BA5E

have subscribed to the TR cannot wait to get stuck in and have many laughs on the way^

eightblack

My buddy who helped me arrange my flights for this trip wrote me yesterday. He said sorry for the crappy day. Then he said “Oh I thought you were just being creative with your writing…”

Folks this really happened. I’m stuck. Like up to my armpits stuck. In Hong Kong. No Green card. No Go.

I’ll be the first to admit that I have in fact taken some creative license with some of my previous musings, but I promise you – not even I can make this up.

Don’t feel bad though, as I’m camped out in a swanky apartment up on The Peak and about my only real dilemma in the morning is choosing what I want Rose the housekeeper to make me for breakfast. And where I want to go for lunch. And what time should I make myself a G&T (as I get older, that time of the day is decidedly getting earlier and earlier).

It pays to have friends in high places. Actually, it pays to have friends in every expensive city in the world.

I’ve eaten so much Dim Sum in the past 36 hours that I am beginning to look like a glutinous rice ball.

My humorless wife went to the local FedEx store in our town yesterday and apparently she and the other female staff all had a bloomin’ good laugh at my expense. Green Card is in an envelope and winging its way here to HKG.

This truly is a first for me.

To be honest, I didn’t really fight too hard to get back to the US. I suppose I’m lucky in the sense that I didn’t have a boss to call and say “Hey boss, you’ll never guess what happened…?”

My wife is well, you know used to me calling and explaining the predicament of the day to her. This is not her first rodeo.

Now when I call her it goes something like this…

“Hello Petal”
“Police. Paramedic. Or Attorney?”
“What??”
“Choose 1 of the above. Or all 3 if it’s bad”
“I just called to say hello..”
“No you didn’t”
“Yes I did”
“Listen, after 19 long and arduous years of marriage, you just don’t call up out of the blue and ask how I am”
“Well, consider this a first then”
“What have you done now?”
“Nothing” I whimpered

Because she is a Ninja trained Mom, she can tell a lie from a thousand paces. So she decided to try and distract me and change tact.

“How is our daughter?”
“No idea”
“What do you mean no idea”
“I haven’t spoken to her for a few days”
“But I know she is fine because I am watching her move around Melbourne”
“Did you do something creepy with her phone?”
“No”
“What then?”
“I’m just watching her move around Melbourne by what she’s spending on my credit card”
“You gave her a credit card!”
“Yes”
“Are you insane?”
“Probably, but we had to leave some money with her and I thought this was the safest way”
“You’re an idiot”

Then she promptly hung up. I never even had the chance to explain my Green Card predicament to her. So like all courageous husbands, I sent her a text asking her to take it to FedEx and get it here asap.

She knows the boys I am staying with well and is fairly confident that it is hard for me to get into too much trouble with 2 fifty something gay guys. About the only danger I face is being told that my wardrobe sucks and that I should exfoliate more. Whatever that means.

After this little ordeal, I may have a rethink now about getting my US Citizenship.

I decided to occupy my new found house-arrest status by organizing my daughters return flight to the US. I had left he return open, well, because she is 14 years old and like all members of the opposite sex, changes her mind 11 times an hour. I was also hoping that my own mother (or sister) would offer to keep her until she turned 25. But that was wishful thinking.

My weary wife decided that she was going to go meet our youngest in LA because she didn’t trust her clearing immigration and connecting to her DEN flight.

Besides, it was academic. She is an unaccompanied minor according to UA so we had to pony up the $150 bucks to have some airport staffer hold her hand and escort her on and off the plane. Someone had to meet her in Cali anyway.

I had visions of terror.

I don’t know about your kids but our daughter is one of those fiercely independent humans. And now that she is one of those petulant, emotionally unstable things we refer to as teenagers, she is not going to react well when I tell her that a man or a woman from UA’s ground staff in Melbourne is going to escort her all the way to the gate.

Knowing her, she will have convinced them to lend her their credit card, stop and have a chai latte and do a spot of shopping.

