownstones and tenements and crowds swarming with the accents of immigrants from around the world. At home I give my loose change to a mariachi band that roams my local subway line. I drink coffee on the steps of a large, mock Gothic cathedral that stands next to a small, dilapidated park near my apartment. I see a lot of neon, a lot of local delis, and a lot of yellow taxicabs.

But the Hong Kong streets are drenched in red, not yellow, and I’ve exchanged my dimly-lit subway stations for a glass-encased MTR that rides quietly and smoothly enough to feel somewhat like a Disneyland people-mover. It took me a while to get used to the Nintendo players people pull out of their bags here like pocket mirrors, and the stereo-quality cell phone ring tones. Where I come from, people don’t line up (excuse me, queue) before the marked places where doors of incoming commuter trains are set to open; I’m used to a subway line where passengers disperse on the platform in anticipation of a train that clashes into the station… lurches… inches a little forward… slows down again… and finally opens its doors wherever it feels like it to let the waiting crowds spill over the threshold.

I’ve noticed, while traipsing around Hong Kong and writing for bc, that far too many Hong Kongers take for granted some pretty unique things about this city. Like the caring officials who place signs in the train stations warning the citizenry to “Be careful, it is very hot!” – and, although I’d say I’m pretty aware of the heat judging from the clothes sticking to my back and the extra stick of deodorant I’ve started carrying in my bag, I appreciate the courtesy.

It’s a rare thing to see mountains shouldering skyscrapers in the middle of downtown, to be able to look out the window of a 40-storey office building and see trees only a few metres away. The puny lobster tanks I’m used to seeing at Chinese restaurants back home have nothing on the coral reefs’ worth of abalone, garoupa, monkfish, geoduck, and other live sea creatures that grace restaurant entryways here and that everyone ignores as they walk past. Escalators zoom fast enough to move small armies efficiently, and the copious amounts of bamboo scaffolding holding up this city as it rises ever higher are like nothing I’ve ever seen. Sounds balance sights: to live in a city successfully running on bi-lingual infrastructure would be impressive, but Hong Kong manages to speak Cantonese, Mandarin, and English – all at once. And that means I know how to say, “The train to Sheung Wan is arriving. Please let passengers exit first,” in two Chinese languages, not to mention a British accent.

I admit to making my fair share of cultural faux pas and newcomers’ mistakes. I’ve missed my stop more than once on city light buses, because of my reluctance to yell at the driver so he knows to let me off. Meal etiquette has been another lesson in what not to do. Imagine my surprise when my dinner companions started washing their chopsticks in the plastic cups of tea I had already started drinking from, assuming they were there as beverages? And how would I have known that if it’s OK to rest your chopsticks vertically in your cup of tea, that doesn’t mean it’s equally fine to stick your chopsticks vertically in your bowl of rice? Though I was confused at first by wary glances from diners sitting across from me when they heard me order pissing meatballs, it didn’t take me too long to realize they feared shirt stains at the mercy of a lunch guest unpractised in the art of fish-ball eating.

Hong Kong newbie that I was when I arrived, I didn’t understand the finer points of the particular brand of distancing that goes on here between residents of Hong Kong Island and those of Kowloon. Standing in Lan Kwai Fong on a Friday night, I’d engage in conversations that tended to go something like this:

“Well, what I’ve found, living in Kowloon, is – ”
“Wait, where?” (My acquaintance’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly.)
“Kowloon” (I’m screaming over the house music and holding my free Cosmopolitan from Club 97’s Ladies Night). “Ever hang out there? Mongkok’s a really cool area.”
There’s a short moment where we’re both silent and the room pulses before my companion invariably laughs and says, “Ha, you know, I never really go to Kowloon – I live on the Island!”

Well, that explains it! Why would you ever want to go to Kowloon? Maybe for the huge Ladies Market, and the sugar cane you can buy and chew on as you walk down Temple street, and the Kowloon Tong low-rises that are beautiful because they are old, and the large number of family-owned shops that still haven’t succumbed to major chains? Maybe for small parks in the early morning where people gather for Tai Chi and where I go running, or maybe for the experience of walking through the Goldfish Market and lingering in neighbourhoods that simply do not speak English. Because that’s Hong Kong, just as much as views from the Peak and beachside communities and the Hakka villages of Sai Kung.

I’ve met many who have lived here for years but have yet to venture beyond the bounds of what’s depicted on glossy tourist maps. Walking through places like Shau Kei Wan or North Point reveals a brand of local flavour that floods this city, but that many don’t include in their images of the Island. It’s one thing to speak conceptually about reclaimed land and urban modernization, but it’s another entirely to take a tram down Hong Kong Island’s old shoreline and feel the pulse of markets and twisting side streets across from glass office towers and the sound of stiletto heels clicking across broad plazas. That kind of dual-heartbeat, with both sides of the road coexisting and thriving as contemporary centres of motion and change, is rare. Amidst talk of dismantling the Wan Chai wet market, I am among the many who hope that duality does not disappear.

Speaking of dualities: Here, we drive on the British left-hand side of the road but walk on our own right-hand side of the sidewalk. Talk about an identity crisis! Sometimes MTR stations tell us to keep to the right-hand sides of the stairwells, sometimes they direct us to stay left (though, of course, we’re all still told to ‘Mind the gap’) – it doesn’t much matter to me except for those times when I find myself on the wrong side of the metal guardrail, facing an escalator that’s going up when I need to go down. Go see for yourself: Tin Hau arrows adhere to the left sides of stairwells, as do most of those at Kowloon Tong, but not all. Wanchai, among many others, directs you to keep right.

Taking it all in stride, my feet have made tracks all over Hong Kong. I’ve reached the point where I can smile along with the waitress’s excited laughter when I order that marvellous vegetable tung choi with a drink in local restaurants, without asking to see an English menu; I’m the proud owner of the MTR’s Assistant Fire & Security Supervisor Hello Kitty doll and I’m well aware that the real Hello Kitty weighs three apples and is five apples tall; I bought a set of rice bowls and chopsticks to take back to the States when I leave. I read at the Pacific Coffee. I like all things flavoured lychee. I no longer crave bagels or driving.

A week ago, returning from a weekend holiday, I stopped in an airport shop to buy some contact lens solution. The woman at the cash register rang up the purchase as she asked “So where are you from?” I tucked my Octopus card back into my bag, next to my room key. “I’m living in Hong Kong right now,” I said, as the man behind me shifted his weight against his large suitcase. “Oh,” she said, and smiled. I walked out the door with my light bag slung over my shoulder. Out into a sea of bright red taxis.