So I’ve arrived in the United States. As if there was no turning back earlier, I’m pretty much back now. I forgot that winds work so that it takes much less time to go west to east over the Pacific than the other way around. To get to Hong Kong to San Francisco, it took thirteen-and-a-half hours. Going back, it took just under eleven hours, and here I am now, sitting in the domestic terminal of United Airlines.
It’s currently around 9:30 a.m. Pacific Standard Time, and I’ve just gone through immigration and customs and went back through security in about an hour and a half, having arrived here just before 8:00 a.m. Though it’s still early in the day, my all-nighter that I pulled yesterday may have just paid off. I’m not tired, though it is around 1:30 a.m. in Hong Kong (at which point I would be snoring).
The flight was on par with other standard long-haul flights. There were two meals serves and a few meals in between. Unlike many other airlines (probably most), United though doesn’t have individual entertainment screens for economy class. It was fine, because I slept about half the flight, and the other half I watched the movie Julie and Julia as well as the beginning of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, which I had already seen many times previously.
I arrived better than other long flights. With this being my sixth such flight (a number that pales in comparison to some of my friends), I guess practice makes perfect. I went through immigration first, where lines are divided between United States Residents (including non-residents) and Visitors. In line, this one duddy young adult behind me kept asking his father if they should move over to the citizens’ line, which, if he had taken a quick glance, would have realized that he was in it.
I went through without a hitch and asked the officer to stamp my passport. He did, but it was funny how he decided to skip my extra pages added mid-November by the United States Consulate-General in Hong Kong and went straight to the back, to the very last stampable page. He was nice though, so I thanked him.
He asked me if I had anything to declare, so I said that I have to pay customs tax but nothing outright to declare. He asked me what the purpose of my trip was, and I told him study abroad, and then said education, followed by some sightseeing. He’d already marked my Customs and Border Protection Sheet though with a circled numeral one. He waved me on without delay.
What was weird though happened to be what I did. Having gone through tons of Chinese immigration and airport security on this trip (Mainland, Hong Kong, Macau, Taiwan), I was so used to just blurting out something in Cantonese and or Mandarin, once a disastrous and erroneous combination of both (that led me to say “I want” in Cantonese followed by “computer” in Mandarin to mean that I have a computer). Arriving in San Francisco, I caught my tongue and had to remind myself for a split second to speak English. Feel free to suggest what this means, since in Hong Kong I used English 70% of the time and Cantonese at about 25% of the time, with the other 5% consisting of Mandarin between newly-arrived service workers and French between the off-chance need to communicate something secretive in nature.
After that, I waited for luggage at carousel six along with most of the rest of the 747’s passengers. The bags took forever to come, and as expected I had to wait for them to take through customs then recheck them into the system. Waiting, I saw this unkempt guy in the army-veteran style as opposed to the hippy style who kept whining to anyone who would listen about how slow the bags took to come through. He was particularly poking at the various security checks he was told they send the bags through, which although annoying, also increase national security. This guy seemed to be one to argue in the realist sense for high national security and preemptive attacks upon foreign sovereigns yet he couldn’t see that his waiting was making the country safer in a more micro sense.
I got my bags after waiting for a long time, and remembered just how heavy they were. I was allowed two bags each under fifty pounds or twenty-three kilograms depending on where you checked in. I had my two bags that I managed to fit everything into except my pillow, which I’d have liked to keep, and though I had a hunch that it would go over weight, it was too late to mail stuff back. I resolved to just bring them along and see how things went.
So after calling home, telling them that I was leaving for the airport and that I would see them the next day, I dragged my bags up to the airport bus stop and waited for that bus to come. When it came, I had to toss my bags onto the bus, pay with my Ziploc bag of change pulled (with permission) of my roommate’s desk, and then heave my bags onto the luggage racks. With $48 HKD in the form of mostly ten- and twenty-cent pieces, the driver seemed oddly accepting of my method of payment. To me, that either meant that he didn’t care, didn’t care to show that he cared, or his coin collector had a counting mechanism in it. Whatever the case, I got on the bus and went on my hour-long journey to the airport, during which I accidentally took a nap.
Back to San Francisco, I picked up my bags off the carousel and onto my cart and from there I proceeded onto customs. I wrote down that I bought $1300 USD-worth of merchandise, after the $800 exemption, $500 of which was liable to a 3% tax, or $15 USD. Instead of directing me to some sort of cashier to pay my customs taxes, the woman looking at my ticket said “Thousand Oaks” (reading my United States address), and pointed me past the various luggage inspectors (or luggage unpackers) to find all the Cuban cigars and the like they could find to discard.
I’m glad that I didn’t get unpacked, because my bag was stuffed to the brim. Opening it put you in danger of not being able to close it. I found this out at I dragged my two bulky bags (as well as my carry-on backpack and camera case) to the check-in counter. One weighed seventeen kilograms and the other weighed a whopping forty kilograms (something just under ninety pounds). I was informed that I could pay an extra $150 USD to check in a bag under thirty-two kilograms, and that I couldn’t check in anything heavier (for the carriers’ contracts I suppose).
To that effect, I had to rearrange my two bags to even out the weight. I was directed several meters away to do it, substituting heavy books from the heavier bag with lighter clothes from the lighter bag. For a minute, it looked like I was going to have to abandon my two full-sized umbrellas, but in the end, everything fit back in. The whole thing took around fifteen minutes, the whole time in paranoia that someone was going to take my other bags (each with contents worth a very pretty penny).
Going back up to the check-in counter, I still had a little bit of adjusting to do, but my bags after moving two books into my carry-on luggage came in at about thirty-four kilograms and twenty-four kilograms, which to the checker was over the weight limit but acceptably so (probably as per her guidelines). With those two suckers off my back, I had a lot less to worry about (a main factor in choosing to travel in groups or at least with one other person so as not to leave luggage unattended).
Before packing these bags full though, I removed all the price tags I could find because while I planned to properly declare what I bought, I didn’t want the customs officers to be counting pennies on me.
One of my last friends who hadn’t yet left told me that I shouldn’t declare in excess of what’s tax-exempt, because no one pays customs taxes, implying that I was overly law-abiding and silly in doing so. I told him that it’s not that much, so there’s no reason why I shouldn’t pay it. I had the money to and knew that it would come down to whether or not they believed me when I said that though I’m bringing the box back, I solemnly swear that I bought it in the United States.
I guess when it comes down to it, I follow Socratic philosophy regarding civics. When he was sentenced to death, Crito came to free him, seeing that no one was going to stop him. However, Socrates chose to take his punishment seeing that the society that he lived in decided against him. I suppose I feel that the overwhelming majority of laws are there for a reason, and if not for the sake of the law itself, for something secondary in the least. In my case, paying customs tax (which happens to be much lower than Los Angeles County sales tax) helps my country protect our national security interests.
On the other hand, my roommate, in addition to bring six People’s Liberation Army hats (with a red star square center) and quite a few Quotes of Chairman Mao pocket books for cheap thrills, along with a defiling depiction of President Obama for his right-wing father, bought a small pack of Cuban cigars to bring back. Now if Communist souvenirs provide cheap thrills for Americans, bringing Cuban cigars over to the United States provides just downright ridiculously cheap thrills for Americans.
It’s not like the cigars are particularly good that makes them so fun to bring over, nor is it being bad for your health to smoke the reason why they’re illegal to import. It’s because of our long-running trade embargo upon Cuba set during the Kennedy years that first Cuban cigars are illegal to bring it and second that people like my roommate find it deviantly fun to sneak in. * Snicker, snicker.
Well I’m back in the States now, definitively so, having come in without having been asked to pay customs tax, yet following the law to the T. It just goes to show that people get by perfectly well by doing things the proper ways as well—just saying.
Showing posts with label plane. Show all posts
Showing posts with label plane. Show all posts
Monday, December 21, 2009
The Last Night: Victoria Harbour
So I finally got to doing the Star Ferry Night Harbour Tour as well. Like the Tian Tin Buddha, I just got to it, and it just so happened to be the last thing I got to do here in Hong Kong.
Right now, I'm finishing up the blog before some concluding posts. Yeah, it's almost 6:00 a.m., but I've decided to pull an all-nighter today so that I can sleep through most of my flight. It makes sense, since I'll arrive at San Francisco in the morning (9:00 a.m. Pacific, 1:00 a.m. Hong Kong). So if I don't sleep in the plane, I'll end up sleeping in SFO waiting for my connecting flight to Los Angeles. And with the stuff in my carry-on luggage, I'd rather sleep on the plane than in the waiting area for a gate.
Friday, December 11, 2009
The Trips that Never Happened
I thought I was going to go out with a bang. To end my stay here, I was going to travel around—to Singapore, Japan, and South Korea to be exact. Despite my intentions though, I won’t be going to any of them in the near future, and while I’m a little saddened, I know I’ll get over there some day.
It came down to a lack of earlier planning and the fact that I would have been traveling by myself. I was highly advised by my parents not to travel alone, because it’s always good to have at least one traveling companion for safety, even if you speak the language. (English and Mandarin for Singapore—yes, Japanese I could brush up on, South Korea I would have been relying on hoping to find English speakers.) I understood my parents concerns, but I wanted to go for it at least once. I heard that traveling alone is an experience like no other, and similar to studying abroad, I wanted to make this experience my own.
The ultimate reason why it didn’t work out was because of money. Because I hadn’t planned earlier, the prices were all inflated for the holidays. Because I was to be traveling alone, accommodation priced for two was little cheaper for one. One of the major services that I’ve been using, Cathay Pacific Holidays, doesn’t even allow for single travelers to book because all their prices are worked out for parties of two.
I looked into a weeklong trip to Singapore and Kuala Lumpur. Hotel and flight alone would have cost me $700 USD. For just $300 dollars more, I could have brought along two more people. So in the end, I decided that in order to spend money in a more sensible manner, I would postpone these trips indefinitely. After all, I’m most definitely coming back to East Asia sometime.
It came down to a lack of earlier planning and the fact that I would have been traveling by myself. I was highly advised by my parents not to travel alone, because it’s always good to have at least one traveling companion for safety, even if you speak the language. (English and Mandarin for Singapore—yes, Japanese I could brush up on, South Korea I would have been relying on hoping to find English speakers.) I understood my parents concerns, but I wanted to go for it at least once. I heard that traveling alone is an experience like no other, and similar to studying abroad, I wanted to make this experience my own.
The ultimate reason why it didn’t work out was because of money. Because I hadn’t planned earlier, the prices were all inflated for the holidays. Because I was to be traveling alone, accommodation priced for two was little cheaper for one. One of the major services that I’ve been using, Cathay Pacific Holidays, doesn’t even allow for single travelers to book because all their prices are worked out for parties of two.
I looked into a weeklong trip to Singapore and Kuala Lumpur. Hotel and flight alone would have cost me $700 USD. For just $300 dollars more, I could have brought along two more people. So in the end, I decided that in order to spend money in a more sensible manner, I would postpone these trips indefinitely. After all, I’m most definitely coming back to East Asia sometime.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Nanjing: Planes, Trains, and the Paparazzi
So my last full-fledged trip of this term started out as all the others—with transportation of course. This one required more than the others though, because as my travel buddies were aiming to save money, we opted to take trains over planes.
Nanjing is 733 miles or 1,180 kilometers from Hong Kong and would have taken two hours to fly there. As trains go, the one going from Shenzhen (Hong Kong’s Mainland border city) to its terminal at Nanjing Station would have taken twenty-five hours. In contrast, the train to Shanghai South Station would take eighteen hours and then a high-speed train to Nanjing would add on two hours from Shanghai Station via a twelve-stop metro journey. We opted for the latter.
And we couldn’t take one of the MTR through trains, which go almost non-stop to either Shanghai or Beijing from Kowloon (Hung Hom Station), because they go every other day, which for our schedule happened to fit on the wrong days.
Chinese trains are annoying. They’re decently convenient time-wise and reasonably priced. The problem is that you can’t book tickets online. I went to a travel agent (China Travel Service) and found that you have to book tickets at the stations themselves. Hong Kong’s train stations are owned and operated by the MTR Corporation, the same company that owns and operates the subway system. This means that to buy tickets in advance, you would have to truck yourself the hour and a half north to Shenzhen to buy your tickets since the rail facilities here are neither owned nor operated by the same people in Mainland China.
This trek up to Shenzhen wasn’t too appealing, and we figured we’d be able to get tickets shortly before departure, since we did the same for one person for the train to Guilin. Also, there was only one train scheduled each way each day, so we figured that ridership did not afford more than one train a day. Ultimately, we had to find our way up to Nanjing, because we’d already paid for the hotel and I’d already booked my flight back.
We were wrong on both accounts. The train was to leave at 13:29 and arrive at Shanghai South at 6:58, so early in the morning on Friday we got to Shenzhen. We went up to the counter and we were kindly informed that there were no beds left. This meant that we had to buy a seat. Fine. We had to get up to Nanjing, and a seat would do just that, so we bought our tickets and started counting down the hours until hell.
Now I know how I do with long flights. I’ve got a yearly quota for the number of flights over five hours I can handle. This train was going to be eighteen hours sitting. In comparison, my flight from San Francisco was only fourteen hours long and my flight earlier this summer from Los Angeles to Zurich was but eleven.
Well, anyways, the time came and we all got squished while queuing to get onto the train. I always thought it was pointless to squeeze onto mass transit vehicles, because if you’ve got a ticket, you’re getting on, and the vehicle isn’t going to go any sooner if you get on it first. Oh well.
The train was set up in tables. On half of the train, there were six seats in two rows of three around a four-person table. On the other half of the train, there were four seats in two rows of two. In between was an aisle just slightly bigger than that on an airplane.
Like the train to Guilin, in between the sleepers and the seats there was the dining car. While looking for it, I realized I had no idea how to call in Mandarin, so I called it a restaurant, and the staff looked at me like I was stupid. Instead, we met a businessman named Sharp that had approached us half because he was just being friendly and half because he was taking advantage of the opportunity to practice his English with us (my white friends more than me).
Eventually we got our dinner and found wandered back to our table set up. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the seats were facing in the same direction, because the guys across from us wouldn’t stop staring at us, half because my friends are white, half because I was speaking English, and entirely because we were all associating ourselves with each other.
What made the trip worse was that it just seemed to get more and more crowded. People were crowding the areas between cars as well as making use of the bathroom sinks and floors as beds. With pooper stoopers, the floor just got dirtier and dirtier, and it was pretty apparent as seen by the color what this dirt was actually made of. These people who wandered onto the train without a seat I assumed paid to stand, but took the opportunity to claim a seat when one arose. After going to the wrong side of the train (because Car No. 1 was connected at the back to Car No. 16), we found some guys in our seats. I asked them to move in Mandarin, and an older man replied to me in English “switch seats.” Without gesturing which seats to switch to, had he meant switching at all, we just waited until they got out of our seats. In the process of moving themselves and their stuff, they had to move their circular saw from under one table to another, which I thought was peculiar. We had just gone through x-ray security not fifteen minutes ago.
Needless to say, I read an entire book in one sitting (though it was only 180 pages long) in two hours and proceeded to eat two trays of Mandarin oranges and one tray of bananas that we paid ¥10 CNY in total for. After exhausting things to do (because it was difficult to pull my binder out of my bag to study) it was about time to go to sleep. We had hoped that they’d turn off or at least dim the lights after 11:00 p.m. But when 11:00 p.m. came and went, we hoped for midnight. And by the time I fell asleep it became apparent that the lights were there to stay. I got all of about five hours of sleep on that eighteen-hour train ride. One of my friends got as little as half an hour. We all decided that airplanes are much better than hard seats on Chinese trains.
We arrived at Shanghai South Station at about 7:30 a.m. but had to stay there until the ticket office opened at 8:00 a.m. to help my friends buy tickets back for later in the week. I was to leave from Nanjing by air but they were going to come back to Shanghai to scout the place out. One of them studies Mandarin but neither of them felt they had the capacity to negotiate hard-sleepers back to Shenzhen. I actually found that I did the whole thing without any effort. They got their train tickets back, and what’s better is they got hard sleepers—so the hellish ride there wouldn’t be a hellish ride back.
We ate breakfast at a place called Mister Donut in the train station. My problem with eating doughnuts is that they make me feel like a doughnut in the short term as well as in the long term.
Next up, we had to get from one train station to the other, because trains to Nanjing left from Shanghai Station, and we were currently at Shanghai South Station. This was anticipated and hence smooth. For ¥4 CNY, we went the twelve stops along Line 1 of the Shanghai Metro to Shanghai Station.
