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| April 24-28! |
| 04.28.04 (7:52 pm) [edit] |
April 24
Ok, seeing that it's been a few days, and a few busy ones at that, I'm going to drop the third person action for the time being and just catch up with the last few days.
On this day, I ate at a famous HK institution that does bbq goose like you've never had before. Other than the meal I had with all the retired academics (which I should describe, but at another time), this was a highlight of the trip; for those who live in Quebec and know something about St-Hubert chicken logos, they'll be happy to hear to that this goose restaurant (which now has several outlets around HK) has its patrons eat off of plates that feature a grinning, yellow feathered, upright, sailor capped, goose imprinted on them. A canny ressemblance to the St-Hubert chicken--mm, mm, good!
I ate like a pig; between three adults and one child (my COR) we ate a whole bbq goose (which is a rich, dark meat, greasy kind of experience) fried shrimp balls, fried tofu squares with hot peppers, rice, and chinese veg. All of which consumed with a stein of St-Miguel beer. Nice.
After which, I went to the gym, and sat around a whole lot. Read the paper with the boys and worked out, as usual. One feature of this gym is that it has these large windows that overlook the intersection below, two stories down. It provides for some good people watching; also, directly across the street is a larger gym that also has large windows. When someone yells "Mo-wah!", I generally rush to the window to inspect the sights: maybe some bridesmaids, or in this case, a really undressed girl in the opposite gym who was unfortunately none too fit. The point is that gym culture is the same everywhere.
That evening, I ate at home with my uncle, and observed American troops die on television.
April 25
This Sunday, I went to Sai Kung via taxi with Jonathan (COR) early in the morning (around 8am) so that we could go on a boat cruise with Pam and John's co-workers--a group of 19 or so, including a handful of hyper children. The boat belongs to the MTR corporation (the public transport company in HK that Pam works for) that is available to the MTR executive once a year for personal use (or otherwise). So we toured around Sai Kung harbour, had lunch at a fishing village along the coast, in eastern Sai Kung (sorry, no names) next to the reservoir. The lunch was so-so, as the fishing village restaurants only cater to the boat cruise people (i.e. expats, and those who own yachts), and as such, offers touristy, no-so-great cooking. All the same, I had a good time with the spicy garlic shrimp and fresh mussels.
After lunch, we moved onto a small ocean bay and lowered anchor, so as to drink and play on the banana boat towed behind a speed boat. The banana boat holds three; I tried it out, got whipped around a lot, and had a great time, despite having a lot of rear end pressed directly into my face for half of the time. Understand that this was not a willing experience, but one that was necessitated by need to keep the banana upright, so lowering our centre of gravity (thus, three of us, hunched over like we were dodging bullets) resulted in my face being stuffed right up some engineers butt.
That night, we ordered in pizza hutt, and watched spaceballs. The last time I ate a pizza in HK was in 1989. In my mind, the 1989 pizza was the best I ever ate--if only because they had finely chopped up pineapple layered over the whole pizza, like a lawn, and the whole pizza had received the chinese cooking treatment as best it could. The modern pizza, however, was not as memorable, as pizza hut, HK, does it the same way as they do in N. America, except that you can get a bbq duck pizza with shimeji mushrooms.
April 26
As with last week, I returned to Shatin with Pam to drop off Jonathan at school. Said goodbye, then went back to the flat--to do some packing, and then it was off to the most ridiculous amount of dim sum I've ever eaten in my life. Three people, twenty-two dishes and the portions were no joke. It was an extravaganza--at one point, we had five servers at our table, filling teapots, placing food down, shifting plates around, and one manager hovering by, making sure that all was good and fine. While good, the dim sum was not fine--but I ate it all, because I'm no snob when it comes to a free meal. Incidentally, I tried to pay for the meal, too, but was soundly rejected by my aunt and uncle.
This restaurant was massive, too--it could seat 2000 people in seperate rooms and restaurants within itself. The place was located right down by the harbour's edge in Kowloon, by Ocean Terminal, and was shapped like a giant horseshoe. 2000!
I then went to the gym, and nearly fell asleep. Why I go to the gym so much? Well, mostly because I've been gaining so much fat around my middle; also, because I bought a ten visit booklet at the beginning of my trip--this was visit number 9.
