The Undersea World of Gary Cousteau

Sunday peeked through our blackout drapes while butterflies scattered throughout my belly. This morning Tony, Krystal and I are going scuba-diving. Kim is accompanying me on the boat ride out to the dive site in order to file the life insurance claim as quickly as possible.

First a welsh woman named Ingrid appraised our bodies to get us properly equipped. God, I felt like such a piece of meat! I was handed a set of flippers (we divers call them “fins”), a wet suit, a mask and a belt holding lead weights and enough leftover gnocchi’s to hold me underwater. Curiously Kim made the helpful suggestion that they also put my feet into concrete galoshes. I started to wonder if this whole scuba diving thing was such a swell idea after all as I managed to put the wet suit on backwards and lose my sunglasses before the lesson even started. But I wasn’t the only one struggling as Krystal returned her fins asking if they had something in a three inch heel instead. Tony is a certified diver which meant that he would be snapping photographs while I planned to flail around gasping for breath.

The lesson took place in a small pool, and consisted of simple instructions including the signals used to communicate underwater. I was particularly amused by the calm shoulder to shoulder motion that was intended to convey that, “Hey, I’m out of oxygen.” My mother-in-law, Carol, commented later that this display was remarkably similar to the sign of the cross. I’m pretty sure that despite this tutorial, if I ran out of air, they'd know because I’d be ripping the regulator out of Ingrid’s mouth and putting it in mine… let her make the sign! I paid surprisingly close attention to the whole thing though and passed the brief in water drills with flying colors. Of course, under these circumstances, if anything went awry, then I could simply stand up. And, there was nary a shark in sight!

The boat trip to the dive area went by too quickly. At station, Ingrid explained that she would be bringing us to a shark cage that had been blown up by the “Mythbusters” guys, and then we’d see the wreck of an airplane used as a stunt in a scene from Jaws 4. I wasn’t crazy about all this shark talk, and worried that instead of seeing me return to the surface, Kim would see a Great White wiping it's lips and making the international sign for “Check Please!” But I soon garbed up in wet suit, fins, mask, etc. Everything was swell except that I couldn’t get up! Nothing to worry about, it turned out that there was a bungee cord over the tank holding me fast in place. I was the last one in the water as I was rather unceremoniously tossed overboard about a moment after Ingrid said to me, “Oops, let’s turn this on and give you some air.” My vest was deflated and I slowly felt myself submerging below the surface. Unfortunately, I was the caboose in a long line of novice divers pulling themselves along the anchor rope to the bottom. I passed one person, then another…Krystal, I think? She looks different when surrounded by bubbles, who can be sure? Every few feet, I stopped to equalize as instructed by the pool. This involves holding your nose and blowing into it until you feel your ears pop a little. The air has to go somewhere, of course, so I worried that if my ears didn’t pop, then bubbles would be escaping from less polite orifices.

Finally, I reached the end and the instructor signaled me to take a knee in the nearby sand. I gotta tell you, I was pretty proud! There I was sucking oxygen, about twenty feet underwater and, as far as I could tell, not having the least bit of difficulty. Tony was already there coolly clicking away on his underwater camera. We took snapshots of each other and I looked around nervously taking stock of the environment while keeping Tony within sight. The remaining scuba time seemed very disorganized. I couldn’t tell who was who for instance. I followed different swimmers about without seeing anything resembling a cage or a plane. However, I was surrounded by large colorful fish (snappers, I think) and small blue ones that looked just like Dory in “Finding Nemo”. Floating above the coral was kind of a neat effect and the whole experience was kind of surreal. After some period of time, a blond diver, who I took to be Ingrid, signaled me to follow her. Unfortunately, she led me back to the anchor line and flicked her thumb up in an unmistakable message to return to the boat.

That night we decided to wander over to the fabulous Atlantis Resort on Paradise Island. The towering buildings stand out like a Disney Park above the Florida swampland. And, inside, the resort has all the garish opulence of a Las Vegas Hotel. We located the aquarium, and spent around an hour exploring this wonderful attraction. I had no idea that a ray could be so gargantuan. One passed us with a wing span of about twenty feet. There were thousands of lobsters, jellyfish, moray eels, sharks, and other fauna that I was pleased to meet now rather than during my little dive expedition.