In true FT spirit I found a solid looking W fare and then a very generous FT’er, SMFlagg, donated a GPU and the seat went from four million H to 3A in the blink of an eye. My wife thanks you. I thank you. And my ungrateful teenager probably would thank you. Or tell you that those pants you are wearing don’t match the shoes and that you really should think about plucking your eyebrows more often.

She actually does this. I will explain even if you don’t want me to.

As some of you know, your body, when you turn 50, starts to send you visual signals that you are in fact, well beyond in need of an oil change and that you are in fact, more in need of a major overhaul.

The hair on your head falls out at an alarming speed, however it starts to grow back at the same alarming speed from your nose and ears. You start to get very squishy around the middle and when you’re in the shower and look down at the floor all you can see are your feet. Trust me, when you’re a male, that is not a good thing.

You catch up with friends from a bygone era and you say to you wife when you get home “geez, Jack looks old” Or “Holy Cow, Margaret has really let herself go” But then your sympathetic wife reminds you that you are exactly the same age as the both of them and that I might want to take a look in the mirror. When you do, you don’t recognize the ageing human looking back at you.

My next wife though will be cracker. I promise.

I will be sitting innocently on the sofa, watching TV and my daughter will approach me with one of her mobile make up trollies, which looks more like a crash cart you’d find in an ICU ward. Then the tweezers will come out and she will gasp and shriek mildly that there are disgusting hairs growing out my nose and ears and the side of my face and that she must attend to running a weed wacker over every square millimeter of my head.

Let me ask you this. Have you ever had a nose hair plucked out? If you haven’t. try pulling one out of your nose right now. While you’re reading this. Go on. I’ll wait here.

The first time you do it, you will probably cry. Tears will cascade down the side of your face. I don’t care if the last time you cried was when Ronald Reagan was in office. Doing this will make you well up like nothing you’ve ever experienced. Then you will sneeze. Like 25 times in rapid succession.

You will then start to convulse violently.

Your dogs will run and hide under the other couch. And the cat will dial 911 on your behalf.

“Stop being a baby” my daughter will say in a condescending tone
“You’re killing me!!!” I would wail.

And meanwhile my son and wife would both be there with their cameras out taking pictures of me now in agony, writhing around the floor, watching our daughter essentially torture me senseless.

See what my life is like. I may not leave Hong Kong at all now…

obscure2k

eightblack, just when I think your writing can not get more brilliant, your writing becomes more brilliant. ^

SMFlagg

Good to have you back, Simon. Unfortunately my wife already tells me my eyebrows need plucking, but my 3 and 1 year old girls aren't yet lending fashion advice. Unless its for a Trolls necktie or Frozen themed undergarments.

Parterre

I stand corrected: this hasn't made my day. It's made my whole week!

Wickersley

@EB

I know this has been "said" to you many times....but for the love of god, give up this "IT shenanigans" and start doing a proper job - aye; be a travel writer - excellent to see you back

Physci

Oh, my this is brilliant

DFW_CK

I love, love the diatribe on the ironing underwears. My mom in Bangladesh does the same - so ridiculously bizarre.

GenevaFlyer

Actually, in some countries, there may be a reason to this. There are some types of flies (in countries like Pakistan or Senegal), who lay their eggs on humid and warm surfaces, such as laundry drying outside. By ironing this laundry, the eggs are killed before you wear the dried garments.

(And yes, I've personally experienced the impact of such larvae ... it's painful).

GenevaFlyer

Annalisa12

Yeet report!

zagorsky

I am Italian, besides underwear my mum( I am 55yo) does iron socks too. It does not matter wherever you live, paraphrasing Tolstoi, " CARING MOTHERS ARE ALL ALIKE". God bless all our mothers.

Flying Machine

eightblack, I just knocked over my coffee cup onto the the coffee table (no-less). It happend during a fit of hysterics while my foot was moving uncontrollably, and tears of laughter shed down my face. Thank you for making my day Really!

ung1

I'm waiting for the TR when your kids discover FT and read all your TRs about them!

Good to hear you're doing well (or something like that), Simon.

