Being Home

Where to begin.

Last Summer I wrote of how refreshing it was to be back in the UK ( see Hug A What Now?) & oh my, it was.  

But, to get my feet back on to, or into, the place, where I truly belong, well, there ain't nothing like it.

Whilst I am at home in the UK, HK IS Home. Not home (with a small 'h') right now, but Home.  

It is a cruel twist that in order to know where you belong, you have to leave it.

Also, after more than 20 years of living as one kind of Expat or another, I realise that you also don't have to live in a place to be part of it, or it you.   Like Family.  

This place speaks to me.
The sounds of the pneumatic drills, the unique roar of taxis, the double-deckers & mini-buses, the smells of food on the air, markets, the inside of IFC (never has a Mall smelt so good! If anyone can tell me what that is, I want my house to smell like that!).  

Me, I find the sounds of HongKong life comforting. Soothing.  

I can hear Hong Kong. HK speaks to me. Maybe because I am listening.
It isn't always pleasant, but I don't have to love everything about it, to love It. I understand it. The understandable bits. The bits I don't understand, I doubt any one else does either.  

 

And, it understands me.  I am a genuine Made In HongKong.

You either love Hong Kong, or you hate it.
Marmite Town.

AND, in a typically 1 Country 2 Systems, East Meets West, Yin Yang (yes, all the cliches) way, that thing that people love about it, others hate.  

Those that love it, call It Energy, Drive, Can (& DO), those that hate it use words like 'frenetic, rat race, materialistic, superficial'.  

Yes. It cannot be denied there is that, alot of that.

But also, I see the Colour, Life, Attitude (sometimes THAT could be dialled down) & richness (cultural, not $$).  

Some lament a lack of culture in this town. I am not sure to what they refer. Swanky art galleries? Chamber orchestras? Theatre? Seems no shortage to me.  

The culture I see all around is real living, joss stick burning, social media savvy, pop culture evolving, stuff.
The Old Ones observing the old ways, The Young Ones looking like they aren't but are, if you really look.  

Many superstitions and folk traditions are so entrenched, I fail to see HOW anyone can really think this town is devoid of culture.

The rules, the structure, the efficiency, whether it be bureaucratic interactions, public transport, eating out or the bill-paying etiquette. All frustrating and comforting, in equal measure.  

Everywhere has its contrasts but here, I seem particularly aware.  You can boggle at a HK$395, 000 watch in Central and, within a 20 min MTR journey, settle down to a DaiPaiDong dinner (street side restaurant) amongst a night market of knock-off 'back' massagers and handbags.

Coming Home for these visits are a lifeline. An anchor for the soul.

It knocks the scab that forms over our united homesickness but it is worth it.

I am blessed to have found someone who holds MarmiteTown as dear to his heart as I. He understands and loves the slightly off-the-wall childishness combined with the cynicism and confidence that eons of history both gifts and curses the collective psyche.  

We return to a room that has been mine since I was 7, and now, my nearly-7 year old sleeps next door.  We pilgrimage to roads where Trousers and I have individual & shared personal histories dating back to Miami Vice & Madonna hairstyles days. And beyond.  

But, we are not as unique as we once thought, for Hong Kong appears to have spawned a unique tribe. One that only fairly recently I have been aware.

The Tribe is made up of people who never really leave. They, physically, might but they never really let go completely.
They are the ones for whom HK has burrowed deep under their skin, set up home and refuses to ever leave.
A squatter. That demands to be heard.
A squatter, with rights. That will not be ignored

I stand to be corrected but I wonder if other countries have FaceBook groups titled 'I lived in xxxxxxxxxxxxx in the 70's' or 'xxxxxxxxxxxxx Was / Is/ Will Always Be My Home' etc.  

There are many of us. And the Tribe grows.

For now though, Me & He live somewhere else. Life is good there. We are glad of all the blessings it brings. For now.

One day though, we will run home.
And we will finally Belong again.

Goodbyes suck. All of them

(an extract from a post back in October)

I've just done a Goodbye.
I didn't love it.

Goodbyes.

That is what I want to talk about.