Although it was going very well, at Shanghai Station, our luck had apparently run low. We waited to buy train tickets to Nanjing at the automated machines and waited for a long time. By the time we got up to the front, the every other machine went out of order, including ours, so we were ushered a block down to the ticket office. It was packed. Luckily we got our train tickets without much ado.
Waiting turned out to be a prelude for what was to come next. Already in the eighteen-hour train, our group of three had elicited many looks from the Chinese countrymen. What are two white people doing in a Chinese long-distance train? What is that Chinese guy doing with them? Is that English they’re speaking? 我听不懂! Needless to say, I explained to a lot of people who asked that they’re Scottish and Australian. If you care, I’m American. Yes, they’re my classmates and we study in Hong Kong.
In the waiting room in Shanghai Station though, we noticed though that people were taking pictures. My friend said, “Paparazzi, twelve o’clock.” I looked. There, on one knee a guy had his camera phone out with the lens noticeably popped out, snapping away at the white people. Another guy had a full-on camera out. One of their flashes went off. I wondered if these people saved these pictures for their friends and went like “I saw white people at Shanghai Station!” I don’t think my friends got their pictures taken in Beijing, and I thought Shanghai had more tourists and non-Chinese business people and non-Chinese people in general. Like I said though, this incident was a prelude.
The train journey from Shanghai to Nanjing was about two hours in length. The modern high-speed trains of China Railway High-Speed (CRH) were a lot cleaner and a lot more streamlined than the aging conventional rail ones. The staff were friendlier as were the passengers themselves, though granted this time we were all facing the same direction. The English displayed on the message board in the cabin was a little shotty and all, but at least it was understandable—bottom line was that we weren’t there for the English.
While napping, one of the staff members picked up my friend’s camera and woke her up. He said something to the effect of she should put that camera away because people can take it while she’s sleeping, especially because there’s nothing pretty to take pictures of inside this train. Between each statement, he would say, “” to which she would nod her head. I thought that she was actually answering his questions, that she did understand what he was saying like he asked. She was just nodding yes. So here’s a lesson: like my mom’s friend said, if you don’t understand something, it works more often than not to answer in the negative. No!
After arriving in Nanjing, we had our hotel address on a piece of paper (in pinyin only, unfortunately). We got in an unregulated taxi by accident and got ripped off. For the three of us, he charged ¥200 to take us to our hotel, which wasn’t that far away. However though, he helped us through our address dilemma, since it seems that most people in China don’t read pinyin (because they read the harder characters). He drove us to one hotel, where we asked concierge where our hotel was. They didn’t know the hotel’s name (it was a Holiday Inn, but no one calls it that because it has a Chinese name), so he said he would take me to the address. I said that was great. Later, looking at a map, the hotel was super close to one of the metro stops and we could have gotten there, had we planned better, for ¥2-4 each. Oh well. Lesson learned.
Nanjing is 733 miles or 1,180 kilometers from Hong Kong and would have taken two hours to fly there. As trains go, the one going from Shenzhen (Hong Kong’s Mainland border city) to its terminal at Nanjing Station would have taken twenty-five hours. In contrast, the train to Shanghai South Station would take eighteen hours and then a high-speed train to Nanjing would add on two hours from Shanghai Station via a twelve-stop metro journey. We opted for the latter.
And we couldn’t take one of the MTR through trains, which go almost non-stop to either Shanghai or Beijing from Kowloon (Hung Hom Station), because they go every other day, which for our schedule happened to fit on the wrong days.
Chinese trains are annoying. They’re decently convenient time-wise and reasonably priced. The problem is that you can’t book tickets online. I went to a travel agent (China Travel Service) and found that you have to book tickets at the stations themselves. Hong Kong’s train stations are owned and operated by the MTR Corporation, the same company that owns and operates the subway system. This means that to buy tickets in advance, you would have to truck yourself the hour and a half north to Shenzhen to buy your tickets since the rail facilities here are neither owned nor operated by the same people in Mainland China.
This trek up to Shenzhen wasn’t too appealing, and we figured we’d be able to get tickets shortly before departure, since we did the same for one person for the train to Guilin. Also, there was only one train scheduled each way each day, so we figured that ridership did not afford more than one train a day. Ultimately, we had to find our way up to Nanjing, because we’d already paid for the hotel and I’d already booked my flight back.
We were wrong on both accounts. The train was to leave at 13:29 and arrive at Shanghai South at 6:58, so early in the morning on Friday we got to Shenzhen. We went up to the counter and we were kindly informed that there were no beds left. This meant that we had to buy a seat. Fine. We had to get up to Nanjing, and a seat would do just that, so we bought our tickets and started counting down the hours until hell.
Now I know how I do with long flights. I’ve got a yearly quota for the number of flights over five hours I can handle. This train was going to be eighteen hours sitting. In comparison, my flight from San Francisco was only fourteen hours long and my flight earlier this summer from Los Angeles to Zurich was but eleven.
Well, anyways, the time came and we all got squished while queuing to get onto the train. I always thought it was pointless to squeeze onto mass transit vehicles, because if you’ve got a ticket, you’re getting on, and the vehicle isn’t going to go any sooner if you get on it first. Oh well.
The train was set up in tables. On half of the train, there were six seats in two rows of three around a four-person table. On the other half of the train, there were four seats in two rows of two. In between was an aisle just slightly bigger than that on an airplane.
Like the train to Guilin, in between the sleepers and the seats there was the dining car. While looking for it, I realized I had no idea how to call in Mandarin, so I called it a restaurant, and the staff looked at me like I was stupid. Instead, we met a businessman named Sharp that had approached us half because he was just being friendly and half because he was taking advantage of the opportunity to practice his English with us (my white friends more than me).
Eventually we got our dinner and found wandered back to our table set up. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the seats were facing in the same direction, because the guys across from us wouldn’t stop staring at us, half because my friends are white, half because I was speaking English, and entirely because we were all associating ourselves with each other.
What made the trip worse was that it just seemed to get more and more crowded. People were crowding the areas between cars as well as making use of the bathroom sinks and floors as beds. With pooper stoopers, the floor just got dirtier and dirtier, and it was pretty apparent as seen by the color what this dirt was actually made of. These people who wandered onto the train without a seat I assumed paid to stand, but took the opportunity to claim a seat when one arose. After going to the wrong side of the train (because Car No. 1 was connected at the back to Car No. 16), we found some guys in our seats. I asked them to move in Mandarin, and an older man replied to me in English “switch seats.” Without gesturing which seats to switch to, had he meant switching at all, we just waited until they got out of our seats. In the process of moving themselves and their stuff, they had to move their circular saw from under one table to another, which I thought was peculiar. We had just gone through x-ray security not fifteen minutes ago.
Needless to say, I read an entire book in one sitting (though it was only 180 pages long) in two hours and proceeded to eat two trays of Mandarin oranges and one tray of bananas that we paid ¥10 CNY in total for. After exhausting things to do (because it was difficult to pull my binder out of my bag to study) it was about time to go to sleep. We had hoped that they’d turn off or at least dim the lights after 11:00 p.m. But when 11:00 p.m. came and went, we hoped for midnight. And by the time I fell asleep it became apparent that the lights were there to stay. I got all of about five hours of sleep on that eighteen-hour train ride. One of my friends got as little as half an hour. We all decided that airplanes are much better than hard seats on Chinese trains.
We arrived at Shanghai South Station at about 7:30 a.m. but had to stay there until the ticket office opened at 8:00 a.m. to help my friends buy tickets back for later in the week. I was to leave from Nanjing by air but they were going to come back to Shanghai to scout the place out. One of them studies Mandarin but neither of them felt they had the capacity to negotiate hard-sleepers back to Shenzhen. I actually found that I did the whole thing without any effort. They got their train tickets back, and what’s better is they got hard sleepers—so the hellish ride there wouldn’t be a hellish ride back.
We ate breakfast at a place called Mister Donut in the train station. My problem with eating doughnuts is that they make me feel like a doughnut in the short term as well as in the long term.
Next up, we had to get from one train station to the other, because trains to Nanjing left from Shanghai Station, and we were currently at Shanghai South Station. This was anticipated and hence smooth. For ¥4 CNY, we went the twelve stops along Line 1 of the Shanghai Metro to Shanghai Station.
Although it was going very well, at Shanghai Station, our luck had apparently run low. We waited to buy train tickets to Nanjing at the automated machines and waited for a long time. By the time we got up to the front, the every other machine went out of order, including ours, so we were ushered a block down to the ticket office. It was packed. Luckily we got our train tickets without much ado.
Waiting turned out to be a prelude for what was to come next. Already in the eighteen-hour train, our group of three had elicited many looks from the Chinese countrymen. What are two white people doing in a Chinese long-distance train? What is that Chinese guy doing with them? Is that English they’re speaking? 我听不懂! Needless to say, I explained to a lot of people who asked that they’re Scottish and Australian. If you care, I’m American. Yes, they’re my classmates and we study in Hong Kong.
In the waiting room in Shanghai Station though, we noticed though that people were taking pictures. My friend said, “Paparazzi, twelve o’clock.” I looked. There, on one knee a guy had his camera phone out with the lens noticeably popped out, snapping away at the white people. Another guy had a full-on camera out. One of their flashes went off. I wondered if these people saved these pictures for their friends and went like “I saw white people at Shanghai Station!” I don’t think my friends got their pictures taken in Beijing, and I thought Shanghai had more tourists and non-Chinese business people and non-Chinese people in general. Like I said though, this incident was a prelude.
The train journey from Shanghai to Nanjing was about two hours in length. The modern high-speed trains of China Railway High-Speed (CRH) were a lot cleaner and a lot more streamlined than the aging conventional rail ones. The staff were friendlier as were the passengers themselves, though granted this time we were all facing the same direction. The English displayed on the message board in the cabin was a little shotty and all, but at least it was understandable—bottom line was that we weren’t there for the English.
While napping, one of the staff members picked up my friend’s camera and woke her up. He said something to the effect of she should put that camera away because people can take it while she’s sleeping, especially because there’s nothing pretty to take pictures of inside this train. Between each statement, he would say, “” to which she would nod her head. I thought that she was actually answering his questions, that she did understand what he was saying like he asked. She was just nodding yes. So here’s a lesson: like my mom’s friend said, if you don’t understand something, it works more often than not to answer in the negative. No!
After arriving in Nanjing, we had our hotel address on a piece of paper (in pinyin only, unfortunately). We got in an unregulated taxi by accident and got ripped off. For the three of us, he charged ¥200 to take us to our hotel, which wasn’t that far away. However though, he helped us through our address dilemma, since it seems that most people in China don’t read pinyin (because they read the harder characters). He drove us to one hotel, where we asked concierge where our hotel was. They didn’t know the hotel’s name (it was a Holiday Inn, but no one calls it that because it has a Chinese name), so he said he would take me to the address. I said that was great. Later, looking at a map, the hotel was super close to one of the metro stops and we could have gotten there, had we planned better, for ¥2-4 each. Oh well. Lesson learned.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Phuket: Pad Thai and Elephants
As of late, I’ve had to focus my time and effort into my studies, so my blogging has unfortunately not been as frequent as I like. As a result, I’ve begun to fall behind again.
Now two weekends ago, we managed to make our way over to Phuket, Thailand (ภูเก็ต). The name isn’t pronounced as crudely as it looks. As I was enlightened, the “h” in Phuket (as well as in “Thai”) denotes aspiration, think puff of air, rather than an “f” (or “th”) sound in conjunction with the “p” (or “t”). As such the “Ph” at the beginning as “p” like at the beginning of the word “pin.” Glad we got that one straightened out.
Secondly, Phuket is an island, according to my research. Telling my friends though was an uphill battle, as I had to contend with faulty logic in convincing them—example of which include: “I don’t think it’s an island because I don’t think it’s an island;” “But there’s buses going to Phuket”—ever heard of bridges?; and my favorite, “It doesn’t look like it on the flight map”—well I’m sorry, but small islands aren’t worth drawing as separate from the mainland when covered by a dot and lines—does Singapore look like an island on the flight map? As I would later find out, that friend didn’t know Singapore’s land mass consists of one main island and a number of smaller ones. And Australia is smaller than China, but only by about two million square kilometers. Cool.
Well we landed after four hours of flying from Hong Kong (I remember five hours from Los Angeles to Washington, D.C.), and went through immigration. Like in Taiwan, the officers stapled our departure cards to our passports, but we went through without a hitch.
On the other side, I pointed out the stand of tourist maps saying “Welcome to Phuket Island” in English and when we went up to the taxi counter to get transportation to our hotel about an hour away at Patong Beach (หาดป่าตอง), there was a map clear as day showing the island formation. Without rubbing it too much into their faces, I gave them haughty looks for fun as they looked away in shame, realizing that their (faulty) logic had been to no avail.
We ended up in a minibus (smaller than Hong Kong minibuses) to Patong Beach and our lodging, the Patong Swiss Hotel. The whole ride was in the dark, but from what I could see (mostly buildings), it became obvious that we weren’t in China anymore. The funny thing was that this was the first time on the whole trip that we (myself included) had been outside Greater China. As I’ve just recently figured out, this was to be my last trip outside Greater China before going back to California.
The thing is, though, that despite the fact that we were in a foreign foreign country, there was more English on signs and in general than Thai (which by the way is quite aesthetically pleasing). Our minibus stopped midway at a storefront to collect our tickets, and after politely refusing their tours and excursions, I got back onto the bus.
Arriving at the Patong Swiss Hotel, I was exhausted. By this time, it was about 1:00 a.m. Hong Kong Time and about midnight local time. Ready to lie down, we checked in to find that they had given us just two beds for our five-person reservation. One person got sick though before the trip, so we arrived as four. So the first night we ended up sharing beds, though the next morning we were given two bigger rooms (and me my own bed). Like in Guilin, the showers were without curtains, which only meant to me that the cleaners would have more work (though I tried hard not to get water everywhere).
That first night, I studied for my Fine Arts final, which was to take place the day after we got back to Hong Kong. The rest of them went out exploring Patong Beach nightlife.
The first morning, I woke up in a rut. It was quite hot and humid (though admittedly not as bad as my first weeks in Hong Kong), and we had just come from sub-75 degree temperatures back in the SAR.
After getting ready, we went out the front door, and much to my amazement, the beach lay right across the (two-lane) street from the hotel. I hadn’t noticed it at all the night before! I guess I forgot that my friend booked us a beachfront hotel.
We walked a couple blocks along that street. What was expected were the large volumes of shops selling merchandise, particularly knock-off brands. What wasn’t expected was the large number of expats there—and I say expats rather than tourists because most men were hand in hand with Thai women (though I remain open to the interpretation that many of them could just be escort). It was odd to see such a large expat population, but on the other hand it wasn’t unreasonable since they, along with the large numbers of European and Australian tourists present, were the reason for all the English signage.
Walking by, the hawkers try to grab your attention—and they do it much better than in Mainland China and definitely better than in Hong Kong, where they don’t even attempt. There, they understood the value of the relationship in business. Rather than pulling you in by listing off their merchandise, they’d start by “Hello, where are you from?” or “My you’re handsome,” or something to that effect. I personally got a lot of “你好s.” One of my American friends who speaks Cantonese answered back: “I speak Cantonese” in English, to which I laughed.
We got breakfast at one of the many done-up venues. I got some authentic Pad Thai, which was delicious, and some (real?) Thai Tea, which tasted more like cold milk than anything else.
This is the only trip that I took this term that I didn’t really take to get any historical culture out of—no sightseeing, more fun I suppose (though I enjoy sightseeing).
So that day we actually got to ride (Asian) elephants. It cost ฿500 Thai Baht for a half hour (฿33 Baht = $1 USD), so that was like $15 USD. The experience wasn’t really like I’d imagined. I’ve ridden on horseback on multiple occasions (and my fair share of carnival ponies when I was under three feet tall), but never an elephant.
There was a platform to mount them that was a good ten feet in the air. Getting on was intimidating, as you were to step onto the elephant’s back to get into the seat secured on the elephant. The guide sat right behind its head, on its neck with his feet touching the elephant’s ears. To move left, the guide would shake the elephant’s left ear with his left foot, and to move right, the guide would shake the elephant’s right year with his right foot.
The whole thing made us feel oddly sad for the elephants, and remembering back the horses, I remember having similar sentiments, only to cast them off by saying that we aren’t the first to do this.