We asked around for an inexpensive place to eat, and guest services suggested that we try Little Havana in Miami… ha ha. But, we traversed another, larger Casino and found a grille that would do. Gigunda yachts were docked outside the windows by where we sat. It’s hard to imagine that kind of wealth, and I tried to take solace in the fact that those boats are no fun for tubing or water skiing.

The Zen of Jet Skiing

Saturday arrived with the sun wrestling the wind for control of the temperature. In the morning, the breeze was ahead on points so we decided to head downtown to shop for awhile. But the first order of business was the next meal challenge. The breakfast buffet, originally deemed too expensive, became manna from heaven when we factored in the customary taxi rip-off. After our repast, we boarded the #10 bus ($1.25 per person, exact change only) for a twenty minute trip to Nassau center.

We were in the midst of great disparity in wealth. Unbelievably enormous cruise ships towered over the modest city skyline and lined up at Prince George’s Wharf right alongside an army of hawkers pushing deals on scooters, carriage rides, hand made trinkets and now infamously priced cabs. We passed elegant stores selling Rolex watches, Gucci, jewelry, and upscale fashions, followed by T Shirt shops and a fellow pushing his sculptures made entirely out of coke cans.

After a couple of hours we were weary, unburdened by purchases and looking for the bus stop. We turned a corner to find a crowd of #10 buses bunched. Several men in dirty clothes drank from paper bags, sucked on cigarettes and beckoned us to board. Fortunately, our driver appeared to be sober and was bearing the familiar bored countenance of the T personnel back home. In fact if he started texting as soon as pulled away from the curb then I think he would have qualified for that very position.

Back at the Sheraton, we changed quickly and made our way back out to the pool. Soon talk turned to renting Jet Skis. Well, truth be told, I was the one incessantly jabbering on about it until Kim and Tony conceded that that was a fine idea, if only to get me off the subject. Kim negotiated a fine deal of $100 for an hours ride, including the tip. This was my first turn at jet skiing, so naturally a large Bahamian man had to jump on the sled and reach around me to explain the controls. It didn’t take me long to master “dis on, dis off, dis your gas, no brakes”. It took me longer to figure out his last instruction, “no crazy drivin’!” I asked him to point me toward Miami and off I went like a bat out of hell. In full disclosure, my first couple passes were more like a turtle out of heck, but each turn brought greater confidence and velocity.

What a blast! Riding over the crest of waves and smashing on the trailing surf with warm ocean spray drenching me completely. I was literally laughing out loud all by myself until the wall of salt water threatened to drown out my insane giggling. After one particularly crushing slam, the engine cowl popped off. I reached up and banged it back into place noticing a menacing crack in the plastic cover… no way I did that, did I?

I swung back to shore to pick up Kim. During the slow ride back out she kept up a steady rap in my ear, “Remember go slow! I’m on the back don’t forget! Don’t be crazy!” Kim ended up showing a mixed appreciation for the sport. First wave: “Whoa!” Second wave: “Wheee!” Next one: “Slow down!” And so on.

After several minutes of moderate joy-riding, I dropped Kim off on the beach and headed back out into the surf. After a few more runs, unencumbered by inexperience and the voice of reason behind me, I was now at a relatively blistering (some might say break-neck) speed, I was chased down by one of the Jet Ski guys and summoned to return to “port”. I toweled off and offered that I couldn’t believe an hour had passed by so quickly. Unbeknownst to me, Tony had checked the time before we launched, and sure enough, we were owed about another twenty minutes. My cute, bikini clad, wife marched across the sand and approached the rather rotund Bahamian managing the Jet Ski operation to give him a piece of her mind… a rather precious commodity, by the way. “Ali” wisely conceded to my angry, little swimsuit model and offered Tony and me another half hour of frolicking in the surf whenever we wanted.

After showering, it was once again time to choose a dinner venue. We walked through the Casino (no small task for certain members of our party who know for certain which of the machines are just about to yield their fortune), and on the back end (so to speak) found a buffet for $35.59 per person (fifty-nine cents?). There was a sumptuous spread of food before us, not a hideous cab ride away. This place was just the ticket!

Vacationing with Kim's Family

After a short hiatus, I was once again a traveling man. This time for "pleasure".

The plans for this dream family vacation were slow to get out of the gates, but enthusiasm can be contagious, and before long, my brother-in-law, Tony was e-mailing me a Jet Blue itinerary. The idea was to take my Mother-in-law, Carol, away for a warm holiday. Together, Tony and my wife, selected the Bahamas as our destination. At first Carol balked, but soon she joined Kim and Tony’s girlfriend Krystal in the blitzkrieg diet and exercise routine which ordinarily portends any vacation involving bathing suits of course.

