…are your clothes. Or so I’m told by those more travelled. I don’t have a problem with this fact. Juicy Couture sweatsuits with “Dance ATTITUDES” embroidered on the back & paired with crusty Uggs are not worthy of first class, upper class, better than you class, or whatever Richard Branson is calling it these days.
Well-chosen travel togs are crucial. 14 hours to Tokyo, 4 more hours in an airport with better ramen than Momofuku, and another 4 hours to Hong MF Kong. When else can I wear a knit cap and a giant Dead Kennedys t-shirt that I have been meaning to turn into a throw pillow. (To match the Iron Maiden throw pillow.) I chose wisely.
We do not land the coveted upgrade, although we do see Mrs. Wong working the American Airlines counter, a throwback to another trip to Belize. We had a little trouble that time at the counter, and Mrs. Wong waved us over to her desk. Seeing the looks of desperation in our eyes, she checked us with no problem, gave us that upgrade and busted out a saucy wink. She is our guardian travel angel in flesh toned L’eggs and sensible shoes. Seeing her is auspicious - when in Asia, I’ll get all superstitious. Mrs. Wong, this one’s for you.
Narita Airport feels like the East Village, except the chefs at Miso Kitchen wear tall white hats. Sad I don’t get to meet up with Yukiko, my pen pal of about 10 years, for 3 hours of weird airport fun. Next time, my funny little long-distance friend.
In Hong Kong airport, I am told to take off my hat. The guy points to a sign, “TAKE OFF YOUR HAT - OR WE’LL TAKE YOUR TEMPERATURE.” Way Asian to even assume that a hat means you’re sick. In the States a hat is for style, not for warming you during the flu. With swine flu scares and more people in face masks and creepy gloves than I’ve ever seen around me, I abide by their draconian laws. Hipster knit hat comes off. Hair is a travel worn mess.
Today: the ladies who lunch book club. One lady read the book, the rest are along for the ride: DIY noodle bar, curry bar, or seafood bar in the JW Marriott. Surrounded by Tai Tais who pick at their snow crab legs and white wine on ice, we go back for seconds. Tomorrow we’ll be real Tai Tais and have the driver take us into Center and Stanley. I’m getting my favorite pair if boots copied for $200 USD. They are vintage and originally cost me $12 USD.
One particularly gorgeous Tai Tai (an ex-Cathay Pacific stew) tells us where the secret counterfeit watches & bags are sold. So secret, the ladies who had lived in HK for 21 years hadn’t heard of it. It’s apparently for Japanese women only.
Since it’s a $200 Visa for Les Americans to get into Shenzhen (mainland China and The Source for all goods of semi-convincing fakeness), we decide to check it. The catch: she has no idea where it is. Last time she went was 10 years ago. The mobile phone chase among gorgeous Japanese women who worked at Cathay Pacific to find the address was on. About ten friends were texted, and friends of their friends as well. I suggested she blindfold all of us, knock us out, and we could wake up in the store.
But we made it there, eventually. Some serious bling bling.
Now I am going night swimming in the pool. It’s overlooking the fog covered Shelter Island. I dipped my toe in and it’s bathtub level warm.
And that’s my first 24 hours in HK.