We were taking all over a muddy trail. The barefooted guide dismounted the elephant halfway and took pictures of us, this led the elephant back to the base with voice commands. At one point, the elephant began to make a wrong turn, and the guide hit its right leg hard with a sickle-looking rod, making a vicious sound and making us wonder what was going on.
I guess we couldn’t help but to feel sorry for the elephants. I guess you could hope that at least they are well taken care of and fed properly. As we dismounted the elephants, one put its trunk up on the platform. My friends petted it, thanking him (or her) for his (or her) service. I guess I was too busy taking photos, because as I reached my hand out after putting my camera away, it retracted its trunk and went on its way.
The rest of the day we went around the shops and played a modified (and more intense) form of Jenga at a bar. At night, we got Mexican food. Right after, I went back to the hotel to keep studying for my Asian Art History class.
Copyright © 2009 James Philip Jee
This work may not be reproduced by any means without express permission of the author.
Now two weekends ago, we managed to make our way over to Phuket, Thailand (ภูเก็ต). The name isn’t pronounced as crudely as it looks. As I was enlightened, the “h” in Phuket (as well as in “Thai”) denotes aspiration, think puff of air, rather than an “f” (or “th”) sound in conjunction with the “p” (or “t”). As such the “Ph” at the beginning as “p” like at the beginning of the word “pin.” Glad we got that one straightened out.
Secondly, Phuket is an island, according to my research. Telling my friends though was an uphill battle, as I had to contend with faulty logic in convincing them—example of which include: “I don’t think it’s an island because I don’t think it’s an island;” “But there’s buses going to Phuket”—ever heard of bridges?; and my favorite, “It doesn’t look like it on the flight map”—well I’m sorry, but small islands aren’t worth drawing as separate from the mainland when covered by a dot and lines—does Singapore look like an island on the flight map? As I would later find out, that friend didn’t know Singapore’s land mass consists of one main island and a number of smaller ones. And Australia is smaller than China, but only by about two million square kilometers. Cool.
Well we landed after four hours of flying from Hong Kong (I remember five hours from Los Angeles to Washington, D.C.), and went through immigration. Like in Taiwan, the officers stapled our departure cards to our passports, but we went through without a hitch.
On the other side, I pointed out the stand of tourist maps saying “Welcome to Phuket Island” in English and when we went up to the taxi counter to get transportation to our hotel about an hour away at Patong Beach (หาดป่าตอง), there was a map clear as day showing the island formation. Without rubbing it too much into their faces, I gave them haughty looks for fun as they looked away in shame, realizing that their (faulty) logic had been to no avail.
We ended up in a minibus (smaller than Hong Kong minibuses) to Patong Beach and our lodging, the Patong Swiss Hotel. The whole ride was in the dark, but from what I could see (mostly buildings), it became obvious that we weren’t in China anymore. The funny thing was that this was the first time on the whole trip that we (myself included) had been outside Greater China. As I’ve just recently figured out, this was to be my last trip outside Greater China before going back to California.
The thing is, though, that despite the fact that we were in a foreign foreign country, there was more English on signs and in general than Thai (which by the way is quite aesthetically pleasing). Our minibus stopped midway at a storefront to collect our tickets, and after politely refusing their tours and excursions, I got back onto the bus.
Arriving at the Patong Swiss Hotel, I was exhausted. By this time, it was about 1:00 a.m. Hong Kong Time and about midnight local time. Ready to lie down, we checked in to find that they had given us just two beds for our five-person reservation. One person got sick though before the trip, so we arrived as four. So the first night we ended up sharing beds, though the next morning we were given two bigger rooms (and me my own bed). Like in Guilin, the showers were without curtains, which only meant to me that the cleaners would have more work (though I tried hard not to get water everywhere).
That first night, I studied for my Fine Arts final, which was to take place the day after we got back to Hong Kong. The rest of them went out exploring Patong Beach nightlife.
The first morning, I woke up in a rut. It was quite hot and humid (though admittedly not as bad as my first weeks in Hong Kong), and we had just come from sub-75 degree temperatures back in the SAR.
After getting ready, we went out the front door, and much to my amazement, the beach lay right across the (two-lane) street from the hotel. I hadn’t noticed it at all the night before! I guess I forgot that my friend booked us a beachfront hotel.
We walked a couple blocks along that street. What was expected were the large volumes of shops selling merchandise, particularly knock-off brands. What wasn’t expected was the large number of expats there—and I say expats rather than tourists because most men were hand in hand with Thai women (though I remain open to the interpretation that many of them could just be escort). It was odd to see such a large expat population, but on the other hand it wasn’t unreasonable since they, along with the large numbers of European and Australian tourists present, were the reason for all the English signage.
Walking by, the hawkers try to grab your attention—and they do it much better than in Mainland China and definitely better than in Hong Kong, where they don’t even attempt. There, they understood the value of the relationship in business. Rather than pulling you in by listing off their merchandise, they’d start by “Hello, where are you from?” or “My you’re handsome,” or something to that effect. I personally got a lot of “你好s.” One of my American friends who speaks Cantonese answered back: “I speak Cantonese” in English, to which I laughed.
We got breakfast at one of the many done-up venues. I got some authentic Pad Thai, which was delicious, and some (real?) Thai Tea, which tasted more like cold milk than anything else.
This is the only trip that I took this term that I didn’t really take to get any historical culture out of—no sightseeing, more fun I suppose (though I enjoy sightseeing).
So that day we actually got to ride (Asian) elephants. It cost ฿500 Thai Baht for a half hour (฿33 Baht = $1 USD), so that was like $15 USD. The experience wasn’t really like I’d imagined. I’ve ridden on horseback on multiple occasions (and my fair share of carnival ponies when I was under three feet tall), but never an elephant.
There was a platform to mount them that was a good ten feet in the air. Getting on was intimidating, as you were to step onto the elephant’s back to get into the seat secured on the elephant. The guide sat right behind its head, on its neck with his feet touching the elephant’s ears. To move left, the guide would shake the elephant’s left ear with his left foot, and to move right, the guide would shake the elephant’s right year with his right foot.
The whole thing made us feel oddly sad for the elephants, and remembering back the horses, I remember having similar sentiments, only to cast them off by saying that we aren’t the first to do this.
We were taking all over a muddy trail. The barefooted guide dismounted the elephant halfway and took pictures of us, this led the elephant back to the base with voice commands. At one point, the elephant began to make a wrong turn, and the guide hit its right leg hard with a sickle-looking rod, making a vicious sound and making us wonder what was going on.
I guess we couldn’t help but to feel sorry for the elephants. I guess you could hope that at least they are well taken care of and fed properly. As we dismounted the elephants, one put its trunk up on the platform. My friends petted it, thanking him (or her) for his (or her) service. I guess I was too busy taking photos, because as I reached my hand out after putting my camera away, it retracted its trunk and went on its way.
The rest of the day we went around the shops and played a modified (and more intense) form of Jenga at a bar. At night, we got Mexican food. Right after, I went back to the hotel to keep studying for my Asian Art History class.
Copyright © 2009 James Philip Jee
This work may not be reproduced by any means without express permission of the author.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Guilin: Sleeper Trains and Airplanes
My latest journey started in Shenzhen, from where we were to catch the thirteen-hour sleeper train to Guilin. This was a Friday, as my plan was to arrive in Guilin on Saturday morning, spend the night, and then take the sleeper train back to Hong Kong via Shenzhen in time for Monday classes. Looking at Wikitravel, it looked like there was about enough in Guilin and vicinity to last for about two full days, though actually being there, it was obvious that this trip could have easily lasted for at least a week.
Like I said, it all started in Shenzhen, land of the Special Economic Zone. With this being my third time to China, I wasn't particularly thrilled about roaming about, but since the train was to leave at 5:25 p.m. and three of my friends had not yet seen Shenzhen, we decided to make Friday before the train a Shenzhen train trip.
Other factors made it desirable to see Shenzhen that day. I was lucky enough to be granted a multiple-entry Chinese visa (meaning I could enter China as many times as I want during my visa's validity for no more than 30 days per entry). I'm not sure whether it's because I've gotten a Chinese visa once before or they've got a soft spot for me because I'm ethnically Chinese, but many of my friends were only allowed to apply for double-entries. Since Shenzhen is Hong Kong's land gateway to Mainland China, it just made sense to see Shenzhen on the same entry as Guilin since they had limited entries.
That day was odd in a couple ways. First, I had never gone long-distance overnight on a train before in a foreign country. I've been on long-distance trains and I've been to foreign countries and I've been on long-distance trains in foreign countries, but never overnight. This teensy weensy fact that this journey was my first sleeper train ever in any part of the world created this sort of aura in my head.
What also made this journey special (and this first Shenzhen leg odd) was that there are certain unwritten stipulations in my study abroad experience set in place by my sponsors--my parents. I am to learn Cantonese to the extend that I can speak decently with my mother. I am to travel as much as especially to see places that I have not yet been too. I am to travel to Guilin, because it's beautiful and easier to get to from Hong Kong than from California. Besides, many a poet over China's several-thousand-year history has posed Guilin as China's national treasure (though not necessarily in those worlds).
So because of that, the day kind of floated by. To start, I forgot my Shenzhen map in my room so we had to get a new one (which wasn't nearly as good) when we got there. I'd only been to Shenzhen twice before this trip, but my natural sense of direction took over as my friends noticed I wasn't even looking at the signs when I went from one MTR line to another and another, and then through immigration, where I knew where the shortest immigration lines were and where to fill out the health forms to enter China, and to crook my neck to the side so they could take my temperature.
In Shenzhen, I took them to the same place that I had street food the time before. We found some good stuff, and I maintain that while I've had my fair share of complaints about not-so-good food at restaurants, I've never felt poorly about street food--plus it's way cheaper.
But before that, we went to two places. The better one (by far) was Lianhuashan (莲花山) Park, which was an easy walk from the current northern terminus of Shenzhen Metro Line 4. There we took a brief-but-enjoyable hike (which was worsened by the heat) to a lookout point. After breaking many points along the way, it probably took us half-an-hour to hike to the that lookout. It was (very recently) paved as an open space, with the late Chinese leader Deng Xiaoping (鄧小平) in the form of an impressive statue looking out at the same view as the people over Shenzhen.
The park was great, minus the speakers that kept counting in Mandarin. It sounded like commands in square-dancing songs, so we figured it must be to facilitate some sort of similar activity. It was nice to get a proper view over Shenzhen though, because down on the ground, it is not nearly as noticeable how developed Shenzhen is, especially if you live on Hong Kong Island, where grass gives way to a sea of skyscrapers.
But before that, we went to the Chinese Folk Cultural Village (中国民俗文化村), which was meant as a showcase for China's fifty-five minority ethnic groups. While interesting as a concept, the way the park was laid out and the fact that the concept is never fully explained to foreign tourists who know little about China's ethnic groups, combined with the price of entry, we probably could have done without it.
As we finished up with our Shenzhen day trip, we made a run from street food to the train station, arriving just fifteen minutes before departure, physically getting onto the train just five minutes before it left the station. The pictures in later posts don't really show the conditions of the sleeper trains. There was nothing wrong with them, but they are very old style and according to what I've read, the trains being put on China's new high-speed rail network are a lot more modern.
I got the hard-sleeper class, as did all but one of my friends, who got a soft sleeper (for nearly double the price) because he got his ticket later than the rest of us. In the hard-sleeper compartments, there were six beds total, with three stacked above each other on each side, illustriously named top, middle, and bottom (上,中,下) on our tickets. The beds appeared clean and we were given linens to stay warm. Though I didn't see it first-hand, I was told that the soft-sleeper compartments had four beds--two on each side--and were equipped with doors that closed. The floor was not so clean though, and when walking from one train car to another, you could see the grime originating from the bathrooms (with pooper stooper toilets). On the bright side, I didn't get sick off of this trip.
The duration was something I was afraid I wasn't going to deal with well, actually. My flight to Hong Kong from Los Angeles happened also to be thirteen to fourteen hours long, and by the time that plane was about to land, I was more than ready to just get off already. However, this trip was quite bearable. For a few hours, I wrote blog posts on my computer while on my bed. (I only brought my computer because I put myself under the impression that I was going to study in some fashion while in Guilin.)
The hours following, the group socialized in the diner car of the train as we winded down for the coming day. Getting to bed a bit before 11:00 p.m., we were due to wake up before the train was to arrive at Guilin at 6:42 a.m. the next day. So we tucked ourselves in and right as we went to sleep, I saw one of the train attendants with a flashlight crouching in our compartment neatly moving our shoes to one side.
After the constant clunking of the wheels on the tracks (especially since I was in the bottom bunk), we woke up at 6:15 a.m. to find the train going seemingly in the opposite direction. While one of my friends thought that we'd missed our stop and were heading back, I assured them all that trains work by turning around at terminal stations, giving the illusion that you're then going in the wrong direction. (Newbs!)
The train screeched to a halt at around 7:00 a.m. and we, in all our lethargic glory stumbled off the train and into Guangxi Zhang Autonomous Region (province equivalent).
To skip all the meat of the story, I'm going to continue by going back to Hong Kong, leaving you watering at the mouth for my favorite trip so far, Guilin.
Sunday night, I found myself in a different train car than the others because of a possible mistake when we bought our train tickets in Shenzhen. It wasn't a big deal though, as the main objective was just to get back to Hong Kong, hopefully in time for my 2:00 p.m. class (as my 9:30 a.m. class was canceled that week). As expected, the train was just like the last with pretty much the same exact ammenities.
That night, I read for a while before going to sleep, and waking up well before when the train was supposed to arrive at 10:30 a.m. (though it arrived closer to 11:30), I did my Cantonese homework. Starving and knowing I wasn't going to get the opportunity to eat before 5:00 p.m., I heard the train attendant selling Guilin noodles (桂林米粉) passing by. I bought it, and though it wasn't nearly as good as what I actually had twice in Guilin, it was fulfilling. I ate with ease as I convinced myself that it had been boiled at some point, because by the time I'd gotten it, it was a bit hotter than lukewarm.
Needless to say, I got to class on time and in one piece, though I actually got lost trying to find the immigration counters getting back into Hong Kong. I blame the signs.
Not yet have I have I ever been late, much less absent from a lecture or a tutorial here at the University of Hong Kong.
Copyright © 2009 James Philip Jee
This work may not be reproduced by any means without express permission of the author.
Like I said, it all started in Shenzhen, land of the Special Economic Zone. With this being my third time to China, I wasn't particularly thrilled about roaming about, but since the train was to leave at 5:25 p.m. and three of my friends had not yet seen Shenzhen, we decided to make Friday before the train a Shenzhen train trip.
Other factors made it desirable to see Shenzhen that day. I was lucky enough to be granted a multiple-entry Chinese visa (meaning I could enter China as many times as I want during my visa's validity for no more than 30 days per entry). I'm not sure whether it's because I've gotten a Chinese visa once before or they've got a soft spot for me because I'm ethnically Chinese, but many of my friends were only allowed to apply for double-entries. Since Shenzhen is Hong Kong's land gateway to Mainland China, it just made sense to see Shenzhen on the same entry as Guilin since they had limited entries.
That day was odd in a couple ways. First, I had never gone long-distance overnight on a train before in a foreign country. I've been on long-distance trains and I've been to foreign countries and I've been on long-distance trains in foreign countries, but never overnight. This teensy weensy fact that this journey was my first sleeper train ever in any part of the world created this sort of aura in my head.
What also made this journey special (and this first Shenzhen leg odd) was that there are certain unwritten stipulations in my study abroad experience set in place by my sponsors--my parents. I am to learn Cantonese to the extend that I can speak decently with my mother. I am to travel as much as especially to see places that I have not yet been too. I am to travel to Guilin, because it's beautiful and easier to get to from Hong Kong than from California. Besides, many a poet over China's several-thousand-year history has posed Guilin as China's national treasure (though not necessarily in those worlds).
So because of that, the day kind of floated by. To start, I forgot my Shenzhen map in my room so we had to get a new one (which wasn't nearly as good) when we got there. I'd only been to Shenzhen twice before this trip, but my natural sense of direction took over as my friends noticed I wasn't even looking at the signs when I went from one MTR line to another and another, and then through immigration, where I knew where the shortest immigration lines were and where to fill out the health forms to enter China, and to crook my neck to the side so they could take my temperature.
In Shenzhen, I took them to the same place that I had street food the time before. We found some good stuff, and I maintain that while I've had my fair share of complaints about not-so-good food at restaurants, I've never felt poorly about street food--plus it's way cheaper.