As the next few weeks passed, Tony, Krystal and I began planning events like Jet Skiing and Scuba Diving, which, as we all know, are probably the number one and number two most popular Senior Citizen holiday activities. I’m pretty certain Carol will join us for the cliff diving too… after all, how much of a splash can a slimmed down version of my mother-in-law make?

The trip got off to an exciting and unexpected start. Tony arranged for a limo to take us to Logan Airport, and we all gathered at her Mom’s house to await its arrival. We surmised that, given the size of our party and the number of suitcases required to cover three women for four days, we’d need a van with the displacement of the Maersk Alabama. Instead, a gleaming stretch Hummer drew around the corner and pulled to a stop in front of the house. Squeals of child-like delight exploded from our party and my proximity to Tony garnered me a few unearned, but welcome hugs. Gotta Love Italian Families!

After a quick stop at Carol’s workplace, to show off the limo and her doting children, we turned toward Logan. We were naturally curious about our ride’s amenities and clicked or flipped every switch within reach. At one point, we decided to test the TV. There was a phone that was a direct line to our chauffeur, Lee. I picked up this Bat-phone and asked him if the TV was working. Lee replied, “Sorry, but the cable just pulled out!” I wonder how many times he’s used that line.

Everything went smoothly at the airport, and we spent about an hour touring Terminal C, while staying close to the doors so that certain smokers in our party could get their fill. Eventually, we made our way to the gate and boarded, expecting to occupy the entire row 18. Unfortunately, we found a couple of young women sitting in 18C and 18F. Somehow Carol and her boyfriend Peter were assigned seats further aft in Row 24. I always believe in the whole "making lemonade" thing, so I asked the Flight Attendant refused to explain to my Mother-In-Law that First Class is in the back of the plane. He refused, and so everyone froze in place and chatted on and on about what to do. The queue up the fuselage started to back up like a busload of Senior Citizens at the Christmas Tree Shop the day after social security checks arrive. Finally, the two ladies relented and offered to move… ostensibly to be nice, but I bet they simply wanted to get as far away from us as possible.

Aloft, we learned that the only non-functioning headrest TV’s on the entire plane happened to be ones facing Krystal, Kim and me. The slightly effeminate Flight Attendant explained that this inconvenience had earned us free drinks. The ladies quickly ordered up two Vodka and Cranberry Juices, while across the way, I caught Carol trying to sabotage the wire connections to her own screen. The overly attentive flight attendant may not have been as gay as I thought, because he frequently paused to offer the girls additional nips.

A few hours later we landed in Nassau and Kim was tickled to get her virgin passport stamped, or perhaps this was simply the vodka settling in. From there, we took a ten minute taxi ride to the Sheraton Resort at Cable Beach which lightened my wallet by $36. There seems to be a horrible shortage of shock absorbers on New Providence Island as each bump in the road loosened my fillings and threatened to dump us out of our seats.

Check in placed us all on the second floor, one down from the lobby. I was a little worried that we were in the basement, but Carol & Pete’s room had a lovely view of the pool and ocean front. A bit further on, Tony & Krystal’s pad had an equally good perspective. Only then, did Kim and I realize that our room was the only one with an odd number. Sure enough, we opened the door and peered at the façade of a building right next to the hotel with several piles of building materials filling the gap in between. Just freakin’ lovely!

We spent the rest of the afternoon jumping in the ocean for a swim, and exploring our new digs a bit. The water was all wrong though. First of all the color’s off. Whoever heard of teal seawater? As I plunged into the surf I was stunned not to feel my skin shock chilled as if immersed in liquid nitrogen as proper ocean water like what you find off of Cape Cod. It was… well… warm! In fact, by comparison, the air was a bit bracing.

Later, we gathered in the lobby to debate where to eat. The Café was deemed too expensive of a buffet, the Italian restaurant menu proved to be even more startling priced. We asked a bell hop for his suggestion of an inexpensive place to eat, located nearby. He quickly offered up the “Fish Fry” and summoned a cab for us. The woman driving the van handed a fin over to our restaurant advisor and we all piled in. About five minutes later we were unceremoniously deposited in a square of small ramshackle pubs and diners. Our van driver led us into the Fish Fry and spoke to the guy running the bar. My guess is that she bribes the hotel guys to get her fares and then, in turn, gets a kick back from the establishments wherever she delivers the unwary tourists. This short ride cost another $40 but dislodged several kidney stones.