Yoshi212

Oi, it has been almost 2 days. We need our next fix.

eightblack

I never ever get sick of this place and in a weird way, I’m glad I got stuck here. Even if it was my own fault. Mind you my wife thinks I did this on purpose. Which I swear I didn’t.

The thing I love about HKG is well, that it’s still HKG. The DNA is still the same, even if the physical landscape has changed a bit (ok a lot) and the world is dragging us kicking and screaming into the digital age. I mean I miss the old airport. Who doesn’t.

The Peninsula – that Grand Old Lady of a hotel – still has a fleet of Rolls Royces and apparently there is an astonishing view from the mens bathroom on the top floor of the place. However after all the food I’ve eaten over the past 2 or 3 days, the last thing I have time to look at is the view.

It’s a shame that the old Regent hotel is now the InterCon. A real shame. The MTR is still a model of how all cities should approach mass transit. And the Octopus card is a work of technical brilliance.

But a HKG cabbie is still a HKG cabbie. You will simply not find exceptional rudeness like this anywhere else. They make Basil Fawlty look like the Dalai Lama. I love using them. Want to pay with a credit card – driver says get out. Don’t speak Cantonese – get out. Want to put 7 people inside. Ok, get in. They just don’t give a flying toss.

Even their approach to Uber is typical HKG. I’ve been using them a fair bit during my stay and I always strike up a conversation with the drivers.

“How long have you been driving Uber here?” I quizz
“About 6 months”
“Do you like it?”
“Not much. Part time job”
“I see”

I then heard from someone else that Uber is illegal here. So I ask a driver

“Chief, someone told me Uber is illegal in Hong Kong. Is that true?”
“Yes”, they say gleefully
“Then what happens if you get caught”
Shrug of the shoulder
“Dunno” comes the matter of fact reply.

It’s the typical Cantonese way. Commerce is a religion here. Always has been. Always will be.

The sights. The smells. The sounds. It’s uniquely HKG. Unlike Singapore, which is Asia for beginners, Hong Kong has a real, defining character to it. If by chance you haven’t yet visited, put this place on your bucket list. I promise you won’t be disappointed.

My son, after hearing of my predicament seemed to be the only member of our household who showed any genuine interest in my well-being. Apart from the fact that he thinks his compensation for an emergency evacuation should be a new car.

He called me and said.

“Dad are you ok?”
“All good. I’m at Graham and Paul’s. Very trendy. Their housekeeper is taking good care of me”
“Do you want me to help you?”
“Help me how?”
“I can fly to Hong Kong with your green card”
“Really”
“Sure”
“Have you got time?” I said with just a hint of sarcasm
“Yes, I’ve cleared my schedule”
“You have a schedule?”
“Yes, I’m a busy man”
“I’m sure you are”
“And hypothetically speaking, how much might this courier run cost me?”
“How about $500”
“Are you insane!”
“Yes, and via NRT” he said matter of factly
“Really, you want to fly to HKG via NRT”
“Yes, that’s all that’s available in J. I checked”
“So let me get this straight, I have to pull a J class award ticket for you to HKG via NRT, and then fork out $500 in cash, plus pay for the $2500 worth of food you will consume on the way here to rescue me”
“That’s about it”
“You’re a bigger idiot than me”

I changed my return flight yesterday, or was it the day before (I forget), after I technically missed the original CX routing home. The nice lady at AA found me a flight this Sunday from HKG to NRT on JAL in J, and then again on JAL in F to LAX. And then a frightfully long layover in LAX before I connected with an AA flight back home to DEN.

When I was told by FedEx that the soonest I could get my little piece of plastic was going to be Monday HKG time, I had to throw that reservation out the window and start again. So now I’m back on CX again from HKG all the way to LAX and then another stupidly long layover to wait for AA to send a plane to grab me.

I was kinda looking forward to JAL across the water. But CX F is not the worst thing there is. And besides I’m looking forward to catching up with the same staff who wouldn’t let me board on Thursday.

When I check in tomorrow or the next day, I’m going to tell them all that I forgot my passport this time and see what they say. Just for kicks.

