A Taste of Hong Kong

Robert and I just returned from a vacation to the Philippines. On our way, we had a layover in Hong Kong and opted to take a later flight so we could go into the city for some shopping and sightseeing.

That sounded like a good plan, but we should have thought about how we’d look and feel after a 14-hour flight from San Francisco. My five o’clock shadow was by then a five-a.m.-the-next-day shadow. We didn’t think to pack an extra set of clothes in our carry-on bags. In fact, we were both wearing the long-sleeved shirts we needed when we left the relatively chilly Bay Area.

Eating in Hong Kong is always a treat, so our first order of business was to find a good dim-sum restaurant. When we passed by “Very Good Restaurant,” we figured we’d hit pay dirt. Eschewing “Pretty Good Restaurant” and sneering at “Somewhat Overrated Restaurant,” we walked right in and were shown a table.

We assumed that a restaurant with such an appropriate choice of an English name would have a waiter or two that spoke some English. Wrong. We’d hoped to see carts of dim-sum so we could point to our choices, but instead, we were given a menu without a word of English and no pictures. After about 10 minutes, a waitress finally figured out Robert wasn’t Chinese (and neither was I) and brought us a photo album with a few of their most popular selections and we were able to order one of each. We filled our tummies for about $14 US.

Rather than taking the underground, we decided to walk a few blocks down Nathan Road to the Ladies Market. Wow. Kowloon has a huge Chinatown! It goes on for blocks and blocks.

Now, I don’t watch any of the CSI shows, but through a little sleuthing, I had a hunch that there may just be some questionable items on sale at this market. We were barraged with offers for phony Rolexes, Louis Vuitton bags, Diesel and Hilfiger clothing and pirated DVDs. I don't know if it was scruples or the fact that none of the clothing was even close to my size, but I passed.

After just a few vendor stalls, the merchandise began repeating itself. We began to feel we’d passed through a worm hole into a new circular dimension like in the old cartoons where Yogi and Boo-Boo are running from the ranger and the background images repeat every two seconds.

If you show any interest in a product whatsoever, the merchants hound you relentlessly. We checked out a bamboo place mat and chopstick set and the vendor wouldn’t let us leave. Now, we fancy ourselves pretty good at bargaining and stayed firm on a final price and left the stall no less than three times. She kept chasing us down like a dog that keeps dropping the slobbery tennis ball at your feet until we finally bought the damn thing. We said “thank you” at the close of the deal and she angrily snapped, “Don’t thank me. You cheap. You bad luck.” So, we clearly got screwed.

After our shopping, all we wanted was a shower and a nap, so we found what appeared to be a clean, upscale spa nearby. After a dip in the hot tub, Robert took a nap while I opted for a 90-minute massage.

The massage itself was less relaxing than, say, barbaric. In my mind I was kicking myself for not taking the time to learn a few simple phrases such as "I think you've snapped another rib," or "You've nearly severed my spinal chord, you sadistic brute!" My masseuse only knew about seven English words. When she said, "I am toilet," I understood she was merely indicating she needed to visit the restroom. When she repeatedly told me "You beautiful," I knew she was just repeating the adjective numerous Western tourists had used to describe her. And angling for a big tip.

And then, toward the end of my allotted massage time, my masseuse begins to offer me what I'll call the "Would you like fries with that?" sales pitch. So it finally dawns on me that I'm being massaged by a Chinese prostitute. I begin to think it may have been foolish to disrobe and stash my passport, cash and credit cards in a locker that looks no more secure than the one at my gym where I'm constantly admonished to leave valuables at home. Why would I assume that legitimate commerce had established a foothold just meters away from the market that was hocking Air Bud 6 DVDs, a movie which hasn't even been filmed yet.

Now, I'm not being judgmental or prudish. There's quite a fine line between rubbing one body part for pleasure and rubbing another for quite a lot of pleasure. I just could not imagine how I would explain to Robert that I needed him to spot me HK$200 (about $28) for an extra service from a masseuse who looks way too much like my sister. Just leaving without any internal bleeding was a happy enough ending for me.

I repeatedly said "No thank you." Like the chopstick vendor, she just wouldn't let go. Figuratively. Eventually, she switched to negotiating her tip. As awkward as it was to negotiate a tip during the actual massage, her lack of English vocabulary now gave me an upper hand. I just repeated "Huh? Sorry, I don't understand," until she gave up.

Anybody have a traveler's Cantonese phrase book I can borrow for our next visit?