Good byes are the hidden Expat Tax. And it weighs heavy on us all.

There are the most commonly thought of Goodbyes -
* the agonisingly sad driving away from home, airport-bound.

* the stomach-churning Let's All Be Brave & Practical Until the Very Last Second and Pretend This Isn't Really Happening.

OR the hideous farewells actually AT the airport.  The Stomach-Churn will follow you here.  You cannot escape the Stomach Churn.

Both scenarios.  Horrific.  The guilt.  The good ol' fashioned waaaaaa-hahhaahahaaaaaaaaa sadness.  The suppression of the I Wanna Drop Everything and Run All The Way Home reflex.


There is another kind of Expat Goodbye too.  Which also hurts.  And doesn't require you to go anywhere.

The one where people leave YOU.

No no no.  WE leave!  WE do the leaving! Goddammit. ..................................WE do NOT get left!

This Goodbye happens when other Expats leave, to either stop being Expats or, to go be Expats somewhere else.

Making strong connections with other people can be really hard anyway, but, when you are an Expat can be really extra-hard.
Our world is very transient.

When you live away from family & friends, people that have known you through the bad haircuts, teenage dramas or relationship euphoria and hiccups, when you DO make what feels like a real connection, it can be quite intense.

I've touched on this Friend thing before - in The Rugby Post & also, in The Happiness Vampires

Friends, the good 'uns, become an immediate practical source of support when you do not have your family immediately at hand.

Sometimes that support comes in the very simple form of just a Proper Belly Laugh.

Maybe handing you a cold one, that makes you contemplate a certain algebraic equation.  Remember what we were talking about earlier?

Or letting you roll in their Money-Pit.

Goodbyes suck. All of them.
Whether you are the Leaver or the Leave-ee.

Holiday (Summer) 2013 - Ride that wave

(This is an old post. The Moment was had about 3 weeks ago.)

I think I may have just had a Moment of Perfect Bliss.

In a Swansea conservatory, with this book, is where it happened.

The book choice was inspired by Dad. Possibly the first book I recall him talking about it, I must ask him if it is coincidence that he shares a name with the author AND a nickname of one of the Men.

FINALLY I have got round to it & by pg.7, I am utterly in love.

Seagulls are squawking, in the distance and nearby, the garden birds are cheepy-cheepy, tweet-tweet, tweeting.

Bouncing off the windows, in an unconcerned, half-hearted manner is a woolly, chubby-bottomed bumble bee.  I don't think he really wants to leave.  Perhaps Bumblebee doesn't want to spoil The Moment either.

In the kitchen, Classic FM is on.  For dog, but I like too.  Maybe Bee does too.

Sky is the perfect combo of cornflower blue with fat happy fluffy cloud-sheep, just milling around.  They are in no hurry.

At my elbow is a cup of tea, Lady Grey, as you ask, (I have gone Full Pompous now, haven't I?  You would think so but, any minute now it is going to get worse) .......... in one of my birthday presents.  A Portmeirion (Botanic Garden) mug.

See?

For this Moment, all feels calm. All feels well, and I, for one, am more than happy to ride the crest of this wave of serenity, for as long I can Hang Ten.

And this book, oh, THIS BOOK.......

There go the seagulls again.  Damn, I love a seagull.

[This will be the last post from our time in the UK.  Holiday comes to an end tomorrow and we head back to The Pit, to regular life.]

Holiday (Summer) 2013 - The Crime Spree that never was

Well, I can't fathom it.

I don't mind admitting defeat.  I don't.  I just don't get.

First, Tesco's Self Service Checkouts blew my mind ........ and then, I found out about Waitrose's "QuickCheck" scanners.

Mental.

All of it.

As a matter of interest, any of you been in Tesco at Fforestfach, Swansea over the past 4 weeks?

If so, you might have spotted me giving those Self-Service Checkouts some of my best Paddington Bear stares.

I can assure you I have done some of my best work vis a vis the Stern Look.

Let me explain, to the uninitiated, how these all-seeing, mind-controlling monstrosities work.

You take your basket of, say, 8 items. You scan 8 items.
It asks you how bags you need.  You tell It.
You finish scanning.  You pay the Thing.
You leave. With your 8 items.

