Hong Kong International

By 7:00 Thursday morning I was standing in the immigration line at the Hong Kong International Airport. I was worried because I flew in on a one-way ticket without having my work visa fully processed. The flight clerk who checked me in back home was sure to warn me; "Hong Kong reserves the right to refuse entry to anyone without a return ticket or a visa." I was fairly confident I could use my words to wiggle into the country on a tourist visa, but I wasn't totally confidnet. (A tourist visa lasts 90 days, a work visa lasts for 12 months).

"I'm hoping to do some tourism and visit some friends in the New Territories."
"I'm going to see a few sights and spend some money in your beautiful country, sir."

I practiced answers in my head, sure they would ask, "What is the purpose of your visit to Hong Kong Mr. Poole?" I wanted to answer honestly but ambiguously, not telling them too much, but just enough to get in. And I had to do it without sounding like I was hiding something. (Flying El Al out of Israel changes the way you think of flying).

The line I was standing in looked like a spade coop, a fresh mix of fleshy tones. Pakistani families, Indians, Korean workers, Chinese businessmen, British, Australian students, Americans, all waiting to enter Hong Kong. A flat screen hung in a place where the line could watch. It was a feature about the airport, a man-made island on the coast of Lantou. When you run out of land in Hong Kong you just build on the sea.

"I'm coming to visit some friends at a local school."
"I don't have a return ticket because I'm not sure which way I'm leaving."

With only a few people in front of me I began to case the immigration officers. I hoped I might be called to one of the kinder looking ones, but they were all doing a good job at looking, well, like immigration officers.

"Next."

With only one family in head of me, things slowed down because, a Pakistani family got held up at one of the stations. I was thinking, "they must be traveling on a one-way ticket."

"Next."

I walk up to the station and slide my passport under the window. Fifteen seconds later ... she begins stamping my passport. "Welcome," she said, and that was it.

I'm in.

Dragons

The Mandarine Pine, a Chinese restaurant in Lewiston I used to visit, had the Chinese Zodiac on their disposable place-mats. My family used to argue about which animal is best, but there's really no point. The answer is so clear it's dangerous: the dragon.

I'm a dragon. That means I was born in the year of the dragon, and I am most compatible with monkeys and rats.

Next year is the year of the dragon. Since I'll be in Hong Kong for eight months, I'm going to try and catch one. This blog is set up to document my attempts.

I think my chances are good. In Hong Kong dragons don't live in computers, they live in the mountains. Dragons are so rampant there's even a building there, between the mountains and the water, with a dragon-door — a doggy-door for dragons. Apparently a local fung shui expert was consulted before the building was built; he said there was a dragon living in the mountains that came down and watered in the cove. In order to accommodate, they built a large whole in the center of the building so the dragon could drink and wash unhindered.

So now I know where to start looking.