Friday morning I awoke with the eastern sun spreading its golden rays through my bedside window.  My mom had already left for work and I neglected to tell her that I was out of Hong Kong money; I only had about $40 USD.  I would have to either scrounge until our meeting at 4:00 or exchange my USDs for Hong Kong money.  I stretched the night away and made some coffee.

After breakfast, I got dressed, placing my $40 USDs in my backpack, and traveled outside.  It was a gorgeous morning.  The sky was a bright blue ocean, spotted with a few foamy clouds that were retreating into the sky.  In the distance, green mountaintops were appearing from their morning fog cover.  My only complaint could have been the summer heat.

As I walked to the bus stop, I passed a mother taking her child to the Gold Coast daycare.  The young girl said something in Cantonese and her mother laughed brilliantly. 

Down the pink cobble-stoned road, a young apartment complex was growing into the sky.  It was shielded by a green canopy supported by bamboo shafts.  There were no workers this early.

By the time I reached the bus stop, my forehead glistened with sweat and my t-shirt stuck to my chest.  I waited for the 140 that would take me to HK Central.  I waited for what seemed like an eternity, watching denizens slip into 962s, 180s, and 816s and escape the temperatures comparable to that of hell.  I finally grew tired of the elusive 140, and jumped on a 962, an apparently much more frequent bus (I watched in sweaty dismay as not 1, but 3 962s pass me mockingly).  The 962 would take me to Causeway Bay, an area just east of Central.

Content with my decision and basking in the bus’s beautiful A/C, I cooled down.  The road into Hong Kong is about 25 minutes.  I watched the gates of tall apartment complexes give way to brown canals dotted by small fishing villages that turned into cemetery tombstones packed into the side of a hill.  To the southeast Hong Kong and Kowloon spread their wings in the early smog, separated by Victoria Harbor. 

Southward into Kolwoon the buildings begin as old, low-rise, housing complexes.  Each window is framed by green concrete mold, periodically punctuated with empty brown flowerpots.  As I reach the bay, the buildings become slightly taller – but still pockmarked with age – and then stop.  The harbor opens up beneath the bridge.  Low waves toss small junks and slap the sides of tankers.  A few ships catch their breath aside long docks stretching to the other side of the bay like fingers on outstretched hands, unable to meet.

The bridge sends the bus flying into Hong Kong, passing skyscrapers that reach into the clouds.  I look hard and I can see a mother in her kitchen window cooking noodles in a wok.  The tops of the buildings suddenly grow beyond the view of the bus’s window.

            I was aroused from my spectatorial daydream as the bus pulled up to my stop.

            I inhaled as I stepped off the bus and noticed that the city air was oppressively heavier than that of the northern territory.  I get my bearings and head to the Mass Transit Railway substation while trying to distract myself from the hunger pangs that were beginning to burn in my stomach.

            Inside the station, I pulled out my Octopus Card and realized that my lunch problems were solved.  The Octopus Card is a magnetic card that one can swipe for bus or tram rides or a sandwich at the 7-11.

            I went to the nearest convenience store and sneered at the only tuna and pineapple sandwich left.  I paid for it and sat down on a bench to eat and wait for my train.  Pineapple and tuna go surprisingly well together.

            Satisfied by my lunch, I hopped on the train to Central. 

            When the train arrived at my destination, I attempted to exit, but he train doors wanted nothing of it.  As I approached the open doors, they quickly began to close and I, afraid of becoming lodged between two angry train doors, ceased my exit.  The doors sensed this and ceased their attempt to close, again providing sufficient room for my departure.  I took this as the doors’ apology for their preventative actions and again attempted to leave.  The doors were toying with me.  They again began to close around my leading foot; but they did not shut completely, allowing the train to continue on its journey with my foot dangling outside while I danced inside like a pirate.  Instead the doors opened again and, hoping to foil my newfound archenemy, I took the chance and darted out, successfully escaping their Venus Flytrap-like tricks.

            After negotiating with the evil train doors, I found my exit and headed towards the turnstiles.  I presented my wallet with the magnetized Octopus Card inside, but the turnstile would not let me pass.  The bus ride and sandwich had deteriorated my funds to a point too low pay for my train ride.  Without cash to refill the card, I would be stuck in the station, forced to panhandle, open-palmed and wide-eyed until I could leave this place of misfortune.

            Desperately wanting to leave, I crept my way to the railings that corralled people into the turnstiles.  I nonchalantly leaned against it, opened my bag and pretended to check its contents.  When I was sure no one was watching, I hopped the metal bars and attempted to lose myself in the shoulder-high crowd.  I thought I heard someone yell in protest.  I broke into a sprint.

In the warm air of HK Central, I lost myself between the buildings and people.  Without any destination in mind, I chose the most inviting perpendicular street. 

            It was thin and sparsely populated.  Blank walls on either side pointed me north to another busy intersection.

            I zigzagged my way down various streets, trying to forget that the sustenance in my stomach was waning.  The smell of fish became omnipresent.

           I turned down another alley, but this one was booming with business.  I had stumbled upon a Hong Kong wetmarket.  Lining the street on either side were stalls of varying sizes and occupants that provided fresh fruit, live animals, and butchered or un-butchered meat.  I walked down the middle of the street inspecting small tanks with large fish, feathered chickens, and spiny fruit.  Someone suddenly yelled something in Cantonese and a boar slid across the street before me.  It stopped on the left side of the street, its exposed tongue resting on the pavement as blood trickled into a drainage groove.  The crimson river crawled to my foot and I moved, letting it pass.  A man from another stall came into the street, picked up the boar, and swung it onto his shoulders, the river continuing down his back.

            I moved on down the street to a fish vendor.  There were tanks of eels, small fish, grouper, large fish; buckets of fish within easily removable baskets; and fish meat lying out to dry. 

Ahead of me I saw a shallow yellow bucket jumping wildly in the street, water splashing madly.  It was devoid of a basket, but contained a small fish.  It was swimming sideways in the low water, its single eye peering up at me from the lemon environment.  I could only appoint its lack of a removable basket to the diminishing life in this eye.  This fish was about to die and presumably be fed to its aquatic companions.

I suddenly felt alone.

It was time to meet my wonderful, cash-bearing mom.