It took thirty minutes for the staff to deliver our complicated drink order consisting of four bottles of water, a bottle of beer and a can of cranberry juice. My guess is that they couldn’t afford the taxi ride to a convenience store to pick up our drinks and had to walk. The meal took even longer. Despite Pete haranguing every waitress in the place, our plates didn’t make an appearance for over an hour. In total, we took up residence at the Fish Fry for about three hours. It took longer to consume dinner, than it did for us to fly to the Bahamas. Had I known, I’d have ordered ahead while Carol and Pete re-dosed with nicotine outside Logan’s Terminal C that morning.

We pooled our money to rent another bone-crunching ride back to the hotel and resolved to learn the bus system on the morrow.

We Gotta Get Out of This Place!

I’m heading home today!

But first, a trip to a printing company that Nelson and JC had discovered. The place was, well, an old shithole. We held our meeting upstairs around a Coffee table set with a well used Tea pot and cups. We were greeted by a friendly mutt who periodically nuzzled JC’s back pack (he probably stored a few snacks in there), and would slide his snout under my hand for a pat. I was informed that his name meant “fat” in Mandarin. He was definitely plus-sized, but hardly a canine version of Kirstie Alley. At one point in the conversation, a lady put Fat into a secretarial chair and pushed him over to our meeting. I have to say, he didn’t contribute a helluva lot, but I still enjoyed his company more than the company president spilling steaming hot water over flavored tea leaves for our benefit at the other end of the table. A few minutes into the discussion, some guy came over, pushed JC’s notebook aside and grabbed the newspaper underneath. He sat down next to JC, oblivious to protocol (which clearly states "thou shalt not interrupt a meeting unless there's a fire or you are a family pet the size of Big Papi") and began reading said newspaper.

I had to see if these guys were for real, and asked for a plant tour. Bad idea. The flexo press was running solvent inks with zero air handling. I was getting high on the pungent fumes. My god, how do the operators spend their day inhaling that stuff? That kind of experience is actually a bit humbling and makes me very fortunate that I don’t have to do something like that to provide for my family.

“Fat” was kind enough to show us out, and we headed back to my hotel to get my things.

My first flight is on China Airlines to LAX. Everything went okay except for someone nearby with a loose sphinter! Every few minutes he drops another bomb and I was forced to bury my nose under my blanket until the toxic cloud evaporated! I don’t know what he had eaten earlier, but we cannot let that meal fall into the hands of our enemies. Reeling from yet another inhuman release made me long to be back smelling the solvent during this morning’s press tour.

I departed Taiwan at 4:40 PM Wednesday, flew for over fifteen hours and arrived in Los Angeles at 1:25 PM… three hours earlier than I left. Man these modern jets can go fast!

I've Never Seen Rachel Ray Serve This

Nelson and JC (my colleagues in Hong Kong) met me at the Hotel at 8 AM. We took a taxi to the High Speed Rail for our trip to see a key supplier. The High Speed Train zips along at about 300 miles an hour through the Taiwanese countryside. Factory, then Temple, then Farm, then Rice Paddy, then Apartment building… these people have never heard of zoning.

Our supplier, SBI, gave their entire day over to us. We watched them run Ash colored material, then coat the adhesive on the backside of some Snow hued film. At around noon, their Director, brought us in some box lunches. Not exactly sandwiches from Panera. I lifted the cover and found most of the space filled with a whole dried fish. The poor creature’s baleful eyes looked up at me so pitifully, that I had to set him aside with a piece of kelp over its face. I ate a few tiny morsels of what I think was beef (don’t tell me otherwise, okay?) and the steamed rice was fine. But you gotta try to be a little adventurous, and so I snapped up a pinkish disk between my chopsticks and asked JC what I was about to ingest. “Octopus” he replied matter of factly. Then he clarified himself with, “Well Octopus tentacles”, like he was worried that I’d think the head was too gross but the tentacles are as ordinary as French fries or something. To be truthful, it wasn’t very tasty, kind of chewy, and yet oddly still more appealing that the little brown guppy cowering nearby under the seaweed.

We returned to Taipei in a warm rain. I wanted to meet Nelson’s staff, and so we went to the Simeb Taiwan Sales Office. There I greeted Peter and Lisa warmly.