But before that, we went to two places. The better one (by far) was Lianhuashan (莲花山) Park, which was an easy walk from the current northern terminus of Shenzhen Metro Line 4. There we took a brief-but-enjoyable hike (which was worsened by the heat) to a lookout point. After breaking many points along the way, it probably took us half-an-hour to hike to the that lookout. It was (very recently) paved as an open space, with the late Chinese leader Deng Xiaoping (鄧小平) in the form of an impressive statue looking out at the same view as the people over Shenzhen.
The park was great, minus the speakers that kept counting in Mandarin. It sounded like commands in square-dancing songs, so we figured it must be to facilitate some sort of similar activity. It was nice to get a proper view over Shenzhen though, because down on the ground, it is not nearly as noticeable how developed Shenzhen is, especially if you live on Hong Kong Island, where grass gives way to a sea of skyscrapers.
But before that, we went to the Chinese Folk Cultural Village (中国民俗文化村), which was meant as a showcase for China's fifty-five minority ethnic groups. While interesting as a concept, the way the park was laid out and the fact that the concept is never fully explained to foreign tourists who know little about China's ethnic groups, combined with the price of entry, we probably could have done without it.
As we finished up with our Shenzhen day trip, we made a run from street food to the train station, arriving just fifteen minutes before departure, physically getting onto the train just five minutes before it left the station. The pictures in later posts don't really show the conditions of the sleeper trains. There was nothing wrong with them, but they are very old style and according to what I've read, the trains being put on China's new high-speed rail network are a lot more modern.
I got the hard-sleeper class, as did all but one of my friends, who got a soft sleeper (for nearly double the price) because he got his ticket later than the rest of us. In the hard-sleeper compartments, there were six beds total, with three stacked above each other on each side, illustriously named top, middle, and bottom (上,中,下) on our tickets. The beds appeared clean and we were given linens to stay warm. Though I didn't see it first-hand, I was told that the soft-sleeper compartments had four beds--two on each side--and were equipped with doors that closed. The floor was not so clean though, and when walking from one train car to another, you could see the grime originating from the bathrooms (with pooper stooper toilets). On the bright side, I didn't get sick off of this trip.
The duration was something I was afraid I wasn't going to deal with well, actually. My flight to Hong Kong from Los Angeles happened also to be thirteen to fourteen hours long, and by the time that plane was about to land, I was more than ready to just get off already. However, this trip was quite bearable. For a few hours, I wrote blog posts on my computer while on my bed. (I only brought my computer because I put myself under the impression that I was going to study in some fashion while in Guilin.)
The hours following, the group socialized in the diner car of the train as we winded down for the coming day. Getting to bed a bit before 11:00 p.m., we were due to wake up before the train was to arrive at Guilin at 6:42 a.m. the next day. So we tucked ourselves in and right as we went to sleep, I saw one of the train attendants with a flashlight crouching in our compartment neatly moving our shoes to one side.
After the constant clunking of the wheels on the tracks (especially since I was in the bottom bunk), we woke up at 6:15 a.m. to find the train going seemingly in the opposite direction. While one of my friends thought that we'd missed our stop and were heading back, I assured them all that trains work by turning around at terminal stations, giving the illusion that you're then going in the wrong direction. (Newbs!)
The train screeched to a halt at around 7:00 a.m. and we, in all our lethargic glory stumbled off the train and into Guangxi Zhang Autonomous Region (province equivalent).
To skip all the meat of the story, I'm going to continue by going back to Hong Kong, leaving you watering at the mouth for my favorite trip so far, Guilin.
Sunday night, I found myself in a different train car than the others because of a possible mistake when we bought our train tickets in Shenzhen. It wasn't a big deal though, as the main objective was just to get back to Hong Kong, hopefully in time for my 2:00 p.m. class (as my 9:30 a.m. class was canceled that week). As expected, the train was just like the last with pretty much the same exact ammenities.
That night, I read for a while before going to sleep, and waking up well before when the train was supposed to arrive at 10:30 a.m. (though it arrived closer to 11:30), I did my Cantonese homework. Starving and knowing I wasn't going to get the opportunity to eat before 5:00 p.m., I heard the train attendant selling Guilin noodles (桂林米粉) passing by. I bought it, and though it wasn't nearly as good as what I actually had twice in Guilin, it was fulfilling. I ate with ease as I convinced myself that it had been boiled at some point, because by the time I'd gotten it, it was a bit hotter than lukewarm.
Needless to say, I got to class on time and in one piece, though I actually got lost trying to find the immigration counters getting back into Hong Kong. I blame the signs.
Not yet have I have I ever been late, much less absent from a lecture or a tutorial here at the University of Hong Kong.
Copyright © 2009 James Philip Jee
This work may not be reproduced by any means without express permission of the author.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Taipei: Monuments and Memorials
Friday, we saw stuff on the north side of Taipei; Saturday was for the south side.
We started out walking to the MRT station again and worked our way over to the Presidential Palace. The nearest station was at Red House West Gate (which has a much different name in Chinese than in English). The building itself was not eventful. The shell housed a restaurant and a small exhibit on the building’s history accompanied by a bookstore.
From there we walked to the Presidential Office, which took a leisurely ten minutes by foot. We approached the backside of the building and noticed all the guards around the building were armed with automatics (they looked like AK-47s). On the front side, we took pictures. The layout was quite western I now realized because a large road goes right to the front of the building and Ts off in an intersection. In comparison, the Forbidden City in Beijing is surrounded by water and is flanked with lakes on its west side. At its front gate sits Tiananmen Square, and not a major road.
From there we went to the Chiang Kai-shek Memorial. Though by this time it was absolutely pouring, approaching the memorial from the front and seeing the iconic blue-roofed building at the back was breathtaking; it was one of the few monuments that amazed me by its sheer size and imposition. Dodging the rain, we went to the National Theater and Concert Hall, which was halfway to the memorial itself.
At the base of the memorial, we ascended the steps and saw Chiang Kai-shek’s statue. Before seeing it, I’d imagined it would be something like Abraham Lincoln’s memorial in Washington, D.C.—and for the most part, it really was. There was some writing on the walls (headed by “Ethics,” “Democracy,” and “Science”) and the white sun in the “rotunda” area.
On the ground floor of the memorial with its entrance on either side, was a museum including little about Chiang Kai-shek. Instead, there was a ceramics exhibit and a contemporary calligraphy exhibit (in which you signed the visitor log with a brush—though I had a bit of training on the matter, my (Chinese) name turned out pretty bad). Exiting, there was a post office from which I sent off a postcard back to the United States.
From there, we took the MRT to another cluster of sites. We got out looking at the Sun Yat-sen Memorial. It was a yellow-roofed building that impressed much less than Chang Kai-shek’s. That day, there was an exhibition, probably interactive, for children, and as such there were tons of families with young children crowding the halls.
After taking photos in front of it, we walked a few city blocks to Taipei 101. Along the way, there was a fair-type setup in front of Taipei City Hall that we got snacks at. The setup also contained plenty of advertisers as well as a stage being used by advertisers to showcase their products.
On a side note, I’d like to expose the partial lack of common sense of my traveling buddies for this trip. Taipei 101 stands at one hundred one stories tall. From our hotel, Taipei 101 stood at the southeast, whereas our window looked to the southwest. At night, they insisted they could see Taipei 101 out the window. The logic behind this was that the building was pink at night and that Taipei 101 was the only skyscraper in Taipei. My reasoning for it not being Taipei 101 was that it was noticeably shorter than one hundred one stories and bore little resemblance to Taipei 101 (namely they both are smaller at the very top than at the bottom and they are both skyscrapers). In addition, the direction was totally wrong. That building turned out to be Shin Kong Life Tower, and ever after we referred to it as “Fake Taipei 101.”
Walking towards skyscrapers I guess is like walking towards a mountain—it just gets more imposing. At 1,474 feet from ground to roof (and its namesake one hundred one floors), it stood until just recently as the tallest building in the world. The bottom several floors are mall space, with the rest being standard skyscraper office space. Trying to find the elevator to the observation deck, we got lost going through the mall (designed in a more western style with a modern and confusing layout).
Finally we found the express elevator to the top on the fifth floor. The twin elevators, costing $2.4 million USD each, propel passengers up to the observation deck in around thirty seconds and descend back down in a little bit more time. In the elevator, the lights dimmed to a futuristic LED light experience conducted to distract the crowd from the fact that they were squished into the tight space like sardines.
At the top, the view was amazing. The elevator ticket came with an audio guide (I asked in Chinese for mine in English) explaining was being seen, which was basically most of Taipei. Going through the path set up, we saw the damper, which is basically a big ball in the center of the building used to stabilize the building during storms and such. There was an upper viewing floor and a lower viewing floor.
Also on the lower viewing floor was a coral art exhibition followed by coral art vending shops, which we quickly slipped by. At ground level, there was a free shuttle bus (which happened to literally be one bus) to the neared MRT station. Light turned to dark waiting and we ended that day in the hotel, ready to go back home in the evening the next day.
Early the next morning, we went to the central station (appropriately named Taipei Station) to buy High-Speed Rail tickets as part of the journey to get to the airport. After doing that, we ventured over to the Miramar Entertainment Complex and decided to ride on the Ferris wheel, since the area turned out be no more than cheapish shopping. The views from it were okay, though definitely not as good as those from Taipei 101. After having our final lunch in Taipei, we headed back to the central station to catch our train to Taoyuan.
I’d been on trains and high-speed rail before, but my fellow travelers had not. One expected to be pushed against the back of his seat by the shear physics of traveling at high speeds (a fact, which, if true, would render airplanes illogical). The entire high-speed rail line cost a bundle to build for such a moderately populated island, but from what I’ve read the venture has been a success. It took 20 minutes to make the journey to Taoyuan (where Taipei’s international airport is) and two hours to get all the way to the last station three hundred thirty-five kilometers away at Kaohsiung.
From the train station we took a short bus ride to the airport in which we arrived. As airports go, it was as dingy as Los Angeles International Airport, and super empty, which made it creepy to walk around while waiting for our flight. The time to leave though came eventually. Before going through exit immigration, we removed the staples in our passports ourselves so that the immigration officers wouldn’t tear pages or what have you.
In case you weren’t clued in, this post ends my trip in Taipei. Two weeks later (from which I just got back from yesterday) was Guilin. Stay tuned and thanks for reading!
Copyright © 2009 James Philip Jee
This work may not be reproduced by any means without express permission of the author.
We started out walking to the MRT station again and worked our way over to the Presidential Palace. The nearest station was at Red House West Gate (which has a much different name in Chinese than in English). The building itself was not eventful. The shell housed a restaurant and a small exhibit on the building’s history accompanied by a bookstore.
From there we walked to the Presidential Office, which took a leisurely ten minutes by foot. We approached the backside of the building and noticed all the guards around the building were armed with automatics (they looked like AK-47s). On the front side, we took pictures. The layout was quite western I now realized because a large road goes right to the front of the building and Ts off in an intersection. In comparison, the Forbidden City in Beijing is surrounded by water and is flanked with lakes on its west side. At its front gate sits Tiananmen Square, and not a major road.
From there we went to the Chiang Kai-shek Memorial. Though by this time it was absolutely pouring, approaching the memorial from the front and seeing the iconic blue-roofed building at the back was breathtaking; it was one of the few monuments that amazed me by its sheer size and imposition. Dodging the rain, we went to the National Theater and Concert Hall, which was halfway to the memorial itself.
At the base of the memorial, we ascended the steps and saw Chiang Kai-shek’s statue. Before seeing it, I’d imagined it would be something like Abraham Lincoln’s memorial in Washington, D.C.—and for the most part, it really was. There was some writing on the walls (headed by “Ethics,” “Democracy,” and “Science”) and the white sun in the “rotunda” area.
On the ground floor of the memorial with its entrance on either side, was a museum including little about Chiang Kai-shek. Instead, there was a ceramics exhibit and a contemporary calligraphy exhibit (in which you signed the visitor log with a brush—though I had a bit of training on the matter, my (Chinese) name turned out pretty bad). Exiting, there was a post office from which I sent off a postcard back to the United States.
From there, we took the MRT to another cluster of sites. We got out looking at the Sun Yat-sen Memorial. It was a yellow-roofed building that impressed much less than Chang Kai-shek’s. That day, there was an exhibition, probably interactive, for children, and as such there were tons of families with young children crowding the halls.
After taking photos in front of it, we walked a few city blocks to Taipei 101. Along the way, there was a fair-type setup in front of Taipei City Hall that we got snacks at. The setup also contained plenty of advertisers as well as a stage being used by advertisers to showcase their products.
On a side note, I’d like to expose the partial lack of common sense of my traveling buddies for this trip. Taipei 101 stands at one hundred one stories tall. From our hotel, Taipei 101 stood at the southeast, whereas our window looked to the southwest. At night, they insisted they could see Taipei 101 out the window. The logic behind this was that the building was pink at night and that Taipei 101 was the only skyscraper in Taipei. My reasoning for it not being Taipei 101 was that it was noticeably shorter than one hundred one stories and bore little resemblance to Taipei 101 (namely they both are smaller at the very top than at the bottom and they are both skyscrapers). In addition, the direction was totally wrong. That building turned out to be Shin Kong Life Tower, and ever after we referred to it as “Fake Taipei 101.”
Walking towards skyscrapers I guess is like walking towards a mountain—it just gets more imposing. At 1,474 feet from ground to roof (and its namesake one hundred one floors), it stood until just recently as the tallest building in the world. The bottom several floors are mall space, with the rest being standard skyscraper office space. Trying to find the elevator to the observation deck, we got lost going through the mall (designed in a more western style with a modern and confusing layout).
Finally we found the express elevator to the top on the fifth floor. The twin elevators, costing $2.4 million USD each, propel passengers up to the observation deck in around thirty seconds and descend back down in a little bit more time. In the elevator, the lights dimmed to a futuristic LED light experience conducted to distract the crowd from the fact that they were squished into the tight space like sardines.
At the top, the view was amazing. The elevator ticket came with an audio guide (I asked in Chinese for mine in English) explaining was being seen, which was basically most of Taipei. Going through the path set up, we saw the damper, which is basically a big ball in the center of the building used to stabilize the building during storms and such. There was an upper viewing floor and a lower viewing floor.
Also on the lower viewing floor was a coral art exhibition followed by coral art vending shops, which we quickly slipped by. At ground level, there was a free shuttle bus (which happened to literally be one bus) to the neared MRT station. Light turned to dark waiting and we ended that day in the hotel, ready to go back home in the evening the next day.
Early the next morning, we went to the central station (appropriately named Taipei Station) to buy High-Speed Rail tickets as part of the journey to get to the airport. After doing that, we ventured over to the Miramar Entertainment Complex and decided to ride on the Ferris wheel, since the area turned out be no more than cheapish shopping. The views from it were okay, though definitely not as good as those from Taipei 101. After having our final lunch in Taipei, we headed back to the central station to catch our train to Taoyuan.
I’d been on trains and high-speed rail before, but my fellow travelers had not. One expected to be pushed against the back of his seat by the shear physics of traveling at high speeds (a fact, which, if true, would render airplanes illogical). The entire high-speed rail line cost a bundle to build for such a moderately populated island, but from what I’ve read the venture has been a success. It took 20 minutes to make the journey to Taoyuan (where Taipei’s international airport is) and two hours to get all the way to the last station three hundred thirty-five kilometers away at Kaohsiung.
From the train station we took a short bus ride to the airport in which we arrived. As airports go, it was as dingy as Los Angeles International Airport, and super empty, which made it creepy to walk around while waiting for our flight. The time to leave though came eventually. Before going through exit immigration, we removed the staples in our passports ourselves so that the immigration officers wouldn’t tear pages or what have you.
In case you weren’t clued in, this post ends my trip in Taipei. Two weeks later (from which I just got back from yesterday) was Guilin. Stay tuned and thanks for reading!
Copyright © 2009 James Philip Jee
This work may not be reproduced by any means without express permission of the author.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Taipei: The Republic of China
A week and a half after I got back from Beijing, some of us jetted off to Taipei for a three-night weekend trip. It was honestly a spur-of-the-moment trip, as we planned and booked the trip all of about four days before we left. Leaving on Thursday night, we picked up our itinerary on Wednesday morning and checked in for the flight on Wednesday night via the very convenient Airport Express Station in Central.