Then, back to the flat, packed it up completely, and then off to yet another club: the United Services Athletic and Recreational club. Once used only by the military's officers, it now opens its doors to the public. The chinese army has its barracks in the old HK army barracks, just next door to the place, but they do not come to eat at the club, despite permission to do. Mostly because these poor fellows earn 700HK a month--or a little over a hundred bucks CDN! Anyhow, the restaurant is imformal, no suit or tie, and children can use the place, also. I ate a chicken vindaloo that made me sweat and cry, and shared my uncle's chinese style whole steamed sole in soya sauce and spring onion. Nice, but I was a bit worried about my digestive track: what with dim sum, the vindaloo, and the fish, I was preparing myself for a potentially long, intestinally challenging, flight to Perth...
I was dropped off at the Airport express, that no one uses, at great loss to the city. It is a dedicated rail that takes you directly to the airport in 28 minutes or so. Super convenient, you just hop off the train, and you're at the airport, right in the terminal.
One note about this airport is the amount of duty free there: intense. For you smokers, 200 cigarettes cost 110HK (a little less than 20CDN!). Or for 2000 ciggies, 500HK! Ridiculous. In any case, I bought none of the Channel, Louis Vuitton, or other such merchandise. I bought some nasty fresh squeezed OJ from a Starbucks (sorry, and it really was bad OJ--the worst I'd had in HK) and then rode the light rail train that is within the airport to my gate, number 63, of a possible 80.
Right.
April 27
Perth!
I slept the whole way out to Perth, and missed out on the dinner, the in-flight movies (one of them was Die Hard! Helicopters crashing into buildings!), I still made it up for the breakfast of rolls and fruit.
There are only three gates in Perth International, and the only security that has yet questioned me about my practive of packing my kitchen knives inside my guitar case. Still, they let me in to the country.
My australian aunt, Patsy, picked me up from the airport and then took me out to her home south of Perth, in South Yunderup. Yunderup, both north and south, is a canal based shire, so their house is on a canal, facing east with the morning sun. Their catamaran, Sky, is moored alongside. A friend of Patsy and Peter's (Patsy's partner), Phil, was staying with them. Phil is a 80 year old Kiwi who is spry and highly mobile, sharp as a tack and very companionable. Shortly after arriving a the house, we went out sailing, out along the canal system, out into the Peel Inlet, and then, incredibly, into the Indian Ocean. What a first day--I took a nap on the boat, and also fell off it, although at the very end of the trip, when we were moored at the house.
April 28
A very lazy day, spent reading the damn Booker of Bookers (3/4 done!), and a damn big thai cookbook. Had dinner at home, went for a stroll in the neighborhood, and just settled in.
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| April 23rd |
| 04.23.04 (6:48 am) [edit] |
April 23rd
Lantau Island; Stanley Market, Hong Kong side
26-32C, cloudy, then sunny, and brutally hot
Mr. Slattery, suddenly aware of his upcoming departure from Hong Kong, decided to do it all today. He rode the MTR then a bus for close to two hours, so as to reach the inner reaches of Lantau Island and witness the largest outdoor bronze statue of Budha in the world. Lantau island is twice the size of Hong Kong island, 2/3 of which is officially parkland. The point is to provide a green space for all and the pious visitor with an example of what the area used to look like before the metropolis of Hong Kong appeared. He also ate a vegetarian meal made by the Buddhist monks who, having been able to build a giant statue of budha up on a hilltop, were unable to add enough salt to the food. In some sort of wicked buddhist twist of irony, one much purchase a meal ticket so as to reach the third and, as it turned out, cordoned off section within the great buddha. Still, Mr. Slattery felt altruistically enlightened, as his money was greasing the great wheel of dharma, or something to that effect.
The Buddhist retreat is nestled in the middle of a shallow valley, shouldered by several large green and rocky hills, the largest standing a neat 910ft high. Clouds rode the hilltops, obscuring them from view; thus cloaked in greyness, the surrounding landscape had an ancient feel, romanticizing the heavily touristed Monastery below.
Following the vegetarian extravaganza, which definitely awarded the larger groups with
1)bigger portions
2)more food items (8 to 10 dishes)
and punished the lonely, single, diner with
1)smaller portions
2)less food items (3 in all)
So Mr. Slattery got back on the bus, karmaed up, somewhat full, and ready to roll. While lacking in spices, the food he ate must have had some sort of other secret, religioso, properties , because Mr. Slattery passed out on the drive back to the MTR station, his head alternately striking his bench partner or the window, the banging having little or not effect on the sleeper.