They were anxious to treat me well and to that end Nelson had made a reservation for all of us at a nearby, very swanky Taiwanese Steakhouse. We walked down the street, all the while Peter was scampering alongside of me, trying desperately to keep me covered with his umbrella. Man, a fella could get used to this sort of treatment! The meal was wonderful and arrived in several courses. They were amused to watch me nibble on some yellow, vaguely familiar fruit. “Do you know what that is?” “Nope”, I answered. “It’s watermelon”. “You’re kidding!” I said amazed. Apparently this sun-colored watermelon is unique to Taiwan. It tasted like the real thing, seeds and all. Next, I dipped my spoon into a split Kiwi, and teased them with, “And I suppose this is an orange”. Everyone laughed which was a great relief. Between the language barrier and my somewhat unique sense of humor, I worry that I'm acting like any other American boor

If this is Sunday, then it Must Be Taipei

I awoke with my eighth straight migraine. Is it the pollution, the paint fumes, nerves? I don’t know, but I’m hopeful that either Taiwan will bring relief or the pills that Kim sent will arrive in time to stave off the next one.

I bid adieu to Stan, left a note thanking Pat and grabbed a Taxi to the Airport Express Train in Central. I’m starting to sound like an expert, eh? The train set up is actually pretty cool. I approached the Cathay Pacific ticket agent right there at the station. So, I was able to secure my Boarding Pass and shed my checked bag and then jump on the train for the forty five minute ride to the airport.

Unfortunately, I made the rookie mistake of packing my toiletries in my carry-on. Therefore, I was halted at security while they removed and threw away my shampoo, after shave, underarm deodorant and shaving cream. Great! Now I’m going to have buy replacement items in Taiwan, but at least the plane will be safe from the threat of good hygiene.

Cathay’s business class was very accommodating. Each of us had our own tiny, but relatively private cubicle. I wish I had one of these on the flight over. I think the wall would have been decent protection from the aforementioned Bea and the space was so narrow that she probably couldn't have squeezed her elephantine circumference in between. Too bad the flight from Hong Kong to Taipei is so short. Still, I stretched out flat and napped for a few minutes just ‘cause I could, y’know?

Shortly after checking in to the Hotel, I stepped into a nearby mall searching for my new set of toiletries. It took me a long time to locate a small display of Men’s stuff at a store peddling sundries. I guessed at the deodorant and shaving cream based upon what the picture of the Asian fellow was doing to himself on the label. There was one selection of after shave that smelled like toilet cleaner, so I decided to let my face go commando for a couple of days instead of leaving people with a lingering scent of Scrubbing Bubbles.

I ended up wasting most of the rest of the day working and watching TV for the first time in about a week.

Stalley, I Presume

It was a holiday here in Hong Kong, called the Qingming Festival (pronounced “Ching Ming”). Gweilos (Caucasians) refer to it as Tomb Sweeping Day because of its most obvious ritual. That is, the Chinese clean and honor the graves of their dead… I guess a bit akin to Memorial Day but with a lot of symbolism. As a result of the celebration, Sunday got off to a slow start. Even the gym didn’t open until an hour later than usual.

I took a twenty minute walk to the Stanley Market. There, along a string of pubs hugging the promenade, it appeared that most of the Ex-Pats were busy observing Qingming in their own way by honoring cases of dead soldiers.

It’s a rather quaint area of restaurants, shops, the aforementioned pubs with a museum anchoring the far end of the square. Families playfully patrol the walkway by the bay, while out on the water, a dozen brightly colored sail boarders mingled with ten man canoes and a large Chinese junk. For awhile, I simply wandered about nursing a delicious chocolate & vanilla gelato. Finally, I dove into the narrow alleyways that are lined with a warren of little shops. Clothing, jewelry, knock-off brands and Asian “hand made” goods filled the spaces. The shopkeepers hawked their wares with an annoying rap intended to draw you into their snare. Once you showed even a moment of curiosity, they wouldn’t leave you alone. Apparently in this neck of the woods, “No” means “Show me more of your stuff”, and “Leave me alone” stands for “Offer me less money”. There were only two ways to escape: buy something, or rudely push past them. The stalls were packed with merchandise and excited tourists. One fairly inexperienced shopper, namely me, was wary but excited to see what a good deal I could get on “genuine” D & G purses for instance (the answer is two for about twenty bucks). I think my Mother-In-Law would think she was in paradise.