The reason why we had to check in so early was that I needed to make it to my last class on Thursday (Cantonese) to make a presentation. It ended at 5:00 p.m., and with the flight leaving at 8:55 p.m., I felt pressed for time. Back home, the main international flights leave Los Angeles International Airport. You leave super early because there is no subway/light rail system to get you there efficiently from my suburb, so you have to drive—and since everyone drives, you get stuck in traffic. Depending on your route there, you either go along the Pacific Coast Highway and hit traffic lights or you go on the 101 and 405 (which happens to be “at capacity” a.k.a. congested for fifteen hours of the day). On top of that, with such high security at airports, it’s not uncommon to wait for an hour to get into the terminal.
It’s different at Hong Kong. First off, there are airport buses going everywhere in the territory. The one from my dorm takes about an hour and costs half of what the Airport Express does ($48 HKD vs. $100), and after you take a bus to get to Central, which is where you’d pick up the Airport Express from, you’ve already lost half an hour, which is followed by the much-advertised 24-minuted train ride to the airport that would take 24 minutes if you didn’t have to wait so long for it to depart. So thinking time was in a crunch, since I had four hours to get to the airport, go through immigration, customs, and security, I opted for the Airport Express. It took me about an hour total to get there, and forgetting how efficient Hong Kong International Airport is in comparison to Los Angeles International Airport, I got through security in five minutes and immigration in four, not to mention that I forgot that Hong Kong doesn’t have exit customs (because I remembered China does). Basically, I ended up rushing to the airport, and after everything was all said and done, I waited two and a half hours for the airplane to leave. But enough about that…
Honestly, when I came to Hong Kong I never thought I would visit Taiwan. I remember looking out the airplane window when we flew over a corner of the island, never thinking for a second that I’d get my way over there before the semester was out. Lo and behold I did.
Taiwan holds a funny place in my mind. Partially because of my upbringing, I’m of the One China mentality—that is that there is one China (which includes Taiwan), which is the standpoint for any state that hopes to have relations with the big China. Before I get in trouble with some of my separatist friends back home, just read this post out. So in off-the-record contexts, I would likely suggest that Taiwan is a part of China, though I realize that in practice it is not.
After landing in Taipei Taoyuan International Airport after a one-and-a-half hour flight, we stepped of the plane. Officially the Republic of China (with China being the People’s Republic of China), immigration put a nice ROC stamp on our passports. The entry card was carbon-copied to a departure card, the latter of which was stapled into our passports. One of my friends drew political swords when his passport was stapled right through his Chinese visa.
Walking through their capital’s international airport, it seemed dark and dingy, which, while not speaking to the vibrancy of their city, did not bode well for first impressions. It seemed like this airport, which was built in the 1960s, was thought of as a temporary venue until the Nationalist government could return to Beijing. This sense of temporary placement seemed to follow me through Taipei. Having been mostly developed in the 1960s, it seems like everything was a little too new and that things weren’t built to last. Chiang Kai-shek, leader of the Nationalist when they were exiled, is not even interred; his body is in an above-ground casket, ready to be transported back to his proper burial space in Mainland China “when” the Nationalists capture back all of China.
Another thing that I reminded myself of was that more than a handful of my friends back home are on the Taiwan side of the cross-strait relations, which, while having warmed up lately, are still unstable at the core and in principle, which either party claiming the entirety of the other’s controlled territory. Many of my friends spend their summers there in Taipei and say that they are not (ethnically) Chinese but Taiwanese because they aren’t communist. Fine, but when I told them about Taiwanese aboriginals, they said that they weren’t that either. It seems they’ve lost the fact that Taipei looks very similar to Mainland China and that they speak the same “national” language, not to mention Taiwanese is mutually intelligible with the Fujian dialect of Chinese on the mainland.
That’s fine and all. We weren’t there anyways to talk politics.
Like my serial about Beijing, I have two more text posts about Taipei and two photograph posts. As for now, I need to call the United States consulate and see about getting refill pages in my passport.
More to come.
Copyright © 2009 James Philip Jee
This work may not be reproduced by any means without express permission of the author.
The reason why we had to check in so early was that I needed to make it to my last class on Thursday (Cantonese) to make a presentation. It ended at 5:00 p.m., and with the flight leaving at 8:55 p.m., I felt pressed for time. Back home, the main international flights leave Los Angeles International Airport. You leave super early because there is no subway/light rail system to get you there efficiently from my suburb, so you have to drive—and since everyone drives, you get stuck in traffic. Depending on your route there, you either go along the Pacific Coast Highway and hit traffic lights or you go on the 101 and 405 (which happens to be “at capacity” a.k.a. congested for fifteen hours of the day). On top of that, with such high security at airports, it’s not uncommon to wait for an hour to get into the terminal.
It’s different at Hong Kong. First off, there are airport buses going everywhere in the territory. The one from my dorm takes about an hour and costs half of what the Airport Express does ($48 HKD vs. $100), and after you take a bus to get to Central, which is where you’d pick up the Airport Express from, you’ve already lost half an hour, which is followed by the much-advertised 24-minuted train ride to the airport that would take 24 minutes if you didn’t have to wait so long for it to depart. So thinking time was in a crunch, since I had four hours to get to the airport, go through immigration, customs, and security, I opted for the Airport Express. It took me about an hour total to get there, and forgetting how efficient Hong Kong International Airport is in comparison to Los Angeles International Airport, I got through security in five minutes and immigration in four, not to mention that I forgot that Hong Kong doesn’t have exit customs (because I remembered China does). Basically, I ended up rushing to the airport, and after everything was all said and done, I waited two and a half hours for the airplane to leave. But enough about that…
Honestly, when I came to Hong Kong I never thought I would visit Taiwan. I remember looking out the airplane window when we flew over a corner of the island, never thinking for a second that I’d get my way over there before the semester was out. Lo and behold I did.
Taiwan holds a funny place in my mind. Partially because of my upbringing, I’m of the One China mentality—that is that there is one China (which includes Taiwan), which is the standpoint for any state that hopes to have relations with the big China. Before I get in trouble with some of my separatist friends back home, just read this post out. So in off-the-record contexts, I would likely suggest that Taiwan is a part of China, though I realize that in practice it is not.
After landing in Taipei Taoyuan International Airport after a one-and-a-half hour flight, we stepped of the plane. Officially the Republic of China (with China being the People’s Republic of China), immigration put a nice ROC stamp on our passports. The entry card was carbon-copied to a departure card, the latter of which was stapled into our passports. One of my friends drew political swords when his passport was stapled right through his Chinese visa.
Walking through their capital’s international airport, it seemed dark and dingy, which, while not speaking to the vibrancy of their city, did not bode well for first impressions. It seemed like this airport, which was built in the 1960s, was thought of as a temporary venue until the Nationalist government could return to Beijing. This sense of temporary placement seemed to follow me through Taipei. Having been mostly developed in the 1960s, it seems like everything was a little too new and that things weren’t built to last. Chiang Kai-shek, leader of the Nationalist when they were exiled, is not even interred; his body is in an above-ground casket, ready to be transported back to his proper burial space in Mainland China “when” the Nationalists capture back all of China.
Another thing that I reminded myself of was that more than a handful of my friends back home are on the Taiwan side of the cross-strait relations, which, while having warmed up lately, are still unstable at the core and in principle, which either party claiming the entirety of the other’s controlled territory. Many of my friends spend their summers there in Taipei and say that they are not (ethnically) Chinese but Taiwanese because they aren’t communist. Fine, but when I told them about Taiwanese aboriginals, they said that they weren’t that either. It seems they’ve lost the fact that Taipei looks very similar to Mainland China and that they speak the same “national” language, not to mention Taiwanese is mutually intelligible with the Fujian dialect of Chinese on the mainland.
That’s fine and all. We weren’t there anyways to talk politics.
Like my serial about Beijing, I have two more text posts about Taipei and two photograph posts. As for now, I need to call the United States consulate and see about getting refill pages in my passport.
More to come.
Copyright © 2009 James Philip Jee
This work may not be reproduced by any means without express permission of the author.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Welcome to Hong Kong
I am so utterly confused.
When I landed on Friday, August 21, I just wanted to get to my dorm as quickly as possible. From the airplane Hong Kong looked beautiful, and from the ground it still does. I took the airplane express train to Central Hong Kong, where the taxi pick up area was located underground.
I waited there for half an hour as the taxis slowly came and went. In the meantime, I began sweating up a storm as I realized how humid it really was. Even inside the stations, which I believe were somewhat air-conditioned, I was a precipitating mess carrying around my bags. I just wanted to get to my hall.
Just about 20 hours before then, my parents dropped me off in the airport. We didn’t weigh my one suitcase, so my dad brought an extra duffle bag in case I needed to repack to avoid the $150 over-weight fee. I could bring up to two pieces of luggage weighing less than 50 pounds each, but not one weighing up to 100 pounds. It turned out that my suitcase weighed almost eighty pounds, so it was good my dad brought the extra bag.
Security was on high alert that day, so I had to wait through winding Disneyland-style lines with the other travelers trying to get into the terminal. Before then I said my goodbyes to my parents, and then I was alone and off on my way. The next time I would see home or my immediate family would be in December.
Finally my taxi came up to the gate. I entered after my bags were in the trunk and we were off. He asked where I was headed in Cantonese. I replied “6 Sasoon Road, the University of Hong Kong.” Unfortunately, I mispronounced “Sasoon,” which I said with an “oo” like “moon” as I was taught. However, as Anglicization is an aid more than a solution, the way the “oo” of “Sasoon” is pronounced is closer to the French “u” as in “tu.”
So he misunderstood me. I ended up showing him the cheat card that the university provided me with that explicitly said, “Please take me to the following hall at the University of Hong Kong at 6 Sasoon Road: Lee Hysan.”
Then he was like, “Oh Sas[French “u”]n Road!” As we emerged from the underground pick-up place, I couldn’t help but notice the roads sprawling upwards, the streets visibly twisting back and forth among themselves—and it wasn’t even a freeway. These flights of roads gave me the impression that most of Hong Kong Island was like that, and I quickly became hesitant to go exploring the city by myself. Now most people tell me I have a good sense of direction, but this sight just intimidated the hell out of me and at that point I just wanted to sleep.
We drove from the downtown district up and around the west side of the island, into Pok Fu Lam District where I couldn’t help but noticing the propensity of Hong Kongers to finish their buildings in tile. While not really noticeable in pictures, most residential buildings are covered in small ceramic tile squares of varying colors.
As we approached my hall I was shocked. I was still in a surreal mind state, but the hall was nothing like what I expected. The turn-around driveway was partially under construction and all the buildings surrounded it had bamboo-constructed scaffolding and green covering.
I walked in and found an unexpected language barrier with the woman who was helping me check in. I was under the impression that since classes were held in English, most of the staff would be competent as well. Well there’s an expectation thrown out the window.
I went up to my room on the fourteenth floor, which has great views (albeit covered by green mesh netting) of the west entrance to Victoria Harbor. I also found a couple hall mates to introduce myself to. One was really nice and one was really not so nice (like students elsewhere).
That night, I finished up by calling my mother (at 6 a.m. pacific daylight time) and my HKU exchange buddy, who offered me a tour of campus the day after I arrived. The first picked up, relieved that I had gotten there on time and safely (as there is only one SFO-HKG flight a day and my flight to SFO from LAX was delayed by almost two hours). The latter didn’t pick up, but as I will explain, I still got my tour later.
That night—no air conditioning, fully humid with just a fan and five open windows—I went to sleep, apprehensive about what was to come. My thoughts drifted on, as always.
Lesson learned—pronouncing Anglicized Hong Kong names and places with an American accent won’t get me very far.
Welcome to Hong Kong, James.
When I landed on Friday, August 21, I just wanted to get to my dorm as quickly as possible. From the airplane Hong Kong looked beautiful, and from the ground it still does. I took the airplane express train to Central Hong Kong, where the taxi pick up area was located underground.
I waited there for half an hour as the taxis slowly came and went. In the meantime, I began sweating up a storm as I realized how humid it really was. Even inside the stations, which I believe were somewhat air-conditioned, I was a precipitating mess carrying around my bags. I just wanted to get to my hall.
Just about 20 hours before then, my parents dropped me off in the airport. We didn’t weigh my one suitcase, so my dad brought an extra duffle bag in case I needed to repack to avoid the $150 over-weight fee. I could bring up to two pieces of luggage weighing less than 50 pounds each, but not one weighing up to 100 pounds. It turned out that my suitcase weighed almost eighty pounds, so it was good my dad brought the extra bag.
Security was on high alert that day, so I had to wait through winding Disneyland-style lines with the other travelers trying to get into the terminal. Before then I said my goodbyes to my parents, and then I was alone and off on my way. The next time I would see home or my immediate family would be in December.
Finally my taxi came up to the gate. I entered after my bags were in the trunk and we were off. He asked where I was headed in Cantonese. I replied “6 Sasoon Road, the University of Hong Kong.” Unfortunately, I mispronounced “Sasoon,” which I said with an “oo” like “moon” as I was taught. However, as Anglicization is an aid more than a solution, the way the “oo” of “Sasoon” is pronounced is closer to the French “u” as in “tu.”
So he misunderstood me. I ended up showing him the cheat card that the university provided me with that explicitly said, “Please take me to the following hall at the University of Hong Kong at 6 Sasoon Road: Lee Hysan.”
Then he was like, “Oh Sas[French “u”]n Road!” As we emerged from the underground pick-up place, I couldn’t help but notice the roads sprawling upwards, the streets visibly twisting back and forth among themselves—and it wasn’t even a freeway. These flights of roads gave me the impression that most of Hong Kong Island was like that, and I quickly became hesitant to go exploring the city by myself. Now most people tell me I have a good sense of direction, but this sight just intimidated the hell out of me and at that point I just wanted to sleep.
We drove from the downtown district up and around the west side of the island, into Pok Fu Lam District where I couldn’t help but noticing the propensity of Hong Kongers to finish their buildings in tile. While not really noticeable in pictures, most residential buildings are covered in small ceramic tile squares of varying colors.
As we approached my hall I was shocked. I was still in a surreal mind state, but the hall was nothing like what I expected. The turn-around driveway was partially under construction and all the buildings surrounded it had bamboo-constructed scaffolding and green covering.
I walked in and found an unexpected language barrier with the woman who was helping me check in. I was under the impression that since classes were held in English, most of the staff would be competent as well. Well there’s an expectation thrown out the window.
I went up to my room on the fourteenth floor, which has great views (albeit covered by green mesh netting) of the west entrance to Victoria Harbor. I also found a couple hall mates to introduce myself to. One was really nice and one was really not so nice (like students elsewhere).
That night, I finished up by calling my mother (at 6 a.m. pacific daylight time) and my HKU exchange buddy, who offered me a tour of campus the day after I arrived. The first picked up, relieved that I had gotten there on time and safely (as there is only one SFO-HKG flight a day and my flight to SFO from LAX was delayed by almost two hours). The latter didn’t pick up, but as I will explain, I still got my tour later.
That night—no air conditioning, fully humid with just a fan and five open windows—I went to sleep, apprehensive about what was to come. My thoughts drifted on, as always.
Lesson learned—pronouncing Anglicized Hong Kong names and places with an American accent won’t get me very far.
Welcome to Hong Kong, James.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Some Notes Before I Go
Tomorrow, I leave for Hong Kong and the University of Hong Kong, where I will spend the next four months studying and sightseeing. I’ll leave for Los Angeles International Airport at 6 a.m. for my first leg to San Francisco. From there I have a thirteen-and-half hour flight direct to Hong Kong. I’m all packed but not necessarily ready to go.
I’m still nervous as ever as I anticipate my long journey and longer transition. But already I am confident that I will quickly make Hong Kong my home away from home. At UCSD I served as an American student to help orient international students and in the same manner, HKU has set me up with a Hong Kong student to help me, now the international student, find my way. While I’ll mosey my way to the university from the airport, she has graciously offered to show me the campus the day after.
I arrive on August 21 and have orientation the following Friday, August 28. Class begins on September 1. Maybe by then I’ll get used to British English orthography and the metric system. Surely by then I’ll have bought blankets and a pillow.
Next time, I’ll be writing from Hong Kong.
I’m still nervous as ever as I anticipate my long journey and longer transition. But already I am confident that I will quickly make Hong Kong my home away from home. At UCSD I served as an American student to help orient international students and in the same manner, HKU has set me up with a Hong Kong student to help me, now the international student, find my way. While I’ll mosey my way to the university from the airport, she has graciously offered to show me the campus the day after.
I arrive on August 21 and have orientation the following Friday, August 28. Class begins on September 1. Maybe by then I’ll get used to British English orthography and the metric system. Surely by then I’ll have bought blankets and a pillow.