Refreshed, Mr. Slattery rode the MTR back into civilization. He then decided to visit the famed Stanley Market, found on the south side of Hong Kong island. For HK$2.2, he rode the Star Ferry across the harbour, enjoying the sun that had appeared—only to later curse it, as it beat his body into a slump while he trooped around the open air Stanley Market. Not much of a shopper, Mr. Slattery pretty much saw as much of Stanley Market as one who doesn’t shop very well can, which is to say, he saw it all—the bolts of cloth, the shirts, the silk sheets, silk underwear, silk trousers, blouses, pashmina this, pashmina that, cashmere, jade chops, the tourist shirts that said “I Ate Hong Kong”--without buying a single thing.
He ate some noodles at a little restaurant that faced Stanley bay, enjoying the look of things, but seriously daunted by the reality of the sun’s glitter on the water. Stanley Market is a serious tourist draw, and there were lots of nice pubs and western style eateries there. Many white people, few locals—and the low rise buildings gave the area a beach life sort of atmosphere. Mr. Slattery, though glad he had come to see the Market, was also glad he had left it to last.
Afterwards, he went home, his dogs seriously tired.
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| April 20-22 |
| 04.22.04 (5:56 am) [edit] |
April 20
Very hot, very humid, sweaty shirt in five minutes or less.
Today, Mr. Slattery went to Macau, Hong Kong’s poorer cousin. He rode on the turbojet, a hydrofoil that runs every half hour between the two cities. Once in Macau, he navigated his way through immigration, and found himself inside the main terminal, competing with about a thousand mainland Chinese who were in large, raucous, groups. A bit daunted, he visited the tourist office and spent a few minutes figuring out that he had no real idea of what he’d like to see in Macau, or where the hell he was, exactly, in relation to Macau.
Instead of formulating a plan, he walked out of the terminal, and followed the masses of people, the thinking being that not all of them could be wrong. As it turned out, none of the people were—only Mr. Slattery—as they knew exactly where to find the specially commissioned tour buses.
Mr. Slattery so then made his way back to the terminal and then spied a pedestrian path that led away from the seaport… .he walked and by some kind of special luck, made his way into the city center and up to the old Jesuit fort. Much of this luck came from the fact that Macau is a tiny place that is pretty much impossible to get lost in, considering that all one has to do is walk for half an hour in any given direction and they will hit water.
Having worked up a good sweat, Mr. Slattery was forced to rehydrate; while doing so, he considered the nice view among the ramparts and iron canons. The Macau museum for something was now housed atop the fort, but Mr. Slattery had had enough of those institutions, and decided he’d rather remain sane, albeit ignorant.
Walking around the fort in a circular path, he made his way down among treed gradations that led him to the former St-Paul’s Cathedral, pretty much Macau’s greatest tourist feature. Burned down completely in the late nineteeth century, the only remaining piece of the once “opulent” structure is its impressive façade and number of roosting pigeons. He then proceeded down into the city center from there, where the streets were at first cobblestoned, then tiled in a wavy pattern, alternating white and black. The buildings in this area were all very much europeen in style, the outer walls recessed beneath roofs held up by slender columns. Many tourists abounded, and a spectacular market was found, that featured only baby clothing and ladies’ underwear. Mr. Slattery was fascinated.
He recouped some fluids at a small noodle shop, then walked some more, only to be defeated by the heat and sweat, so he went back to the terminal, but not before finding a cemetery that caught his attention.
April 21
Hot, humid.
Today, Mr. Slattery went for afternoon tea at the Peninsula hotel with his aunt and COR. It was opulent, high in cholesterol, and elegant. While Mr. Slattery is himself a sort of elegant, high in cholesterol kind of guy, he had a good time. He then was taken to the planetarium, where he watched an imax film on the Australian outback. It was informative, especially if he ever found himself stranded in the desert interior, where he could survive on the carcasses of pelicans.
Because he had worked out before tea (incorporating a new exercise into his routine: read the paper for 45 minutes with the old men on the weight machines), he had time to burn in the afternoon. So he went to Hong Kong side to walk around, but was distracted by an Irish pub, which he entered, and did not leave for some time. Later, he made his way out, and made his way to the appointed dinner spot somewhere else in Central (still on HK island). This dinner was at a private club where his uncle and aunt meet their old academic friends once a month for a non-commital wine and Cantonese food sit-down.
So Mr. Slattery slaughtered the meal, drank the wine, and enjoyed the good humour of the table, despite Cantonese being the lingua franca.
April 22, 2004
Clearest day yet, 26-30.7C, 68-88% humidity.