Stan was feeling a bit under the weather, so I blew most of the afternoon on a shopping spree! Kim would be so proud of me! Although I don’t want to reveal to her my newly discovered stamina for schmucking around… let’s keep that our little secret okay? Later Stan and I returned to Stanley for a couple of drinks at the Smuggler’s Pub. I watched as the little bartender, Gladys pushed drinks on a couple of older fellows in the company of very young, pretty Filipino women. Apparently the rent-a-date trade was booming in Hong Kong as well.

Goodbye Hong Kong!

Every morning when I come to work, I pass by this sculpture that I swear looks familiar… but I can’t place it. On this last day of the week, it finally hits me. I think the model for this piece was sitting in the seat beside me on the flight from Chicago to Hong Kong! Must be from a scene in some Chinese twisted version of “The Wizard of Oz” or perhaps explains how the thong was originally invented. Anyway, I can tell you that passing this artwork sure makes for a light lunch.

It was a terrific week. I got tons of work done, became more familiar with the Hong Kong staff and hopefully provided some measure of reassurance after the recent staff actions. The place is amazingly quiet, and the staff wonderfully industrious. All that pent up socializing comes to the fore at lunch time when a gaggle of folks crowd around the one small table in the break room. The space is filled with delightful aromas, busy chopsticks and boisterous conversation.

I don’t agree with those that claim that the Hong Kong staff works longer hours. They do stay later, but workers also start one or two hours later than their colleagues in the USA. However, the combination of a miniscule number of meetings and far less chit-chat, would seem to help them spend their day more productively. I know I did, and that I will miss a lot!

With my reputation of axing people, I’m going to guess that they weren’t sorry to see me go though.

There is simply a ton of people in Hong Kong. It seems like as though everyone strives to control their individuality even when immersed in a sea of their countrymen. Most people walk to work shoulder-to-shoulder with thousands of others, but intently listening to their Ipods trying to establish their pseudo-aloneness. On the way out, the Ipods are replaced with cell phones stuck to their ears, holding one-on-one conversations while bustling down the escalator. God forbid that you forget something at 9 AM or 6 PM, and turn to retrieve it. You’ll have an excellent sense of the challenge a salmon faces heading upstream to spawn.

I decided to do a little exploring by taking the Hong Kong subway. It is an extremely well organized system. You touch your destination on a map and the trip cost is automatically calculated. The ticket pops out after you deposit the appropriate change and off you go.

The trains are so full that people wait in a polite queue to be squished into the next car. When it’s apparent that the door won’t close if you step in, the front of the line simply halts quietly and awaits the next one. No shoving, dirty looks or cutting in line. Amazing!

When I eventually board, I grasp a handle and smile in a weird satisfaction that among this population I’m about average height. My nose isn’t pressed against some armpit and I can see pretty clearly up and down the train. These are my peeps!

Our New Digs

As you can see, I made it “home” okay.

I packed up my stuff for the third time in my trip because this is the last time I’ll be in the company’s old apartment. After work tonight, we’ll come back to our new residence at the “Manhattan” also overlooking Repulse Bay.

My issue of the day is that I’m running out of cash. There are several ATM’s around, but none of them accept my debit cards. Well to be truthful, I can’t recall the PIN number for my business card and apparently I’m lousy at guessing. So I try my good old personal card from Rollstone Savings Bank. Somewhere back in Fitchburg, alarms are peeling as the system cannot imagine a Rollstone customer needing cash in Hong Kong and my entreaties are soundly rejected. As a man, I figure I can brute force this transaction though and slide the card back in… this time angrily. This stupid ATM clearly doesn’t understand its mission at all! The queue behind me is beginning to back up, and I’m embarrassed to turn around empty handed, so I try the Simeb card again… this time with an old phone number. Dammit!

Back upstairs, I send a plea back to our finance department to either tell me my PIN or reset it to a new one. I’m sure they’ll take care of it in the morning and make up insulting names for me like “PINhead”, but in the end they’ll help me right?

I’m sitting there in my office considering selling my body fluids, when Stan walks by. There’s nothing more difficult to do than ask your Boss for money, but what if my Chinese fails me again and I end up a street waif?

Stan floats me some cash and then makes me pay for lunch.