Next time, I’ll be writing from Hong Kong.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Roman Holiday
Continuing on with my trip to Europe this summer, my brother, mother, and I traveled from Paris to Rome on June 24, 2009. From there we took trains to the Campania region, Venice, Florence, and back to Rome.
I am grateful for having gone on this trip, but when people ask me about how it was, I make no qualms about speaking my mind. Most have been accepting or at least respectful of my opinion, but a few feel I haven’t given Italy proper credit.
While I enjoyed the experience and would not hesitate to go back, it was by no means what I thought it would be and by no measure as romanticized as I have found it to have been. It was actually as a result of this idealistic state that I feel many negative aspects of my opinion exist. So while I grew to like France, I have found less of an occurrence in Italy.
Don’t get me wrong—I thought Italy was beautiful. I felt that there was grandeur and culture present, but had to learn that it was not to be presented how I was used to it.
If the graffiti in my travel to Paris made me realize not all would be how it was expected, then let’s just say that there was a lot more graffiti in Italy—a lot more.
Charles-de-Gaulle airport is okay. The terminal that I flew through was not the new, classy one that many people fly through. Other than the fact that Lufthansa, my airline, was quite late (though officially on time), causing us to miss our connecting flight to Rome, I had no problems with the Paris airport. It was relatively clean and definitely secure, though when we first landed, I asked some security personnel who we were talking to whether we had to go through customs or not.
A lot of people don’t seem to believe me, but when you enter the United States, you go through customs. You fill out a form and get “randomly” selected for an actual customs check, which most people don’t end up going through. In France, it was not up to random selection as to whether or not you go through customs. Upon exiting the airplane, the exit was straight ahead, and if you had anything to declare to customs, you could go to the right to do so.
I didn’t know there was this honor system in place, so I asked the guards. I asked in English. I was answered frankly, but the other security guards murmured something to each other about those stupid American tourists in French. The statement was off-putting, but I didn’t really care. I heard how annoying tourists can be, especially American tourists. I guess the French airport security guards had enough exposure to English to distinguish accents.
On the other hand, I can’t say the same thing about the Italian civil servants we encountered, but more about that later.
En route to Rome (and also coming back home), we went through Munich, where it was raining both times. While the Paris airport was acceptable, Munich’s was immaculate. Their bathrooms were so clean that I hesitated to use them; their floors everywhere were perfectly polished without so much as a scuff in sight. As our flight was delayed, the Lufthansa employee was courteous throughout helping us get on the next flight and gave us meal vouchers—not to mention his English was perfect (albeit foreign-accented).
When we got to Rome’s Fiumicino airport, the situation was quite a bit different. The terminal we landed at was dingy, at least giving it the appearance of being dirty. Before leaving the airport, we needed to find the tourist information area so we could buy our Roma Cards (which gave us some free museum entrances as well as transportation in its entirety).
Now the airport’s exit was lined with quirky little shop booths and information stands. So we went up to one of them. My mom asked, “Do you speak English?” Unlike my French, which I could get by on, our Italian was not so good, and we had to resort to using their English instead, which, as I understand, they Italians (as well as the French) really don’t like.
The question was met with an offended tone by the woman who my mom had asked. “Yes. Of course I do.” Okay, great.
“Do you know where Tourist Information is?” my mom asked.
“Do you mean Touristic Information? It’s down on the left.” My mom was confused.
“So Tourist Information is on the left?” she asked just to make sure.
“Yes! Tou-ris-tic Information is down on the left!” It appeared the civil servant was upset. She insisted that our English was wrong and made sure she corrected us, or at least tried. Unfortunately it was she who was wrong. She had simply mixed up her languages and stayed stubborn about it. In her mind, she was thinking how in French, the term is “(les) informations touristiques.”
Whereas in Paris, the metro and RER light rail lines were clean and efficient, the airport express train from the airport to Roma Termini station was extremely late and ran bumpily down the tracks. There was more graffiti down this corridor than that from Aéroport Charles-de-Gaulle to Paris’s central station Châtelet-Les Halles. This did not bode well for what was to come.
My main conclusion about Italy was that it was interesting; however, I did not find it more exciting than other places I’ve been—say China. As aforementioned, I’ve gone on a two-week tour to China. Like Italy, it was full of cultural significance. Like Italy, English competence is something to be improved upon. Unlike in Italy, China’s people understand that their English isn’t the best. And also unlike in Italy, China’s people seemed to appreciate the money coming through tourism, as evidenced by their attitude towards tourists.
Italy was something else, in my opinion. For the money that tourists, especially American tourists, spend in Italy, many people that we’ve met seemed ungrateful and sometimes spiteful towards our presence. I realize that this is not and should not be a reflection on an entire country, as there were many nice people, but this is the basic impression that I received from the areas I visited.
An example of this is the Capuccin Crypt in Rome, which is famous for its collection of monks’ bones artistically arranged as morbid figures. The site is owned by the Catholic Church and run by what I think was a priest. Upon entering, we were met with a donation basket with a sign that said “1 euro minimum!” Whatever. Other than the fact that a “donation” is optional on an exhibit or museum, and what they were asking for would properly be termed “admission price” as it was not optional, the priest gave us a death stare walking in. We deposited our money into the basket, which we were going to do whether he gave us the dirty look or not.
He then proceeded to get upset with us, telling us in English that we didn’t put enough money in. I pointed to my coins, insisting that I had put enough in. Hearing us going back and forth, a tourist came by unsolicited with good intentions but bad sense. In her American (probably Midwest) accent, she insisted on translating the priest’s English to English that we could understand, if that makes any sense.
The fact that this tourist thought she would help us understand her English was off-putting to me, so I stopped her midsentence. “Thank you. We speak English,” I told her. Yeah, I was curt, but I wish she would have spent some time figuring out how our interaction was going before interjecting.
And another point—call me spoiled, but I’m used to American museums. They’re large, air-conditioned, and if your flash goes off, a security guard would be sure to inform you promptly that you just did something that hurts the artwork. Those old paintings are delicate, so the curators have to keep them in low-humidity, low-light environments, right?
Apparently in Italy they didn’t think so. If any one of those paintings (maybe one of the three hundred “Madonna and Child” paintings from the Uffizi Gallery in Florence) found its way to the Getty (which is probably my favorite museum), it would be pampered and kept in a special room in a climate-controlled environment with two security guards to promptly ensure no flash photography. In Italy, they say no flash photography, but even if security wanted to stop all the flashes from going off (which I think they didn’t), they couldn’t if they tried due to the hordes of tourists flashing away indiscriminately. And if paintings are vulnerable to flash photography, they must surely be vulnerable to the hot and humid environment that the interior of the museums provided. Though on a hot day, I love air conditioning, I could do without, but seeing as they put minimal effort forth to preserve and protect their pieces, I couldn’t help thinking where all the money from tourism went.
The only museum that I can say was what I expected was the Vatican Museum, but then again Vatican City is not technically part of Italy, as it is its own sovereign.
From Rome it was on to Campania. Naples is known for not being the most appealing of cities, so we pretty much skipped it. Instead, we stayed in Sorrento, which many people told me was really nice. And it was really nice, but it seemed basically like a less humid Santa Barbara. It seemed really done up for the tourists, and it was one of the few places that didn’t have conspicuous and copious graffiti. (In Rome, I could only tell that I was in a ritzy area because of the few brands that I know. The storefront of Versace had quite a bit of graffiti on the front, for example).
We also took a ferry along the Amalfi Coast and a bumpy bus ride back. (Amalfi is where we found out we were from Giappone a few posts ago.) It was also beautiful, but like Sorrento it looked like Central California. In fact, when I went up the coast a few weeks ago, Big Sur looked just as striking, but the road was wider and much better engineered.
We saw the regular tourist stuff. Pompeii was great and met expectations, but my mom had us take a decently long journey off to Paestum. Though it was farther than expected, it was well worth it. Formerly a Greek colony (I believe Athenian), it had some pristine Greek temples and some of the only surviving Greek artwork placed in the nearby museum. The reason it was so well preserved was because it was spared from conflict and human inhabitants for some 800 years due to a mosquito infestation.
Next was Venice, which I thought probably failed to meet my expectations the most. It had the famous canals and some old, noticeably sinking buildings along the Grand Canal. It was quite hot and even more humid, but the small city on the water lost its charm with the hordes of tourists ever present on the islands. Compounded with the narrow pedestrian streets and constant, familiar noise of English, the experience was less than charming. On top of that, many facades around St. Mark’s Square were under renovation, so our picture of the Bridge of Sighs is surrounded by scaffolding covered by advertisements. Whereas the Bridge of Sighs is often immediately recognizable, many people asked if that was truly it.
Near Venice was the island (or two?) of Murano. It’s famous for its glass shops. We got some interesting tours of the glass blowing and shaping factories, but one shop stood out from the rest. I doubt they sell many pieces. We went into this one shop and there was a nice old man assisting a couple from China look at some of the pieces. They spoke only Mandarin and understood a little bit of English, probably less Italian.
Looking at the different glass horses to see which ones they wanted to buy, the younger employee came back from his lunch break and rudely closed the door of the case after repeating, “I’m stressing, I’m stressing!” which sounded more like “I’m stretching!” He pulled the glass horse that they were holding and brought it to the check out counter to wrap it up. Because of his rudeness they decided that they didn’t want it any more.
My mom helped them tell the employee but he didn’t quite understand. His English was quite broken and the only conclusion he could come to was that that couple and the three of us were the same party. When he insisted that he wrap it up for us, even though no one wanted it any more, we all just left.
From there it was off to Florence, which had a lot less to do than expected. We went to Uffizi but skipped Accademia (where Michelangelo’s David stands). We took a sidetrip to Pisa, followed by Lucca (in a feeble attempt to escape the tourists). In Pisa there was basically the Leaning Tower, and instead of taking a picture pretending to lean against it, I took pictures of the many people doing so.
From there it was back to Rome, where we went on our flight to Munich (which landed an hour late) and then to Los Angeles (which, luckily, was also late). The trip was well worth it, and this Thursday, I fly off to Hong Kong. I plan to post once more before I go.
I am grateful for having gone on this trip, but when people ask me about how it was, I make no qualms about speaking my mind. Most have been accepting or at least respectful of my opinion, but a few feel I haven’t given Italy proper credit.
While I enjoyed the experience and would not hesitate to go back, it was by no means what I thought it would be and by no measure as romanticized as I have found it to have been. It was actually as a result of this idealistic state that I feel many negative aspects of my opinion exist. So while I grew to like France, I have found less of an occurrence in Italy.
Don’t get me wrong—I thought Italy was beautiful. I felt that there was grandeur and culture present, but had to learn that it was not to be presented how I was used to it.
If the graffiti in my travel to Paris made me realize not all would be how it was expected, then let’s just say that there was a lot more graffiti in Italy—a lot more.
Charles-de-Gaulle airport is okay. The terminal that I flew through was not the new, classy one that many people fly through. Other than the fact that Lufthansa, my airline, was quite late (though officially on time), causing us to miss our connecting flight to Rome, I had no problems with the Paris airport. It was relatively clean and definitely secure, though when we first landed, I asked some security personnel who we were talking to whether we had to go through customs or not.
A lot of people don’t seem to believe me, but when you enter the United States, you go through customs. You fill out a form and get “randomly” selected for an actual customs check, which most people don’t end up going through. In France, it was not up to random selection as to whether or not you go through customs. Upon exiting the airplane, the exit was straight ahead, and if you had anything to declare to customs, you could go to the right to do so.
I didn’t know there was this honor system in place, so I asked the guards. I asked in English. I was answered frankly, but the other security guards murmured something to each other about those stupid American tourists in French. The statement was off-putting, but I didn’t really care. I heard how annoying tourists can be, especially American tourists. I guess the French airport security guards had enough exposure to English to distinguish accents.
On the other hand, I can’t say the same thing about the Italian civil servants we encountered, but more about that later.
En route to Rome (and also coming back home), we went through Munich, where it was raining both times. While the Paris airport was acceptable, Munich’s was immaculate. Their bathrooms were so clean that I hesitated to use them; their floors everywhere were perfectly polished without so much as a scuff in sight. As our flight was delayed, the Lufthansa employee was courteous throughout helping us get on the next flight and gave us meal vouchers—not to mention his English was perfect (albeit foreign-accented).
When we got to Rome’s Fiumicino airport, the situation was quite a bit different. The terminal we landed at was dingy, at least giving it the appearance of being dirty. Before leaving the airport, we needed to find the tourist information area so we could buy our Roma Cards (which gave us some free museum entrances as well as transportation in its entirety).
Now the airport’s exit was lined with quirky little shop booths and information stands. So we went up to one of them. My mom asked, “Do you speak English?” Unlike my French, which I could get by on, our Italian was not so good, and we had to resort to using their English instead, which, as I understand, they Italians (as well as the French) really don’t like.
The question was met with an offended tone by the woman who my mom had asked. “Yes. Of course I do.” Okay, great.
“Do you know where Tourist Information is?” my mom asked.
“Do you mean Touristic Information? It’s down on the left.” My mom was confused.
“So Tourist Information is on the left?” she asked just to make sure.
“Yes! Tou-ris-tic Information is down on the left!” It appeared the civil servant was upset. She insisted that our English was wrong and made sure she corrected us, or at least tried. Unfortunately it was she who was wrong. She had simply mixed up her languages and stayed stubborn about it. In her mind, she was thinking how in French, the term is “(les) informations touristiques.”
Whereas in Paris, the metro and RER light rail lines were clean and efficient, the airport express train from the airport to Roma Termini station was extremely late and ran bumpily down the tracks. There was more graffiti down this corridor than that from Aéroport Charles-de-Gaulle to Paris’s central station Châtelet-Les Halles. This did not bode well for what was to come.
My main conclusion about Italy was that it was interesting; however, I did not find it more exciting than other places I’ve been—say China. As aforementioned, I’ve gone on a two-week tour to China. Like Italy, it was full of cultural significance. Like Italy, English competence is something to be improved upon. Unlike in Italy, China’s people understand that their English isn’t the best. And also unlike in Italy, China’s people seemed to appreciate the money coming through tourism, as evidenced by their attitude towards tourists.
Italy was something else, in my opinion. For the money that tourists, especially American tourists, spend in Italy, many people that we’ve met seemed ungrateful and sometimes spiteful towards our presence. I realize that this is not and should not be a reflection on an entire country, as there were many nice people, but this is the basic impression that I received from the areas I visited.
An example of this is the Capuccin Crypt in Rome, which is famous for its collection of monks’ bones artistically arranged as morbid figures. The site is owned by the Catholic Church and run by what I think was a priest. Upon entering, we were met with a donation basket with a sign that said “1 euro minimum!” Whatever. Other than the fact that a “donation” is optional on an exhibit or museum, and what they were asking for would properly be termed “admission price” as it was not optional, the priest gave us a death stare walking in. We deposited our money into the basket, which we were going to do whether he gave us the dirty look or not.
He then proceeded to get upset with us, telling us in English that we didn’t put enough money in. I pointed to my coins, insisting that I had put enough in. Hearing us going back and forth, a tourist came by unsolicited with good intentions but bad sense. In her American (probably Midwest) accent, she insisted on translating the priest’s English to English that we could understand, if that makes any sense.
The fact that this tourist thought she would help us understand her English was off-putting to me, so I stopped her midsentence. “Thank you. We speak English,” I told her. Yeah, I was curt, but I wish she would have spent some time figuring out how our interaction was going before interjecting.
And another point—call me spoiled, but I’m used to American museums. They’re large, air-conditioned, and if your flash goes off, a security guard would be sure to inform you promptly that you just did something that hurts the artwork. Those old paintings are delicate, so the curators have to keep them in low-humidity, low-light environments, right?
Apparently in Italy they didn’t think so. If any one of those paintings (maybe one of the three hundred “Madonna and Child” paintings from the Uffizi Gallery in Florence) found its way to the Getty (which is probably my favorite museum), it would be pampered and kept in a special room in a climate-controlled environment with two security guards to promptly ensure no flash photography. In Italy, they say no flash photography, but even if security wanted to stop all the flashes from going off (which I think they didn’t), they couldn’t if they tried due to the hordes of tourists flashing away indiscriminately. And if paintings are vulnerable to flash photography, they must surely be vulnerable to the hot and humid environment that the interior of the museums provided. Though on a hot day, I love air conditioning, I could do without, but seeing as they put minimal effort forth to preserve and protect their pieces, I couldn’t help thinking where all the money from tourism went.