Very little done on this day—Mr. Slattery had buffet lunch at the old-school Hong Kong Club, a white man’s affair that only let in the Chinese when all the white folks left for England, back in the day. He met a top oncologist, a young lawyer who was articling, and ate a surprising amount of meat. Ham, beef tenderloin, foie gras, chicken curry, scallops, smoked salmon, cow tongue, spotted dick, and other meaty delights he could not even identify. Seeing that the conversation was mostly in Cantonese, and that the young lawyer suspected Mr. Slattery’s aunt of attempting to set her up with Mr. Slattery, lunch was consequently a solitary affair for Mr. Slattery, who munched his way through time and smiled at all the Cantonese jokes regarding medical malpractice suits.
He worked out afterwards, trying desperately to get his full money’s worth from his pre-purchased coupon book, and then went home, to reflect upon his inability to speak any Cantonese.
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| April 17-19 |
| 04.19.04 (7:35 am) [edit] |
April 17, 18
Shatin, Sai Kung, 24C, overcast, then rainy
An original to the end, Mr. Slattery spend this weekend much as he did the last: more mah-jong, lunch, then a taxi ride out to Sai Kung for a night of video games and movies. A man's man movie, no less, 'The Great Escape," which took two nights to view. However, Mr. Slattery viewed all this as time well spent, considering that it rained torrentially for the whole evening.
Sunday, the 18th, was a beautiful day, despite weather predictions to the opposite, which vindicated Mr. Slattery. The weatherman, according to him, "is someone who sits all day inside, reading satellite maps. The weatherman is as often wrong as he is right; in other words, I'm just as good as the weatherman. Really, the only weatherman who knows what's what is the local farmer, who lives outside all day long, year after year."
That being said, the Mr. Slattery and his cousin's family made their way up to the Peak on Hong Kong Island, which has undergone a substantial commercial facelift since he was last there in 1990. There is now a giant, ugly, architectural thingy up there, along with a mall, restaurants, and a movenpick marche. Undaunted by modernity's progress, Mr. Slattery enjoyed the walk around the Peak quite a bit, as it was a very fine day.
April 19
Kowloon, Museums, 27C, sun sun sun
Today, Mr. Slattery educated himself: never do more than one museum a day. While this is a lesson he learned years ago, it is obvious that it was not a lesson he learned very well. The art museum of HK was first on the list, and while Mr. Slattery enjoyed the modern chinese art, the traditional calligraphy, the classical chinese art, the anglo/chinese turn of the century stuff, the 'Behind enemy lines' art from the Vietnam war, and the air-conditioning, he found himself dehydrated and nearly comatose by the end.
Fortunately for him, the art museum has a nice cafe that has a massive patio that directly overlooks the bay and thus commands an impressive view of HK island in the distance. He wrote postcards, rehydrated, and then made his way into the Space Museum, where he continued his trend and saw another film festival flick.
This time, it was a documentary by two Irish folk called "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised." This documentary recorded--in a somewhat one-sided, but even handed manner--the failed 2002 coup attempt over Venezuala's current president, Hugo Chavez, and the complicity of the private television networks in these banana republic-stlye events.
A true insider's view that was very revelatory and shocking. Mr. Slattery agreed there was much to be suspicious about--namely, the US involvement in the coup, whether by influence or by actual direction--while simultaneously feeling that the documentary could have been better at showing a more well-rounded picture. Despite this, the footage was unique and Mr. Slattery learned that 1 in 4 Venezualans carry handguns.
Afterwards, Mr. Slattery looked around the Space Museum, but felt nauseous---so he went to the gym. Later, exhausted, he fell asleep in Kowloon park. He then shopped the Temple Street Night Market and ate some food and avoided the hookers. Mr. Slattery, not known especially for his good taste, or prudish attitude, noted that these women were the best looking he had yet to see in HK. Mr. Slattery apologizes for his jaded sensibilities and is inability to speak anything but the truth.
End
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| April 7 (delayed) |
| 04.16.04 (9:55 am) [edit] |
Shatin, Hong Kong
Amid a storm of controversy, Michael Slattery stepped off of Cathay Pacific flight 829 at 0744, local time, a full ten minutes earlier than predicted.
"It was because of a favorable tail wind," explained Captain Hype, "we tried to slow ourselves down, but really, Mother Nature's a mean mother to fight with."
Local residents were pleased to hear that Mr. Slattery was in good spirits, thanks to flawless service and a bit of luck. Mr. Singh, another passenger on the flight, surreptitiously observed Mr. Slattery throughout the flight. "I thought him to be a courteous enough fellow at first... but when the other passenger sitting next to him got up and never came back, I thought: 'What a bastard! Isn't getting emergency exit row good enough for him? It wasn't as though he had a newborn baby and a wife sitting next to him, like myself, was it?" Mr. Singh finished rhetorically.
