The Night Time Arrival, Hong Kong

Between us, we carried two heavy hockey bags and an overstuffed carry-on bag through the narrow, lively streets of old Hong Kong. The strings of red lights and hum of lit signs enhanced the mystery of people moving in the shadows. Through the 9 pm dark I saw flames rising from garbage cans and lit joss paper drifting up like butterflies. There were candles placed near the edges of nearly every doorway. It was a day to honour the ancestors.

An hour ago at the airport, my uncle had dangled a pair of keys from his pinched fingers, and said, “We're staying in a deluxe suite tonight. I'm sure you are tired.” I imagined walking up a winding staircase, across a marble hallway and into one of two rooms. I sink into a big fluffy bed, with clean cotton sheets and a red and black satin bedspread.

“Are you hungry? Let's stop there for a little dessert,” said my aunt. I wasn't, but her enthusiasm for a small restaurant on the next corner held a promise of satisfaction. We swam through the haze and milling people to the cafe and heaved our hockey bags down at the foot of a table. The restaurant's diners chatted and smoked, hunched over communal plates.

My bones wanted to sink into my blanket of skin as my eyes fought from closing. “The ones at the bottom are the dessert”, my aunt explained. None of us could decipher the script on the dirty plastic sheet. I ordered the same as my aunt.

When the food arrived, I was disappointed to be given a pinkish bowl of heaping tapioca. I took a token taste and then put my spoon down. “I ate a lot on the plane,” I lied.

After the snack we pulled the bags up onto our mule backs and re-entered the glowing streets. We rounded a few corners before opening a metal door which led up a steep and narrow flight of stairs. As I ascended the tricky staircase, I maneuvered the weight of my hockey bag to shift myself away from stepping on a broom brimming with noodles, defecation and hair.

The door was unlocked and the light was nimbly turned on. The flourescent hum, bright clashing plastic coloured furniture, and our beds made up the main room. Two, smaller than twin beds were squeezed up to the walls, allowing for a three-foot space between them. “Which one would you like?”
“Um, the one on the left?”

I lay on the scratchy old sheets, with the anemic pillow as an insufficient gesture under my head. I eventually undid the disappointment and my mind filled with delight and wonder at the two things ahead: sleep, and my first day in China.