Before the world went slightly crazy, more persistent people than me probably could’ve pulled this off. You know, getting on the plane bit. Logically, I had my passport, I had a copy of my green card credentials, the US Federal Government has been crawling up my bottom with one of those slightly scary looking Shark vacuum cleaners ever since I arrived and to prove that I am practically a “Murrican” I married one of their citizens and produced 2 slightly needy and therapy bound children. I couldn’t be more red, white and blue if you paid me. I even admit to liking Country Music.

Normally when you check in, all you need to do with a Green Card is show it to someone and they enter the number into the system and presto, you’re all set. You don’t need to show it to the grumpy immigration people when you leave HKG or Australia because as far as they are concerned, and for the most part, they are looking forward to seeing the back of you.

Had I been allowed to board in HKG, I’m sure that I wouldn’t have been arrested when I got stateside. At least not initially. I’ve already been dragged off for countless “secondary” screenings, which is sort of like going to the Doctors when you are a kid and being told to drop your strides and cough twice. Not the most unpleasant thing in the world but not something that makes you want to rush out and tell the Twitterverse.

Lets go sideways for a minute. Not that I ever stick to a script anyway. So as I was contemplating life this morning on the toilet, in a bathroom with a lot of potpourri and matching hand towels, I was thinking this really is the only time travelling where I have forgotten something which has literally stopped me in my tracks.

It could have been way worse. For one, I got grounded in one of my most favorite places in the Universe. I have friends here. And even a cousin somewhere. I know my way around when I’m sober. I love the food (you know that already). And you can buy beer at every 7-Eleven, and since there are 900 of these convenience stores peppered all over the island, you wont go thirsty for very long. What more could I possibly need.

My daughter is in another country. Just far enough away. My current wife is in another country also. Nearly far enough away. And my son is – well, to be honest, I have no idea where he is. But he cant have gone too far, because the child eats like a Sumo wrestler and now that he’s driving he needs to stay somewhat close to the house given that he still depends on his parents for food. And gas money.

In an attempt to try and teach him some life skills, I did make him get a job this summer. And I did teach him how to drive a car. Actually that happened a while ago, but I digress.

He works at the local bar/restaurant we go to. It is a terrific place. He has started where all teenagers should start. In the kitchen. Washing dishes. After he had his first orientation, he came home with a big grin on his face.

“Dad, this is going to be a great job”
“It is?”
“Yes”
“Why?”
“Because you get a free meal and you can drink as much Mountain Dew as you want”
“Really”
“Yes, and its free”
“Yes, you told me that already”

He's convinced that the restaurant owner is going to go broke as a result of feeding all the staff and letting them drink as much soda as they wanted.

“How much are you getting paid?”
“No idea”
“They didn’t tell you when you went for the interview?”
“I dunno, they might have”
“Do you not remember?”
“Dad, who cares. You get a free meal and unlimited pop”

After the first real shift he came home, exhausted. I asked him,

“So how did it go?”
“Terrible” he exclaimed
“Why, did you not get your free meal and all the Mountain Dew you wanted?”
“Yes” came the reply. But he seemed nowhere near as excited as he was the first time he told me this.
“Then what happened?”
“The lady who was supposed to work with me couldn’t speak any English. And then after about an hour, she ran away”
“She what??”
“She ran away”
“Why?”
“I dunno”
“What did you do to her?”
“Nothing”
“So then I had to do all the dishes myself”

I was quite impressed with Number 1 son because at home, he doesn’t even know that we have a dishwasher. Let alone know how to operate it.

So as I write this, its early Monday morning in HKG. The sun is trying to break through the clouds. I have 2 hours before the nice people at Fedex get to work. I know my Green card is here because I have been checking the shippers website every 11 seconds and the tracking section tells me that the “parcel” is somewhere on Lantau Island.

If it gets here early, I’ll try and jump on the lunchtime flight. If not, then there’s a 5pm flight. And even a red eye flight to SFO. All have seats apparently. Doesn’t mean CX will release one to me though.

I’ll be back in a bit. Just need to go tell Rose to iron my underwear…