As it turned out, Mr. Slattery's emergency exit row companion, starboard side, had a seat that could not recline, and was upgraded to business class. Mr. Slattery sat by himself for the duration of the trip, long legs stretched out while one elbow dominated the central shared armrest.
Mr. Slattery then proceeded to watch some the many in-flight movies cabled through his seat's personal flip-up digital screen. He choose from a selection of recent Hollywood blockbusters, like 'Mystic River,' 'Monster,' 'Paycheck,' 'Mona Lisa Smile,' and other recent hits, such as 'Babe,' 'Groundhog Day,' and others of equal caliber. Also available were American cable television sitcoms, dramas, cartoons, video games, and a medley of music stations, including the international BBC, on shortwave, when available (and wasn't, due to a poor mid-Pacific signal at 35, 000 feet above sea-level). While he perused the assortment of Chinese television offerings, his Mandarin, like the production values of these shows, was not up to par.
Sleep, however, was fitful, as a seemingly constant stream of slim red-robed asian stewardesses constantly interrupted his mighty slumber with cups of water, juice, hot coffee, moist towelettes, and trays of tasty, albeit under seasoned, food. "I once heard him mutter loudly about the moist towelettes, although he really chowed down on all the food they brought him. Like he had a hollow leg, I swear!' said an obviously impressed Mr. Singh. "He had the pasta with watery cream and tomato sauce dinner, the ham and cheese and California roll lunch tray, and the chicken and mushroom congee!"
Indeed, Mr. Slattery's utterances were probably referring to the fact that Cathay Pacific no longer provides its passengers with the soft, moist, and heated face towels they once did following all meals and cabin darkened sleep periods.
At one point, Mr. Slattery pulled out a fat tome--"Something called the 'Booker of Bookers'" said Mr. Singh--and read, "slowly, painfully," for half an hour. The fat tome was put down in lieu of a glossy magazine that featured "some blonde chick with big tits and a white halter top" which engrossed the man, cover to cover.
Despite the heroics of the pilot, flight 829 arrived early in Hong Kong; Mr. Slattery's baggage was there for him when he sought it out, and immigration, a breeze. "It was a mighty wind," emphasized Mr. Hype.
Arleta Tam, Mr. Slattery's aunt, picked him up outside of immigration, and promptly guided him to one of the airport restaurants, where he single-handedly ate six dim sum dishes while she calmly watched the orgy and sipped at her tea, occasionally filling the great beast's cup as needed.
From the airport, a drive ensued down a set of highways, along sheltered bays, in between rocky, TNT-blasted hillsides, and over some impressive suspension bridges. Once in Kowloon, the two stopped at Star Ferry, where Mr. Slattery hopped out of the car and fetched a myriad number of tourist-type brochures from the tourist office. The two then traveled two blocks to the YMCA, where Mr. Slattery continued his village people ways, and got a ten-visit membership, to the great consternation of five old Chinese men who were sitting on the weight machines, reading the morning paper in their undershirts.
Having found some reading material vastly superior to “The Booker of Bookers” and made a few new friends, Mr. Slattery was driven to a modern grocery store in upscale Shatin, in the New Territories, where he and Mrs. Tam shopped for cereal, snacks, and chicken feet.
No stranger to politics, Mr. Slattery also picked up the South China Morning Post.
Only hours into his long trip, Mr. Slattery was given shelter at Mrs. Tam's apartment. There, he performed ablutions and read up on local and national news, which he swallowed with great difficulty. Over a lunch of noodles and congee with Mr. and Mrs. Tam, Mr. Slattery described the nature of his trip, and then neatly segued the discussion into the arena of world politics, with special emphasis on the Technicalities of American International Relations. Claiming fatigue from his double-bypass, open-heart, surgery, Mr. Tam withdrew himself from the animated monologue. Mrs. Tam, though, stayed on, and gave Mr. Slattery her very own Impressions of American International Relations.
For the time being, Mr. Slattery is at rest, preparing for an evening at the Royal Moscow Circus with his 11 and a half year old cousin, once removed. Hong Kong holds its breath, hardly daring to imagine what may come next.