The new apartment is smaller, but still very nice. Patty (the Housekeeper) has most of the stuff put away by the time we get home. The first thing I check out is to make sure her homemade brownies survived the trip.

Say What????

I worked late into Wednesday night, participating in a video conference with Simeb US followed by a telecon with our ERP Partner. With the time stretching to 8:30 PM or so, I figured my wife Kim would be at work, so why not see her on the telly too.

So I call and tell her to come to the Board Room. There, I connect us using the video technology and we “see” each other for the first time in almost a week! Unfortunately, I think Kim became frustrated when she couldn’t find any show to watch other than Gary’s Face. And, wouldn’t you know it, no DVR either!

After our “call”, I was once again taking a solo cab ride. All of the taxis in Hong Kong are painted a deep red color, which I suspect was selected to hide the splayed entrails of unwitting tourists who fail to look right when stepping off the curb. As a former British Commonwealth, Hong Kong cars drive on the left (or wrong by our standards) side of the road. After a while you get adjusted to it, but it’s easy to have a lifetime of pedestrian habits place you in mortal danger if you’re not paying attention. You glance to your left for oncoming traffic and go to cross the street only to have a speeding car coming from your blind side on the right.

Another interesting thing (to me at least) about the cabs here is that the driver can open the back door by pulling a lever on the floor next to the steering wheel. This is precisely what my driver does as I approach his taxi for the ride home and I hop in. I tell him, “101 Repulse Bay”. It’s clear that to him I might as well have been speaking pig latin. So I grab my cheat sheet and give it my best Chinese, “Yat Ling Yat Chin Soy Wan”. He looks at me with the same expression I have when Kim is talking to me about relationship dynamics. Fortunately, he has a resource that can help and he gives me the microphone. I tell the unseen dispatcher where I want to go, and the fellow squawks clear directions to my man in the front seat. At least I hope so. For all I know, he’s told the driver to go as fast as he can around a curve and then pull the mysterious lever knocking this idiot American to the curb in the middle of nowhere.

Lone Wolf

I needed to meet someone at the office very early (7 AM), so today I set off to our Hong Kong offices on my own for the first time. I followed Stan’s directions precisely, finding a guard at the apartment to summon a taxi for me. I had written down the phonetic pronunciation of the instructions that I was to give the driver. “Tie Koo Fung, through the Aberdeen Tunnel” I told him confidently. “No Aberdeen” came the reply. Oh-Oh. I repeated myself, this time more authoritatively so it sounded like an order. Once again, he answered with “No Aberdeen”.

Either this guy didn’t know how this whole taxi driver/customer relationship is supposed to work, or Stan gave me bad instructions (intentionally for his own amusement?), or perhaps this guy knew something that I wasn’t aware of. To play it safe I showed him one of our business cards, printed in Cantonese. Taxi man seemed satisfied with this evidence of my destination and pulled away from the curve. Still, as he pulled into traffic, he felt compelled to put me in my place and muttered, “No Aberdeen”.

No matter what tunnel he chose, everything was fine and twenty minutes later I was delivered to Warwick House East, home of Simeb Hong Kong.

Before heading upstairs, I decided to grab a coffee. Starbucks wasn’t opened yet, and they didn’t brew at either the Seven Eleven or the Circle K (although I grabbed a day old USA Today while I was there). How can a coffee shop not be open at 6:30 AM? I guess this is what happens when normal start time doesn’t come until nine. So I crossed the street and bravely purchased a cup of Joe from the nearby McDonald’s of all places.

The joint was immaculate, and none of the booths were filled with tattooed, inked, burned out teenagers as back home. I was handed my coffee in a cute little plastic bag designed for that purpose and which kept the scalding liquid from spilling onto my hand.

I had a great morning of productivity and then stepped out at the appointed hour (12:15 PM) for my lunch break. Surrounding the office building is a plethora of little cafes and American fast food chains. Naturally Stan selected a small deli-like place called “Café Einstein” that was tucked behind an alley. I decided to go with a hot lunch and ordered the curried lamb on a bed of rice. I think India invented curried flavorings, so I ended up being served Indian food, by a Thai woman, from a café named for an Austrian in the city of Hong Kong. Pretty cosmopolitan place, eh?

I ate at my desk reading about yesterday’s events. About an hour later, I discovered that “curried” must be the Hindu word for laxative.

The office is very quiet. I don’t know if this is the regular ambiance or a consequence of Stan and me being here. But everyone stays busy. I notice very little chit-chat and practically no meetings! I could learn to love this place.