Now, here's the thing.
HOW does It know you didn't have 9 items in your basket but, because you are an evil genius, you have *gasp* .......*whispers* .... not scanned the 9th item.  Opting instead (WARNING: those of a nervous disposition look away now) to put it straight into your bag.

And, HOW does that Thing know you haven't taken 4 bags (having led It to believe you took just the one).  One of you and one each for your 3 friends, who are in on this Oceans Eleven scam.   Or who don't want to donate 2p per bag to Children In Need, Snails with Asthma or whatever.

In. Sane.

And then, Waitrose went one louder with its Quick Check scanner.

Now, wait for this, the QCS encourages you to, AS you make way around the shop, to scan your FreeRange Eggs and then POP THEM STRAIGHT IN YOUR BAG and then, pay for the cumulative amount recorded on your scanner at the end.

No feverish packing at a till, whilst juggling cards.  All done.

But again, it seems to me that it would be really easy to just squirrel away an unscanned item, or two.

Should you have a Faganesque inclination.

Which I don't.


I am prepared to stand corrected but I am wondering whether these systems work because,
a) there is faith in the General Public's genuine code of trust OR
b) is it a case of playing on GP's sense of paranoia or its fear of public exposure, in a supermarket, of being a Bad Egg.

The Infallible Duo of a Catholic upbringing and one of the original Tiger Mums has put me in possession of a disportionate guilt complex re the breaking of rules and has rendered me incapable of telling lies (white or otherwise) to authorities.

 (NOTE: elaborate ruses to sneak cans of beer OUT of Sandance, or The 7s don't count, cos that is a stupid rule.  And I paid for them.  I'm not leaving paid-for beer. Ain't gonna happen.)



To clarify:
I can withold information if someone has asked me to keep something confidential BUT ask me a direct question, like:

AT THE CINEMA "Madam, have you got contrabrand English Breakfast tea in a travel mug, in your bag?"

Voices in the Head: "Say no, you dosy cow. Say no."

Me: Yes.

Hopeless.

Holiday (summer) 2013 - I fell in love, a bit

We went to London.

The smallest of Us has never been to London. 

We wanted to acquaint him with Things British.

Not just general stuff like red phone boxes, London buses & London tourist things but experiences that were once very commonplace to us.

Commonplace, Then, to Us but, Now, to Him might as well relate to daily life on Planet Zog.

We are talking about things like:
* Tube mice,

* Churchyards & gravestones (when people do WHAT?, they get WHAT?! .... WHERE??!!)

* A typical SW London 'burb street, with bushes of lavender or buddlia spewing out onto the pavement

* The Tube - whilst not UNlike HK's MTR or Singapore's MRT, is also VERY!

* Greggs pastries (UK expats, did YOU know they do a Greggs' cafe now? I didn't get the memo)

* Commuters reading on the Tube, newspapers left on the seats

* The stinkiness of some areas of the Underground, some stairwells & .............. ewwwwwwwwwww, those same phone boxes we were gushing bout earlier (in fact, he never noticed this bit.  I did.  I don't miss THAT bit)

When we lived in our ground floor flat, in a Victorian conversion terrace, there were sounds.  Unique sounds I now realise.

I'll give you a fr'instance ...... close your eyes.

You are watching tv, in the 'front room' (which, when you were a student, was actually likely to be a housemate's bedroom).  The window faces on to the street, right?

Early evening, the waves of returning fellow street dwellers start to wash down your road.  Their appearance & progress down your street runs approximately 6 minutes behind each arrival of SW Trains at the nearby station.

The talking and/or the clipping footsteps alert you.

Closer.
Closer.
Louder.
*laughter* "yeah, mate. I'll see you there."
Louder.
Clip, clip, clip .........
Louder
Closer.

HERE THEY ARE.
......................................................................................
There they go.

Further away.
Further.
"I know! This holiday is going to be suuuuuuuuuch a laugh, darling. And I sooooooooo need it. Honestly, she is such a bitch."
Further.
Quieter.
Quieter.

Gone.