End
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| April 14-16 |
| 04.16.04 (9:44 am) [edit] |
April 14
Kowloon, Hong Kong Golf Club, New Territories
Today was Mr. Slattery’s most aggressive attempt at masochism yet: he made it to the gym at 9am. He threw around the weights, grunted mightily, and generally did a poor job of the whole enterprise. All of this so as to make it to the Hong Kong Golf Club, way out by the border in Northern New Territories, by lunch (see the visit to Beas River, as the Golf Club and the Old Jockey Club are side by side).
As usual, Mr. Slattery could not pass up a free meal; he passed up the prix fixe, and instead went a la carte, trying the warm russet potato and Spanish sausage salad dressed with a light oil vinagrette cut with green onions and some kind of unidentifiable ground meat product. Undaunted, he then had the New Zealand sole, cooked au style meuniere. While Mr. Slattery has some basic understanding of the French language, able, for instance, to impress French girls at the bar with his pronunciation of oui, merci, and oui merci, ma belle, he does not have a complete mastery of it. If he did, then he would have known that meuniere means ‘pan fried, coated first in an egg batter.’ Whatever the case of his linguistic shortcomings, Mr. Slattery at the whole damn fish—and it was a whole damn fish, and it was fresh, and excellent. The fish came with boiled potatoes, sautéed spinach, and a thick slice of fried tomato. He tried some of his cousin’s--once removed—(COR) carrot cake, but this was disappointing after the great meal: the icing was waxy, the cake somewhat dry, not moist.
Of course, all meals have their price; this one was to visit the golf course—the whole course, mind you. Mr. Slattery does not golf; however, he has driven the white ball a few times in the past. Most memorably, two summers ago, after the spring tree plant, when he nearly tore his shoulder out his socket. So he can not golf, period; he also has some issue with golf greens and the use of pesticides, although he is constantly exposed to pesticides when he tree plants. All of this is to say that Mr. Slattery is a conflicted fellow who spent three hours of his life marching the green, under the sub-tropical sun, watching his COR and his aunt whack at the little white ball, surrounded by green misty hills and highways hidden behind thickets of bamboo, refusing to sit on the grass for repeated fears of the ‘pesticides.’
A high point was tea, taken at the end of the ninth hole, at the aptly named Half-Way House. Thankfully, the food was not reminiscent of those places where newly released convicts, the mentally challenged, and delinquents are temporarily housed. Mr. Slattery ate a whole ham and cheese sandwich, half of an egg and tomato, and then another half of a tuna and lettuce. He washed it all down with a ginger ale, eschewing the tea for modernity's obvious choice of pop.
The game ended at 530, and Mr. Slattery went home, tanned and foot-sore, belly distended.
April 15
Kowloon
A sometime critic of the arts and a very rare patron of them, Mr. Slattery today tried to make it to two films that are part of the Hong Kong International Film Festival. He has already made it to one, previously: a documentary on the films of Charlie Chaplin, that he enjoyed enormously.
The first film of the day was called “Tintin Et Moi,” a Belgian documentary that tested Mr. Slattery’s child-like grasp of the French language. Luckily for him, there were subtitles; as for the movie, it was excellent, as it was built primarily around an interview the director of the film had had with Herge (true name Georges Remi) in 1971. Herge, already world-famous for decades at the time of the interview, was a known recluse, modest of his success, and quiet by nature.
Thus, the interview he gave with this young student he did not even know is startling for its honesty and openness. The interview took place over four days, originally made as the body for what was supposed to be a book about the man. The director, who describes himself as “comedien, ecrivain, et cineaste,” interviewed himself in the present day about this interview, overlapping the audio playback with footage of Herge and his work through time. Most notable about this film was the director’s resemblance to Ben Kingsley; also the single gold marijuana leaf shaped earring he prominently wears for the duration of the movie. Mr. Slattery made this statement in response: “I guess just being Belgian isn’t enough.”
Unfortunately, Mr. Slattery hadn’t slept well the night before, his stomach having given him some trouble. This had left him a bit weak and achy during the day, a condition that progressed and which forced him to return home early, missing the other film (“or is it a movie?” muses Mr. Slattery), something called “The Triple Agent.”
So Mr. Slattery went home, and slept for 14 hours straight. What did he have? SARS? West Nile? Avian flu? Who knows; either way, he awoke on the 16th, feeling much refreshed, and generally unconcerned about his wellbeing, or the wellbeing of his fellow man.