I am greeted with curious looks and sheepish smiles. I’m sure most of the staff doesn’t even know who I am. That’s my problem to fix. There are a lot of empty cubicles and offices… no doubt a result of the slowing economy. Outside my office window I look directly onto a grungy apartment building. To the right is a lush mountainside, and to the left a gigantic, brand new skyscraper. As Stan says, the view seems to capture all of the prevailing elements of the Hong Kong cityscape.

Handed the Keys to the Kingdom

For a country with so few guns and so little crime, the people of Hong Kong sure are security conscious. For instance, I showed up at the office building and greeted a Security Guard stationed at the elevator bank. From there I rode a small lift up to the seventh floor of the Warwick which houses our Hong Kong offices. You wave your electronic pass at the small panel by the door and listen for the lock to pop free. This gets you into the technical center by passing through one of the conference rooms. In order to gain access to the general office area, you depress a switch alongside the door frame which frees up these locked doors.

For the moment you are all set. But, further safety precautions await your trip to the water closet. The offices do not have their own bathrooms. Instead, there are common restrooms on each floor of the building. In order to prevent unfettered access to the bathrooms, the back door leading out to the hallway is also locked, so be sure to bring your electronic pass along with your sports page when nature calls.

Of course, you can’t simply step into the washroom, no no no. They give you a separate, regular key that you’ll need to unlock the bathroom door. And, like pretty much everywhere else in the world, you can slide the stall’s deadbolt into place before you sit down. I’m pretty sure that the Secret Service hid Vice President Dick Cheney in a nearby handicapped stall back on 9/11.

Back in the States where the only prerequisite to obtaining a Firearm license seems to be a history of mental instability, we generally secure the premises with nothing more than stern looks. At my company, Simeb Inc., if a door isn’t open then its Christmas Day. And in this unlikely event, you can usually find a first floor office where the occupant inadvertantly left their window ajar.

Recently, I explained to a new woman receptionist about the emergency alarm located at the front desk. Sonia wasn’t even aware that the secret switch was there. Anyway, in the course of showing her how it worked, I ducked under the desk to discover that, lo and behold, it’s not even hooked up. I'm not the handiest guy around but when I emerged holding a fistful of wires, I was certain that they needed to be connected to something in order to quietly alert the police. With even this minimal system on the fritz, our receptionists couldn’t defend us with anything more than bad coffee and rude manners. So far, fortunately, that's been enough of a deterrent.

I Can See Clearly Now

Not too much to report today. There was a front page story in the Sunday China Post talking about the effect of the cool weather on the Annual Rugby Tournament. It never quite got out of the low 80’s today either.

I pretty much stayed close to my room most of the day in order to acclimate my sleep cycle to the Hong Kong time. I did work out in the hotel gym which was reasonably well equipped for the purpose. But each machine baffled me because it was gauged to the metric system. How fast did I want the treadmill to go? Whoa… nine kilometers an hour was a bit too brisk, and four was about equal to a furniture shopping pace with my wife. “Goldilocks” finally settled on 6.8 km/hr. I liked that it sounded fast too.

Later in the day, my boss Stan popped by the hotel and we braved the frigid air (fortunately, he was wearing his insulated sandals) to find a restaurant. Stan knew the area well and we walked for about twenty minutes until we found the Australian Stump Steakhouse. I pulled on my glasses to read the menu and the left lens (the one I need, of course) plopped onto the table. I held it together with my fingers and quickly examined the entrees looking for rib eye. I had packed two pairs of reading glasses for the trip, and a couple of days into it, I don’t have any working spectacles left.

On the upside, it turned out that the beef was the best stump meal I’d ever had (whatever the hell that means). Stan knew the manager and he asked her if the kangaroo was any good. “Mae” suggested that a kangaroo was too cute to eat. I guess this is why you never see Golden Retriever on the menu. Still, we gave it a go and each of us partook of a kangaroo shish kabob. My skewer held three small morsels of rather bland meat. (Don’t worry, between the two of us we didn’t even consume a Joey’s worth!). It was just okay, especially for a marsupial, but next time I think I’ll go with the Gator. That’s right… there was an alligator meat appetizer too. Or maybe it was crocodile. I can’t really tell the difference, especially when they are charbroiled. And, as the old saying goes “some days the gator eats you, but on other days you eat the gator”.