I wander to the light rail, pulling out my Octopus card for the ritual of scanning in and out. Public transport is a foreign concept to me, a native Californian and a country boy at heart. Let there be no false pretense, I am poor, but I am LUCKY. I'm setting out to "Tai Wai Dining Room", a Michelin recognized Cantonese restaurant, as any impoverished chef would do when visiting his wife abroad on a contract. She works for a massive corporation that shall not be named, and will have been here two and a half months before she comes home. She makes great money, and has been my sugar mama this whole entire trip. But she's working, I'm unsupervised, and the dollar is strong here.
I walk out of the train station in Long Ping, five stops from the hotel. I carefully follow Google maps to my destination. I got lost yesterday, and I just hope I don't end up in China with the wrong paperwork. I already know I don't belong. It's been made apparent by the children's stares in public, and the puzzled look on people's faces when I say "Thank you" in their native tongue with no accent, but can't comprehend even a sliver of the ensuing conversation. I'm in their house, and I'm grateful to my hosts.
I walk into the restaurant at 11am, eager to experience a kind of Eastern magic I've never known. I beam at the hostess, seeing I've beaten the lunch rush. I hold up a solitary finger. "One, please", the mutual understanding between countless foreign guests and the keeper of the guestbook, summarized in my very best attempt at charades. In a half-shout she exclaimed "No bookings, full today!". She may have been telling the truth, but it did nothing to numb the ache. I spent every penny I had that wasn't for rent, damn near 24 hours coming to Hong Kong, and time on the train system I was still learning to trust, for what? So she could deny me at the threshold of my dreams and turn them into delusions?
I walked outside, not sure what to do next aside from filling the hole in my heart. I meandered around town. A quick Google search yielded results for another place nearby, and they sold roast goose. That's good enough, right? My thoughts began to cloud as I walked around the overcrowded metropolis. The lingering smell of cigarettes, the old men loudly yelling at their phone on speaker, and the unclear directions from Google swirled until I found myself standing in front of the goose shack. As if they'd already known I was headed their way, the lights were off and the door was closed. "Fuck this city" I mutter to myself. This is the only outburst I'll allow myself, as I quickly remind myself of my American values. I will achieve victory, no matter what that looks like, no matter how many places I have to walk into wordlessly smiling and giving them the thumbs up.
It's okay, I suppose, I needed to pick up another suitcase to bring home everybody's belated Christmas presents anyway. I punched in the address and made my way over, a four minute walk from my current location. Small victories. I walk into a crowded store teeming and toppling with suitcases. After listening to the English speaking saleswoman's spiel for 20 minutes, I bought the suitcase I had come to purchase, anyhow. As I walk out, my stomach roars, and I'm a good listener.
I figure I'll get something familiar, maybe go to the grocery store in the mall by the hotel. "I'm sure it'll be just fine, they have food!" I convinced myself. I head back to the train station, with a sour taste in my mouth. I navigate the sidewalks where I'm constantly dodging other pedestrians who seem to be intent on walking into me. The shoddily paved brick walkways amplify the oppressive forest of skyscrapers I'd found myself in. I'm as far from home as I've ever been. I'm hungry. I recognize the intersection and cross the street back towards the train station, when I'm overcome by a smell.
I followed my nose like a bloodhound, and finally saw a gentle haze of smoke emanating from a small shack. I walk up to the old lady selling skewers and order. She doesn't understand me but calls her daughter over. One beef, one duck, one crispy chicken skin. She places the skewers over the coals, slowly turning them by hand. She smiles kindly as she speaks with another guest, cooking these marinated pieces of meat with sure-handed ease. We exchange cash for food, and I sit on a planter bed wall right next to some old men playing a board game I don't recognize.
I bite in, and all my problems cease to exist. It was there all along. It always was. It always will be. In that moment, my soul danced the old familiar steps it never needed to be taught. These were made by hands that told a story in the food. Struggle, triumph, and the warmth of a grandmother's hug. I pay my bills with food, but she's paid her dues with it. I sat there humbled, knowing how unbelievably lucky I was. I finished my food, threw my trash in the overflowing public bin/ashtray, and thanked her again. I am in HER house, and I'm grateful to my host.
I don't recall the train ride back home. I only had one thing on my mind: I know where that Michelin chef eats when he gets off work.
Written by Dan Ceco 2024