April 16
Shatin, Kowloon
Mr. Slattery did much of nothing today. He slept in. He ate a large breakfast. He played Mah Jong. Some chess with his COR. Observed a game of Chinese chess (and was informed by his non-playing aunt that anyone who cannot play the game is not a true Chinese; apparently, one is supposed to quote Chinese poetry and proverbs during the game so as to taunt and distract the opponent, and vice versa, a two-fold operation that is fundamentally designed as a showcase demonstration of a deep and full understanding of Chinese culture). Somewhat abashed at his shoddy 50/50 cultural make-up, Mr. Slattery hid his head in his book, something titled the “Booker of Bookers,” and muttered a bit under his breath. For lunch, he ate some cihnese spare ribs, green veg, and a roasted take-out pigeon, which he though great, what with the crunchy skin, dark meat, and the knowledge that, somewhere, someone was grossed out by the act.
He then made it to the gym, truly a masochist, no matter how one looks at it, and did his “thing,” which seemed to consist mostly of him sitting in the hot tub and sweating in the sauna, quite possibly spreading an infectious disease.
Following this, he went to the Hong Kong Cultural Centre with his aunt and uncle to see the London Philharmonic Choir perform for the first time ever in Hong Kong. This was done in conjunction with the Hong Kong Philharmonic Orchestra, and three big time opera singers, who performed Haydn’s ‘The Creation.’ While Mr. Slattery has never been to the opera before, let alone a symphony, he looked like he enjoyed himself, his small head nodding in unison to the music that celebrated God’s creation of the earth, a keen eye watching the heaving bosom of the big voiced, small-bodied, soprano.
Pious, cultured-up, and oogled-out, Mr. Slattery was then taken to a local restaurant, where he had some beef noodles and hot lemon tea as a nightcap.
End
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| April 12- 13 |
| 04.13.04 (4:35 am) [edit] |
April 12
Shatin, north New Territories, Sai Kung.
26C, humid.
Mr. Slattery made another foray into the multi-faceted HK Jockey Club, this time accompanied by his cousin and all the way out north in the New Territories to a point just south of the border with Shenzhen, China, a city of roughly 6 milion. The destination was Bees (?) River, site of the 'Old HK Jockey Club,' a low-slung colonial style set of white buildings that are sheltered within a treed and hilly area. Swimming pool, water slide, open-air cafeteria, and movenpick ice cream were the main features of the afternoon visit. This is also the site where retired race horses graze on a mountain side, content in their old age. These, however, are a select group only; the rest of the retirees are sent to the glue factory.
Mr. Slattery did not have to dress up this time; shorts and t-shirt were [i]de rigueur[/i].
Mr. Slattery and Jonathan (cousin, once removed) were very active in the pool-area, spending close to an hour holding their breath under water, taking many slides down into the pool, all the while dodging the seven year old children who were also having a gay old time. Mr. Slattery, 24, seemed right at home playing with among the children with Jonathan, 11.
Later, Mr. Slattery was driven out to Sai Kung, which is a peninsula on the east coast of the New Territories. It is a lightly developped area that is somewhat mediterranean in feel and effect, being relatively well forested, with no middle rise developments and even a tree-lined boardwalk running along the shore line, where hundreds of citizens walk their little dogs, with fisherman halking their wares from boats moored just below street-level.
While cooking dinner for his cousin's family, Mr. Slattery dropped all the chicken on the kitchen floor, but everyone ate it anyway. He spent the rest of the night playing video games and watching HBO.
April 13
Sai Kung, Kowloon-ton, Shatin
26C, humid enough to shake a stick at.
Mr. Slattery awoke at 630am, to play two man video games with Jonathan. Many orcs died and Mr. Slattery finished off at 1030am, his character at level 7. After breakfast, he taught Jasmine (cousin, once removed, age 2 and a half) how to somersault. He also demonstrated to her some of his considerable good taste and ability with colouring books and markers.
Lunch was then had back in Kowloon: Peking duck, with dumplings, cha tsiu bao, green onion cake, beautiful white noodles, and a caramel-fried banana desert, where the hot caramal-ed bananas are dunked in ice water, at the table, so as to make the exterior crunchy.
The rest of the day was spent digesting lunch, running a few errands, and then playing some more video games with Jonathan. Thoroughly exhausted by this reliving of his childhood, Mr. Slattery crawled home.
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| April 11, 2004 |
| 04.11.04 (6:42 am) [edit] |
Hong Kong, Day 4, Easter Sunday
24C, humid, sunny.
Today, Mr. Slattery went to the Shatin Race Course, more famously known as the Hong Kong Jockey Club. The first time excursion required him to wear a tie (borrowed), a jacket (also borrowed), his spanking new dress shoes, and a clean body (but not the soul).