The only museum that I can say was what I expected was the Vatican Museum, but then again Vatican City is not technically part of Italy, as it is its own sovereign.
From Rome it was on to Campania. Naples is known for not being the most appealing of cities, so we pretty much skipped it. Instead, we stayed in Sorrento, which many people told me was really nice. And it was really nice, but it seemed basically like a less humid Santa Barbara. It seemed really done up for the tourists, and it was one of the few places that didn’t have conspicuous and copious graffiti. (In Rome, I could only tell that I was in a ritzy area because of the few brands that I know. The storefront of Versace had quite a bit of graffiti on the front, for example).
We also took a ferry along the Amalfi Coast and a bumpy bus ride back. (Amalfi is where we found out we were from Giappone a few posts ago.) It was also beautiful, but like Sorrento it looked like Central California. In fact, when I went up the coast a few weeks ago, Big Sur looked just as striking, but the road was wider and much better engineered.
We saw the regular tourist stuff. Pompeii was great and met expectations, but my mom had us take a decently long journey off to Paestum. Though it was farther than expected, it was well worth it. Formerly a Greek colony (I believe Athenian), it had some pristine Greek temples and some of the only surviving Greek artwork placed in the nearby museum. The reason it was so well preserved was because it was spared from conflict and human inhabitants for some 800 years due to a mosquito infestation.
Next was Venice, which I thought probably failed to meet my expectations the most. It had the famous canals and some old, noticeably sinking buildings along the Grand Canal. It was quite hot and even more humid, but the small city on the water lost its charm with the hordes of tourists ever present on the islands. Compounded with the narrow pedestrian streets and constant, familiar noise of English, the experience was less than charming. On top of that, many facades around St. Mark’s Square were under renovation, so our picture of the Bridge of Sighs is surrounded by scaffolding covered by advertisements. Whereas the Bridge of Sighs is often immediately recognizable, many people asked if that was truly it.
Near Venice was the island (or two?) of Murano. It’s famous for its glass shops. We got some interesting tours of the glass blowing and shaping factories, but one shop stood out from the rest. I doubt they sell many pieces. We went into this one shop and there was a nice old man assisting a couple from China look at some of the pieces. They spoke only Mandarin and understood a little bit of English, probably less Italian.
Looking at the different glass horses to see which ones they wanted to buy, the younger employee came back from his lunch break and rudely closed the door of the case after repeating, “I’m stressing, I’m stressing!” which sounded more like “I’m stretching!” He pulled the glass horse that they were holding and brought it to the check out counter to wrap it up. Because of his rudeness they decided that they didn’t want it any more.
My mom helped them tell the employee but he didn’t quite understand. His English was quite broken and the only conclusion he could come to was that that couple and the three of us were the same party. When he insisted that he wrap it up for us, even though no one wanted it any more, we all just left.
From there it was off to Florence, which had a lot less to do than expected. We went to Uffizi but skipped Accademia (where Michelangelo’s David stands). We took a sidetrip to Pisa, followed by Lucca (in a feeble attempt to escape the tourists). In Pisa there was basically the Leaning Tower, and instead of taking a picture pretending to lean against it, I took pictures of the many people doing so.
From there it was back to Rome, where we went on our flight to Munich (which landed an hour late) and then to Los Angeles (which, luckily, was also late). The trip was well worth it, and this Thursday, I fly off to Hong Kong. I plan to post once more before I go.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Packing for the Trip of a Lifetime
With just over a week left before departure, it seemed time to pack up. I guess if I needed anything, I would have the time to buy it. But honestly, I’m a little confused.
I try not to take for granted that some things are the same here in California and there in Hong Kong. Some things I know are different—I bought some British electrical plugs; the standard paper size is a little longer and a little skinnier than here because of letters they have sent me. Some things I know are the same—most appliances will use Arabic numerals rather than traditional Chinese characters. Some things I’m just not sure about—I’m not bringing sheets because I have no idea what size their beds are.
Some things I want to stay the same—I’ve packed my own binders with a three-hole punch because I feel secure in the standard American binder size.
I’ve decided to pack relatively light. I’ll have one large roller (that I believe has to be kept under 50 pounds) and my computer backpack. Hopefully that won’t be too much to carry. When I land, I have to take on the airport express to Hong Kong Central Station and then a taxi to my dorm hall near campus.
I’m arriving in the evening, but hopefully not after nightfall. My uncle told me that HKU isn’t in the best neighborhood—but I’m not sure whether he meant aesthetically or crime-wise (thought I think he meant the first).
Since I’m not bringing bed sheets, hopefully somewhere to buy them won’t be too far.
I try not to take for granted that some things are the same here in California and there in Hong Kong. Some things I know are different—I bought some British electrical plugs; the standard paper size is a little longer and a little skinnier than here because of letters they have sent me. Some things I know are the same—most appliances will use Arabic numerals rather than traditional Chinese characters. Some things I’m just not sure about—I’m not bringing sheets because I have no idea what size their beds are.
Some things I want to stay the same—I’ve packed my own binders with a three-hole punch because I feel secure in the standard American binder size.
I’ve decided to pack relatively light. I’ll have one large roller (that I believe has to be kept under 50 pounds) and my computer backpack. Hopefully that won’t be too much to carry. When I land, I have to take on the airport express to Hong Kong Central Station and then a taxi to my dorm hall near campus.
I’m arriving in the evening, but hopefully not after nightfall. My uncle told me that HKU isn’t in the best neighborhood—but I’m not sure whether he meant aesthetically or crime-wise (thought I think he meant the first).
Since I’m not bringing bed sheets, hopefully somewhere to buy them won’t be too far.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
A Parisian Prelude
Sorry it’s been over a week since my last post. I’ve been caught up in other projects, but now I’ve come to the realization that I’m leaving not too soon from now—in less than two weeks, and I’d need to finish of my pre-departure blog posts. So here it goes.
A Parisian Prelude
Here, I feel like we idealize Europe as a cultural center. It’s filled with excitement and emotion, romance and adventure. This was my first time going to Europe, and I was expecting all of the vibrancy that people talk about in Europe, only to find out that the only thing that I found to be how I imagined was that in France they spoke French and in Italy, they spoke Italian.
As something of a prelude to the much longer trip that I’ll be departing on in two weeks, I want to show how I handled this experience abroad and reflect upon how I see my home state now.
I departed on June 18 and left France for Italy on June 24. In that short week, I found that Paris (the only place we went in France) was not what I expected; however, I grew to like it.
We arrived at the Charles de Gaulle Airport and had to take the Metro to my cousin’s house in Neuilly-sur-Seine. It was one of the RER trains which are supposed to be faster than the regular Metro trains, but was just more creaky and old feeling in my opinion. What struck me first was that everywhere I looked there was graffiti. On the trains; some inside the trains; at the stations; on the buildings lining the corridors—Europe was not how I pictured it at all.
Not that there’s no graffiti in the United States or Los Angeles; however, in my humble suburb and the surrounding bedroom communities we have very little graffiti. Most of it is out of sight and the city maintains the graffiti patrol, which makes sure graffiti is quickly eliminated by water pressure or paint. And it works. Thousand Oaks is a very clean looking city.
The subway was very crowded. We must have been waiting at least 45 minutes at the airport subway station before the train came. By that time, the platform was packed and the coming train followed suit. The subway made its way down to the central station named Châtelet—Les Halles. It was kind of dingy at best and filthy at worst. We then took another line to get to my cousin’s place. The entire journey took almost two hours including waiting time. We were tired and jetlagged and from the Pont Neuilly station we had a 10-minute walk to her house.
She said she lived on the first floor, but forgetting how Europe labels the ground floor “0,” making our second floor their first floor, we found our way onto their rez-de-chausée and knocked on to their downstairs neighbor’s door (who we were told later was a crank). Only after we found the intercom and messaged them did we find that they lived on the floor above the ground floor. My cousin came down with a “didn’t you know?!” face and brought us up to her floor on an elevator fit for two-and-a-half moderately sized people.
Such was my first day.
Over the next five days, we moseyed our way around Paris and I grew to like it. The tourist areas had less graffiti and I got used to the big-city feel (crowdedness) of the subway. As soon as I got used to Paris, though, we were off to Italy—and a whole different experience.
A Parisian Prelude
Here, I feel like we idealize Europe as a cultural center. It’s filled with excitement and emotion, romance and adventure. This was my first time going to Europe, and I was expecting all of the vibrancy that people talk about in Europe, only to find out that the only thing that I found to be how I imagined was that in France they spoke French and in Italy, they spoke Italian.
As something of a prelude to the much longer trip that I’ll be departing on in two weeks, I want to show how I handled this experience abroad and reflect upon how I see my home state now.
I departed on June 18 and left France for Italy on June 24. In that short week, I found that Paris (the only place we went in France) was not what I expected; however, I grew to like it.
We arrived at the Charles de Gaulle Airport and had to take the Metro to my cousin’s house in Neuilly-sur-Seine. It was one of the RER trains which are supposed to be faster than the regular Metro trains, but was just more creaky and old feeling in my opinion. What struck me first was that everywhere I looked there was graffiti. On the trains; some inside the trains; at the stations; on the buildings lining the corridors—Europe was not how I pictured it at all.
Not that there’s no graffiti in the United States or Los Angeles; however, in my humble suburb and the surrounding bedroom communities we have very little graffiti. Most of it is out of sight and the city maintains the graffiti patrol, which makes sure graffiti is quickly eliminated by water pressure or paint. And it works. Thousand Oaks is a very clean looking city.
The subway was very crowded. We must have been waiting at least 45 minutes at the airport subway station before the train came. By that time, the platform was packed and the coming train followed suit. The subway made its way down to the central station named Châtelet—Les Halles. It was kind of dingy at best and filthy at worst. We then took another line to get to my cousin’s place. The entire journey took almost two hours including waiting time. We were tired and jetlagged and from the Pont Neuilly station we had a 10-minute walk to her house.
She said she lived on the first floor, but forgetting how Europe labels the ground floor “0,” making our second floor their first floor, we found our way onto their rez-de-chausée and knocked on to their downstairs neighbor’s door (who we were told later was a crank). Only after we found the intercom and messaged them did we find that they lived on the floor above the ground floor. My cousin came down with a “didn’t you know?!” face and brought us up to her floor on an elevator fit for two-and-a-half moderately sized people.
Such was my first day.
Over the next five days, we moseyed our way around Paris and I grew to like it. The tourist areas had less graffiti and I got used to the big-city feel (crowdedness) of the subway. As soon as I got used to Paris, though, we were off to Italy—and a whole different experience.
Monday, July 27, 2009
After Acceptance:
Visas, Passports, and $290 later
I was accepted to study abroad at the University of Hong Kong on January 26, 2009. I guess I was walking on Cloud 9 the rest of that day.
A couple weeks before, I was anything but.
I had submitted my application on the day it was due and I was not informed that I had to get a letter of recommendation, as there were already 25 applicants for the eight available spots with the 4:00 pm deadline eight hours on the horizon. I was not happy. In a previous post, I explained how I managed to get two positive letters of recommendation within the week and turn them in.
I had done more than was instructed, actually. As I have found out, that can be a really good thing or a really bad thing; and honestly I have no idea which it was for me. I didn’t turn in the letters on time; however, I got them in relatively quickly. I was asked specifically for one letter of recommendation, but I submitted two just for good luck.
I was not told when I would be informed of the decision. I assumed that it would be late February or early March because of the preliminary deadlines involved (visa application, preliminary fees, etc.). Great, I thought, two months to wait.
I surely did not get it, or did I? I wondered. On the positive side, I would have senior standing when I departed and I did submit a 3.925 GPA (which I later had adjusted to a 4.0 due to clerical errors). Against me, I did not submit my application on time. I did not follow instructions to the “t.” There were probably over 30 applicants for the eight available spots. I only could study abroad for half a year to graduate (early) on time. On the positive side, my application was now on the top of the pile due to its late completeness.
I worried a lot. I told my friends who had known what I was doing that if I don’t get in, I don’t think I would be going abroad at all. I thought about applying in advance for spring semester, seeing as many deadlines had not come up yet. In the end, I decided to just bear it out. I thought that maybe if they saw that I had other applications pending, they would not be so inclined to accept me to such a selective option.
I was accepted to study abroad at the University of Hong Kong on January 26, 2009. I guess I was walking on Cloud 9 the rest of that day.
I called my father during the day and told him not to tell my mother, whom I called later in the day. I let out a shrill bit of excitement for which I am now ashamed. My friend and I went to this hole-in-the-wall coffee shop in downtown La Jolla, where they began rolling out the bongs for hookah.
Now what did I tell you about drugs? Yep, I’m still clean.
The next day I sat down to follow through on my paperwork pursuant to the acceptance of my application.
Now I have a habit that has now proven itself to be an Achilles’ heel of sorts. I plan way far in advance. As my first roommate knows, I have a very hard time dealing with flaky people—those who don’t show up for meetings, miss planned on events frequently, etc. I plan so far in advance that often the party that I am coordinating with tells me to call back in a month (or two). My medical provider told me, “We just don’t have the calendar up that far in advance.” I’ll get back to my Achilles’ heel later.
I had about seven things to accomplish by March 10 (to get it in the Goleta (Santa Barbara) office by March 20). There was a list to check off on. I ordered transcripts from UCSD immediately. I faxed my written request to Moorpark Community College that afternoon.
After that day, it took me about another week to get everything done.
The next day, I completed my application to HKU, which was required of me under the auspices of the University of California. I got more passport photographs taken. EAP provided medical insurance under the tuition fee. So I had to read over the terms and benefits, sign and sign some waivers.
Then came the big part: my student visa.
In short, I had it easy applying for my student visa. According to my Spanish teacher in high school, her daughter studying abroad for a year in Spain had to get two medical doctors to certify her mental competency, stability, and sanity. My mainland China exchange friends had to appear at the consulate in Los Angeles. I, on the other hand, only had to fill out the forms and submit payment. HKU was to do the rest for me—an they did.
Now about that visa application: first off, I needed to have a passport with validity beyond six months from anticipated date of departure from the host country (check).
The application for a student visa was daunting. At over 10 pages long with fine print and Hong Kong English (similar to British English) I was overwhelmed. Fortunately I only needed to fill out four pages of it. In the end, it wasn’t too bad. Looking at the clock, it took me about four hours for the application and a good amount of time checking it over. Shipping it to central California cost almost $3.00 first class. That was all said and done.
Then I bought my airplane ticket. United (though not my favorite) had decent rates and decent times—leaving August 20 for arrival at Hong Kong August 21; departing December 21 for arrival at Los Angeles same day. Not bad.
I was all set. I had finished preparation for my trip several months beforehand. I was all set and ready to go.
And then it hit. Dates were posted. EAP said I couldn’t check in until August 26—a full five days after I was to arrive. Being the great planner that I am, I immediately called United and rescheduled at the cost of $290 (including the $250 penalty for the rescheduling). The next morning HKU emailed me and informed me that I could check in August 21—my originally scheduled flight.
Upset that I had just paid $290 unnecessarily, I called United and asked them if they could reverse the whole thing to how it was a mere 12 hours earlier. They did and without fee too. Unfortunately they wouldn’t refund my $290. I pleaded with everyone in the company and they refused to refund even part of it—because it was a necessary charge.
Now I know. I should wait a day or two before making such a drastic change. Oh well. I just flushed $290 down the toilet and it landed below the water table on an undeserving United Airlines.
Thanks for reading. And now back to my summer reading!
A couple weeks before, I was anything but.
I had submitted my application on the day it was due and I was not informed that I had to get a letter of recommendation, as there were already 25 applicants for the eight available spots with the 4:00 pm deadline eight hours on the horizon. I was not happy. In a previous post, I explained how I managed to get two positive letters of recommendation within the week and turn them in.
I had done more than was instructed, actually. As I have found out, that can be a really good thing or a really bad thing; and honestly I have no idea which it was for me. I didn’t turn in the letters on time; however, I got them in relatively quickly. I was asked specifically for one letter of recommendation, but I submitted two just for good luck.
I was not told when I would be informed of the decision. I assumed that it would be late February or early March because of the preliminary deadlines involved (visa application, preliminary fees, etc.). Great, I thought, two months to wait.