Pub Chucking-Out time - same story.  More laughing. Replace *clipping* with *shuffling*. Possibly stronger language.

Back in The Day - hearing GuyUpStairs moving around, presumably sorting out a spot of supper & settling down for the night, made me feel safe.

In these houses, without ever actually exchanging more than a "hello", as you step over the evergrowing but invisible (?) drift of freebie papers & pizza/curry takeaway menus that get shoved through the communal postbox, you know when this Utter Stranger has a bath, flushes the loo or if he is watching News at Ten.

And then, in the morning, you can hear GUS's alarm go off.  You know when he is up out of his pit & moving to his bathroom & his kitchen.  GUS's place is the exact mirror copy of us down here.

I knew when this stranger, who slept about 12 feet above us, was late for work, had a late night, was away for the weekend, had friends round but never a girlfriend.

Our few days revisiting London has also reminded me how much I dislike London public transport in the warm weather, but that horribly hot stuffy conditions on a Bus or train also brings the most glorious smells & sounds of a London garden in the summer.

Just these few days I have remembered the smell of cut grass that so many love (or the Pollen-Challenged hate), the sound of everyone having their windows open whilst watching a huge sporting event like the LionsTour or Wimbledon, the smells of BBQs, laughing & the psssssshhhhht of cans being pssssssshhhhhhhht'd.

Love it.

I fell in love again with London again this July.  It felt rich & full of substance & history (one cannot say this about where we live now).  It made me nostalgic for the Old Days - Student & Post-student times.

But then, when the sun shines everything is lovable.

As an aside, I should say, I didn't come here for sunshine.  I don't frigging need more sunshine.  I wanted moody, morose, cosy gloom.  With gorgeous boots. And hats.

Heatwave. Shmeatwave.

An Unmade Bed at the Food Court United Nations

Yesterday, I dropped the Kid at his SOUTH AFRICAN school-buddy's birthday party.

Tried to be brave about the fact that I was in a mall & the 1st (BRITISH & IRISH) Lions test against AUSTRALIA was taking place.

BUT, it wasn't a dead loss.  I WAS in a mall during the DUBAI Summer Surprise Sales so, silver lining & all that.

Spent from a mere smidge of pre-holiday shopping, I rewarded myself with a monster skinny cappu (from Gloria Jean's, incidentally.  AUSTRALIAN.  Hoped that it wasn't a sign.  Remember, I knew nothing of the outcome of the afore-mentioned rugby match at the time) & some chips from McDs, for a spot of SRM (see Spontaneous Reading Moments post).

Sitting there, in my SRM bubble, with caffeine & carbs, I became aware of the family to my left.

A lone man, with 4 abaya'd ladies.  A baby in a buggy, 2 girl children (un-abaya'd) and an older boy child (playing on some handheld electronic device). 
I don't know but I guess it is possible that more than one of these ladies were his wives.  It's a thing that is part of life here.  I don't judge & anyway, they are all having a nice time sharing their mega Mac Attack meal.  THIS I get.

I glance around.  A positively psychedelic plethora of racial & cultural representatives are sharing the Food Court experience with me, on a weekend, one of the last before Ramadan.

There was a mainland CHINESE, maybe TAIWANESE, family, INDIAN families, LEBANESE families, families with their SOMALI, ETHIOPIAN, SUDANESE (I am toooooootally hazarding a guess here, you understand) helpers & FILIPINO families.

Just from where I am sitting I can see full abayas with burkas & hijabs all the colours of the rainbow http://www.hijab-styles.com/.

Hands up if you've ever spotted skintight trousers, gigantic boofy hair, killer heels & unnaturally inflated lips (& the rest!) in a mall in Dubai.  Honest to goodness, there is a whole table of them over there. 
Their children & maids are at the next table.

Maxi dresses, shorts & sleeveless tops are here too, alongside plenty of salwar kameez(s), men & women.  Is that the correct plural? 

Here too, in the KFC queue, the 'long shorts with flipflop' combo.  The weekend uniform of the standard male Western expat.

The crisp, utterly uncrumpled kandoras are modeled perfectly by a host of fathers, husbands & teenage boys.  HOW is that possible?