Horse racing, as it turns out, requires much from the individual: for starters, a big stomach. While Mr. Slattery is not a member of the Jockey Club, he is related to those who are. The members only dining room offers fresh sushi, western cuisine (braised veal shank, whole roast lamb, seared asparagus, cannaloni ratatouile, several kinds of forced meats, cheeses, etc.), chinese cuisine (which he did not sample), a nice curry, and a variety of cold dishes (salads, shrimp, cracked lobster claws, shucked oysters, etc.). It was not a spectacularly large buffet, but the quality was very high all around and Mr. Slattery really appreciated the fresh seafood.
The races started at 1pm and went until six, ten races in all. At 330pm, the buffet shut down, only to be replaced by tea, which started at 4pm, and lasted until close.
As for the betting, Mr. Slattery showed himself as the novice he is, losing money on the first three races, completely beffudled by the betting system, the horses themselves, and all the blood rushing from his brain into his stomach. His confusion may also have been exacerbated by the too-tight, too-short jacket he borrowed from his generous, albeit shorter, uncle. Mr. Slattery spent a great deal of time trying not to pay attention to the fact that his arms protruded from his jacket arms by as much as 10 inches and that the overall effect of the jacket made him look like Ruprecht the Monkey Boy, from the movie Dirty Rotten Scoundrels.
As the gambling was not going well, Mr. Slattery held himself back and instead studied the stats booklet and observed the race results, attempting to understand the numbers. He vainly tried to learn something from his aunt, who won HK$5000 on the day. Her system included the use of a self-made spreadsheet collected from two chinese newspapers which she cross-referenced with the english language newspaper tips sheet, the Jockey club info book, and Mr. Slattery himself, as she considered him "good luck."
Thus self-imformed, Mr. Slattery returned, triumphantly, to the betting counter for the last race, taking home a whopping HK$39, which only barely began to make up for the lillies.
An upside of the member's lounge is that many of the members also own horses. Today, two owners had horses that won their race; a tradition is that the owners get some champagne, which they then share with all the other guests. What with the bottle of red Chilean Chardonnay and the two rounds of bubbly, Mr. Slattery was forced to order a latte to perk himself up for the last few races.
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| April 10, 2004 |
| 04.11.04 (6:38 am) [edit] |
Hong Kong, Day 3
21C, Overcast morning, sunny afternoon
Mr. Slattery today was driven out to Aberdeen, on HK Island, to visit two major tourist attractions: Ocean Park (an Amusement Park that sits adjacent to the HK police academy--so that the police may unwind after a hard day grappling with society's problems), and the Jumbo Floating Restaurant.
The Jumbo Floating Restaurant is, as it purports, a giant floating restaurant, acessible only by a ferry boat that crosses the fifteen meters of marina that seperates it from shore. Mr. Slattery was not overly impressed by the tacky decor (heavy on the Chinese lanterns, gilded, mirrored, walls, and gung-ho China kitsh), the glacial wind of the air-conditioning that made his tea cold, nor the substandard Dim Sum. However, Mr. Slattery is not one to turn down a meal, so he ate with gusto, despite his critical disappointments.
Left to his own devices, Mr. Slattery then went to the gym, where he continued his masochistic routine of lifting weights up and down, up and down, for almost a full hour. Later, feeling very pious, yet still looking very skinny, he walked through Kowloon, weaving his way through the crowds, and shopped for some dress shoes for the upcoming visit to the racetrack (more on this later).
The successful shoe salesman's closing pitch to Mr. Slattery consisted of a double thumbs up manoever that included the declaration that "You are super cool! You are hip hip hip! No other shoe in Hong Kong will fit big feet like yours!" and teethy smiles that only a man possessed, or a desperate shoe salesman, could make. While Mr. Slattery bought the shoes, he refused the offer to buy the liquid crystal watch/thermometer with emblazoned logo.
Dignity and Italian leather shoes in hand, Mr. Slattery then made it to the Mong Kok Flower Market, where he was soundly ripped off by a friendly, language-barrier conscious, merchant. While the lillies Mr. Slattery bought were very nice, he swore loudly and with considerable fluency that their sweet smell would not bring back his hard earned money. In any case, Mr. Slattery's relatives were pleased by his gift, despite his own 'live and learn' bitterness.
Still sorting out his jet-lag, poorer by unmentionable amounts, Mr. Slattery passed out at 955pm, excited at the possibility of winning it all back the next day at the racetrack.
End
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