I surely did not get it, or did I? I wondered. On the positive side, I would have senior standing when I departed and I did submit a 3.925 GPA (which I later had adjusted to a 4.0 due to clerical errors). Against me, I did not submit my application on time. I did not follow instructions to the “t.” There were probably over 30 applicants for the eight available spots. I only could study abroad for half a year to graduate (early) on time. On the positive side, my application was now on the top of the pile due to its late completeness.
I worried a lot. I told my friends who had known what I was doing that if I don’t get in, I don’t think I would be going abroad at all. I thought about applying in advance for spring semester, seeing as many deadlines had not come up yet. In the end, I decided to just bear it out. I thought that maybe if they saw that I had other applications pending, they would not be so inclined to accept me to such a selective option.
I was accepted to study abroad at the University of Hong Kong on January 26, 2009. I guess I was walking on Cloud 9 the rest of that day.
I called my father during the day and told him not to tell my mother, whom I called later in the day. I let out a shrill bit of excitement for which I am now ashamed. My friend and I went to this hole-in-the-wall coffee shop in downtown La Jolla, where they began rolling out the bongs for hookah.
Now what did I tell you about drugs? Yep, I’m still clean.
The next day I sat down to follow through on my paperwork pursuant to the acceptance of my application.
Now I have a habit that has now proven itself to be an Achilles’ heel of sorts. I plan way far in advance. As my first roommate knows, I have a very hard time dealing with flaky people—those who don’t show up for meetings, miss planned on events frequently, etc. I plan so far in advance that often the party that I am coordinating with tells me to call back in a month (or two). My medical provider told me, “We just don’t have the calendar up that far in advance.” I’ll get back to my Achilles’ heel later.
I had about seven things to accomplish by March 10 (to get it in the Goleta (Santa Barbara) office by March 20). There was a list to check off on. I ordered transcripts from UCSD immediately. I faxed my written request to Moorpark Community College that afternoon.
After that day, it took me about another week to get everything done.
The next day, I completed my application to HKU, which was required of me under the auspices of the University of California. I got more passport photographs taken. EAP provided medical insurance under the tuition fee. So I had to read over the terms and benefits, sign and sign some waivers.
Then came the big part: my student visa.
In short, I had it easy applying for my student visa. According to my Spanish teacher in high school, her daughter studying abroad for a year in Spain had to get two medical doctors to certify her mental competency, stability, and sanity. My mainland China exchange friends had to appear at the consulate in Los Angeles. I, on the other hand, only had to fill out the forms and submit payment. HKU was to do the rest for me—an they did.
Now about that visa application: first off, I needed to have a passport with validity beyond six months from anticipated date of departure from the host country (check).
The application for a student visa was daunting. At over 10 pages long with fine print and Hong Kong English (similar to British English) I was overwhelmed. Fortunately I only needed to fill out four pages of it. In the end, it wasn’t too bad. Looking at the clock, it took me about four hours for the application and a good amount of time checking it over. Shipping it to central California cost almost $3.00 first class. That was all said and done.
Then I bought my airplane ticket. United (though not my favorite) had decent rates and decent times—leaving August 20 for arrival at Hong Kong August 21; departing December 21 for arrival at Los Angeles same day. Not bad.
I was all set. I had finished preparation for my trip several months beforehand. I was all set and ready to go.
And then it hit. Dates were posted. EAP said I couldn’t check in until August 26—a full five days after I was to arrive. Being the great planner that I am, I immediately called United and rescheduled at the cost of $290 (including the $250 penalty for the rescheduling). The next morning HKU emailed me and informed me that I could check in August 21—my originally scheduled flight.
Upset that I had just paid $290 unnecessarily, I called United and asked them if they could reverse the whole thing to how it was a mere 12 hours earlier. They did and without fee too. Unfortunately they wouldn’t refund my $290. I pleaded with everyone in the company and they refused to refund even part of it—because it was a necessary charge.
Now I know. I should wait a day or two before making such a drastic change. Oh well. I just flushed $290 down the toilet and it landed below the water table on an undeserving United Airlines.
Thanks for reading. And now back to my summer reading!
Saturday, May 9, 2009
My Nervousness
Recently, I hypothetically asked my mother what she thought of me driving down to San Diego from Thousand Oaks, some one hundred fifty miles, by myself. I will be turning 19 in less than two months and like to feel as though my maturity exceeds my years. She told me that she was unsure, and still felt that it was still too early. While I understand that she’s just being a protective mother, inconsistencies arise, such as the fact that she knows that I take rides back to UCSD with other students around my age with less driving experience than me. I suppose this exception is to make sure I get to school, seeing as the alternatives would be either a three-and-a-half-hour train ride (costing $27) coupled with a half-hour bus ride to campus, or they drive me to school (two-and-a-half hours optimistically) and then back. Anyway, I help pay for my friends’ gas and carpooling is good for the environment, right?
There is one big hurdle that one needs to get over when studying abroad—leaving home. I guess it is a fairly straightforward process that everyone goes through when they leave the nest. Unfortunately for me, I, as well as most of my suitemates (whom I dorm with), have not really left home. We all go home for breaks, most of us have gone home more than once during each of our three quarters (each quarter consisting of eleven weeks), and first and foremost, we refer to our former domiciles as “home,” and refer to the act of visiting as “going back [home].” Last quarter, my roommate went back to Glendale six or seven weekends out of the ten, and another suitemate went home every weekend until just a month ago and still goes back frequently. I really am no different. Fall quarter, my family visited me once, and I went home once. Winter quarter, I went home twice and my family visited me once. This current spring quarter, my mother has visited me once, and my family plans to visit me the weekend after next, both occasions regarding orientation for study abroad.
My home is in Thousand Oaks, where I was born and raised. I can point to minute landmarks and show whoever cares to where I reached milestones in my life, just the way my parents intended. Don’t get me wrong—I love La Jolla. The weather’s great and insects are few; there is much more diversity here than the suburban community close to my heart, and I can see the blue Pacific from by window. In fact, the similarities between La Jolla and Thousand Oaks, particularly around Westlake High School (where I graduated), are plenty. In a sentence—it’s full of old rich people. There are many nice cars, crime is low, and drivers are bad. It reminds me of home in my own personal way and I’m glad to have it. So in a different way, I have not yet left home. My new town is reminiscent of the old and I have yet to start seeing my family any more than three times a year. Therein lies my stage in life.
Well, I purchased my round-trip ticket from Los Angeles International Airport (LAX) to Hong Kong International Airport (HKG) a couple weeks ago, and ever since my nervousness has been building steadily. I told my mother of this increase when she was here the other weekend. I received the response, “Why?” Simple and succinct, her one word said a thousand. Did you do something wrong? Did you miss a deadline…oh no, did you miss a housing deadline? It would have been a good thing she didn’t say it out loud, but her intonation gave her utterance meaning, possibly including meaning she didn’t mean to give.
My mother used to live in Hong Kong during her early childhood back in the day, so I’m not sure she understands the full gravity behind my nervousness. Previously, my family visited China for two weeks with a tour group. We visited Beijing, Xian, Shanghai, Hangzhou, and Suzhou, all of which in central and northern China. Hong Kong, on the other hand, is in southern China (along with the good food, my mother tells me!). It was a good experience in every sense. Not only did we experience a slice of culture, we also got too see the developing country in development. There were construction cranes everywhere, and unfortunately the cities were masked in pollution. My brother and I realized the extent of our language barriers (my brother’s more than mine).
Will Hong Kong be enshrined in smog? Will it be hot and humid like the rest of China during most of the year? I already know I will have to give up my California weather—but to what extent? I suppose I will find out soon enough. How will the people be? Will the people spit all over the ground like they did in Beijing? Will the people lift their shirts halfway up their chests so as to mitigate the heat as the men did in Xian? Only time will tell I guess.
And back to my family—I will not likely see them during the four-month semester, nor will they likely see me. Whereas I do not think this is going to be a problem on my end, I know my mother has different feelings, to which I answer, “Well at least I’m not leaving for the whole year.” Little consolation, I know.
Recall that she is currently against the idea of me driving to San Diego myself—a distance of one hundred fifty miles. Hong Kong is seven thousand, two hundred miles away (or forty-eight times the distance), on a journey I will be taking by myself, crowded onto a Boeing 747 “Jumbo-Jet” with some four hundred fifty other people. I know that she will be worrying about me and my safety, and while I tell her that I’ll be okay and there’s nothing to worry about because I’ll watch myself, I know that she will remain worried until the whole episode is over and done with.
This is evidenced by the first time I came home by train. I had a 6:35 p.m. train from Oceanside going north to Los Angeles Union Station; and from there I had a bus leaving at 9:30 p.m. for arrival in Simi Valley at 10:40 p.m. Now, I am confident in my directional bearings more than the average bear, and my parents know of my keen abilities (such as being nocturnal). Nevertheless at 6:15 p.m. my father called me to see if I was at the train station yet. On a side note, I realize this whole time I’ve been focusing on my mother. That’s not to say that my father doesn’t care, I just don’t know if in his silent ways he worries about me in the same way. Because of this, I do not know whether he called me on his own accord or whether my mother had him call me. My parents claim to put up a unified front, so I’ll treat this matter as such.
Anyways, I told him yes, that I am at the train station, on the proper platform, and I will call him when I board the train. The train was late by five minutes. At 6:40 p.m., as I was entering the train, my father called me worried because I did not call him shortly after 6:35 p.m. I cleared things up, but before we hung up, he made sure I was on the correct train (keep in mind that trains don’t come any more often than three or four in any given hour on one of two platforms) and that I had my ticket still.
At Union Station in Los Angeles, I boarded the bus and called my parents again to update them. My father wanted to make sure I was on the correct bus again. I told him I was sure because it had the correct number on it as well as the destination Santa Barbara, along which was Simi Valley, the driver accepted my ticket without a problem, and the bus-loading lot was populated with one bus—the one I got on.
In Chatsworth (one stop before Simi Valley), I texted him to tell him of my whereabouts. I didn’t call because there were people on the bus sleeping.
“I’m in chatsworth. I should be in simi by 1045”
I was texting my brother’s phone, which my parents borrowed to pick me up. My parents, having never owned a cell phone personally except for a short stint in 1994, much less one with texting abilities, made an attempt to reply.
“O 2 n i k 2 m m m” I read it and lol-ed.
Anyways, I got there and saw my parents a couple hundred feet away. I began walking to them when I saw my mother flaring her hands about to get my attention, for fear that I may go the wrong direction, though I was clearly going towards them. It was like a corny movie, a scene that was bound to happen. In the car during the ride home they told me how they were so worried because the bus was fifteen minutes late and that it was night, to which I smiled.
Multiply that by 48 for the difference in distance and 4 for the difference in time gone without seeing each other, and we’ll see where we are then.
*
There is one big hurdle that one needs to get over when studying abroad—leaving home. I guess it is a fairly straightforward process that everyone goes through when they leave the nest. Unfortunately for me, I, as well as most of my suitemates (whom I dorm with), have not really left home. We all go home for breaks, most of us have gone home more than once during each of our three quarters (each quarter consisting of eleven weeks), and first and foremost, we refer to our former domiciles as “home,” and refer to the act of visiting as “going back [home].” Last quarter, my roommate went back to Glendale six or seven weekends out of the ten, and another suitemate went home every weekend until just a month ago and still goes back frequently. I really am no different. Fall quarter, my family visited me once, and I went home once. Winter quarter, I went home twice and my family visited me once. This current spring quarter, my mother has visited me once, and my family plans to visit me the weekend after next, both occasions regarding orientation for study abroad.
My home is in Thousand Oaks, where I was born and raised. I can point to minute landmarks and show whoever cares to where I reached milestones in my life, just the way my parents intended. Don’t get me wrong—I love La Jolla. The weather’s great and insects are few; there is much more diversity here than the suburban community close to my heart, and I can see the blue Pacific from by window. In fact, the similarities between La Jolla and Thousand Oaks, particularly around Westlake High School (where I graduated), are plenty. In a sentence—it’s full of old rich people. There are many nice cars, crime is low, and drivers are bad. It reminds me of home in my own personal way and I’m glad to have it. So in a different way, I have not yet left home. My new town is reminiscent of the old and I have yet to start seeing my family any more than three times a year. Therein lies my stage in life.
Well, I purchased my round-trip ticket from Los Angeles International Airport (LAX) to Hong Kong International Airport (HKG) a couple weeks ago, and ever since my nervousness has been building steadily. I told my mother of this increase when she was here the other weekend. I received the response, “Why?” Simple and succinct, her one word said a thousand. Did you do something wrong? Did you miss a deadline…oh no, did you miss a housing deadline? It would have been a good thing she didn’t say it out loud, but her intonation gave her utterance meaning, possibly including meaning she didn’t mean to give.
My mother used to live in Hong Kong during her early childhood back in the day, so I’m not sure she understands the full gravity behind my nervousness. Previously, my family visited China for two weeks with a tour group. We visited Beijing, Xian, Shanghai, Hangzhou, and Suzhou, all of which in central and northern China. Hong Kong, on the other hand, is in southern China (along with the good food, my mother tells me!). It was a good experience in every sense. Not only did we experience a slice of culture, we also got too see the developing country in development. There were construction cranes everywhere, and unfortunately the cities were masked in pollution. My brother and I realized the extent of our language barriers (my brother’s more than mine).
Will Hong Kong be enshrined in smog? Will it be hot and humid like the rest of China during most of the year? I already know I will have to give up my California weather—but to what extent? I suppose I will find out soon enough. How will the people be? Will the people spit all over the ground like they did in Beijing? Will the people lift their shirts halfway up their chests so as to mitigate the heat as the men did in Xian? Only time will tell I guess.
And back to my family—I will not likely see them during the four-month semester, nor will they likely see me. Whereas I do not think this is going to be a problem on my end, I know my mother has different feelings, to which I answer, “Well at least I’m not leaving for the whole year.” Little consolation, I know.
Recall that she is currently against the idea of me driving to San Diego myself—a distance of one hundred fifty miles. Hong Kong is seven thousand, two hundred miles away (or forty-eight times the distance), on a journey I will be taking by myself, crowded onto a Boeing 747 “Jumbo-Jet” with some four hundred fifty other people. I know that she will be worrying about me and my safety, and while I tell her that I’ll be okay and there’s nothing to worry about because I’ll watch myself, I know that she will remain worried until the whole episode is over and done with.
This is evidenced by the first time I came home by train. I had a 6:35 p.m. train from Oceanside going north to Los Angeles Union Station; and from there I had a bus leaving at 9:30 p.m. for arrival in Simi Valley at 10:40 p.m. Now, I am confident in my directional bearings more than the average bear, and my parents know of my keen abilities (such as being nocturnal). Nevertheless at 6:15 p.m. my father called me to see if I was at the train station yet. On a side note, I realize this whole time I’ve been focusing on my mother. That’s not to say that my father doesn’t care, I just don’t know if in his silent ways he worries about me in the same way. Because of this, I do not know whether he called me on his own accord or whether my mother had him call me. My parents claim to put up a unified front, so I’ll treat this matter as such.
Anyways, I told him yes, that I am at the train station, on the proper platform, and I will call him when I board the train. The train was late by five minutes. At 6:40 p.m., as I was entering the train, my father called me worried because I did not call him shortly after 6:35 p.m. I cleared things up, but before we hung up, he made sure I was on the correct train (keep in mind that trains don’t come any more often than three or four in any given hour on one of two platforms) and that I had my ticket still.
At Union Station in Los Angeles, I boarded the bus and called my parents again to update them. My father wanted to make sure I was on the correct bus again. I told him I was sure because it had the correct number on it as well as the destination Santa Barbara, along which was Simi Valley, the driver accepted my ticket without a problem, and the bus-loading lot was populated with one bus—the one I got on.
In Chatsworth (one stop before Simi Valley), I texted him to tell him of my whereabouts. I didn’t call because there were people on the bus sleeping.
“I’m in chatsworth. I should be in simi by 1045”
I was texting my brother’s phone, which my parents borrowed to pick me up. My parents, having never owned a cell phone personally except for a short stint in 1994, much less one with texting abilities, made an attempt to reply.
“O 2 n i k 2 m m m” I read it and lol-ed.
Anyways, I got there and saw my parents a couple hundred feet away. I began walking to them when I saw my mother flaring her hands about to get my attention, for fear that I may go the wrong direction, though I was clearly going towards them. It was like a corny movie, a scene that was bound to happen. In the car during the ride home they told me how they were so worried because the bus was fifteen minutes late and that it was night, to which I smiled.
Multiply that by 48 for the difference in distance and 4 for the difference in time gone without seeing each other, and we’ll see where we are then.
*
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