In 9 years I have never seen a dishdash in any form of disarray, whereas, whatever I do, I always look like an unmade bed.

Everyone is just doing their thing, not paying attention to anyone, except for the lady with a froffy coffee & a bag o'frites, scribbling on a napkin.

OK, need to stop staring.

Back to book.  Book about the fall of the BRITISH Raj in INDIA.

If I don't press on, I'll never find out how it ends & these chips aren't going scoff themselves.

 

The Rugby Post

Rugby can be a Friends for Life maker.
Ask any old rugby war horse, they'll tell you. 

Some of the  most enduring friendships ever made were made on the pitch. 
Well, actually off the pitch .............  I don't need to paint you a picture, do I?

Go to any rugby tournament, spot someone else wearing a jersey you recognise (club or country) - there's that imperceptible nod, a thread of connection.  And then you carry on, to the beer tent. Not always. But, let's face it, Usually.


Trousers said to me once, "Wherever you go.  If there is a rugby club, you'll find a mate. Well, at least someone to have a beer with."
He was actually lamenting how hard it can be, for men in particular, to make friends when you move country.  Unless you play rugby.

He has given up playing (see above 'Old Rugby War Horse' reference) & misses it hugely. 
His body doesn't though. 

His body has been yelling at the top of its voice "for Christ's sake!!!! Just LEAVE ME ALONE would you???

Me, I've alllllllways loved rugby.  Started at school, watching our school team (incidentally the same team that the Old Rugby War Horse started his campaign - although, back then, he was a fair-haired, mullet-sporting, think Crockett from Miami Vice, lanky thing).



Just thought you should see of the wavy hair I was referring to!

I think it is fair to say, we are a Rugby Household

So, it seemed logical that we should see whether The Boy would show any interest in it.

He had shown some vague interest when we had it on telly. 

Last October we were told of a club, Christina Noble Children Foundation's Arabian Knights, that had an Under 6 team.

First of all, & this will be the least 'rugby' thing you will ever hear me say ...... "SWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET"!!!!  Teeny weeny 5 year olds doing rugby. Gorgeous.

So, off we go to see what he thought of it all.  There was lots of  "well, if He doesn't like it, that's fine.  He doesn't have to like rugby".  We were adamant, there was to be nooooooo pressure.  None.  None at all.
Nope.  None.

In fact, we convinced ourselves it wasn't for him before he even got in the car. 

Turns out, it is.

Picking up an award at the end of his 1st ever rugby season

He loves it.  Whether he actually loves rugby or he loves playing with his rugby mates, remains to be seen.





But, he DOES love hanging out with the other teeny weeny rugby ponies (early rugby equestrian campaigners).








And here's the thing - a thing we did not expect ..... WE found ourselves in a team TOO!!!!?

Honest to goodness, without even setting foot on the pitch, the grown ups have seemingly formed a team of our own.
The kids are a great set of kids, by & large.  The parents, ditto.

It struck me when I mentioned to someone how late & strongly 'beveraged' our nights out with the other 'grown-ups'  have been.  "Yeah, well," was the response "Not surprising I guess, rugby people n'all that".

Funny how it hadn't really occurred to me but, yes, there WAS a high probability that people who would feel positive enough about the sport to encourage their children to do it WERE likely to have similar mindsets.

Expat Life CAN make it hard to make friends.  Sometimes the transient nature of expatdom makes it hard to form strong genuine bonds.  After a while, you kind of stop bothering.  The turnover of good friends made is unpleasantly high.  It is easy & often necessary to make lots of acquaintances but I suspect everyone recognises those connections for what they are.

But, good friendships with people who you are confident you'd be friends with, whatever country, whatever circumstance. Those can be hard to find, anywhere.

And so, it looks like rugby has done it again for us. 

It has brought us good people. Funny people. Fun people. Real people. Friend people.
The rugby season is over here in Dubai (40+ degrees C does tend to stop most things) but we are already looking forward to the start of the Arabian Knights' (now) Under 7s season.

Is it wrong that we are pondering the opportunity for a tour??????