CNY Part 7: (Macau, first act) how Macau stole my heart.

This story has two distinct acts describing my sentiments about our trip to Macau. Here's the first installment to a little story called "The Ceaseless Trip to Macau", or alternatively, "How I Missed the First Quarter of the Super Bowl". Take your pick.

[setting: basking in the ebullience of a truly fantastic few days of break during the Chinese New Year vacation].

After some deliberation the night prior, a barrage of information streams and hearsay, and eventually, the revelation that Chinese people like to gamble so much that they can book every single available hotel room in an island, a large group of us decided that Sunday of Chinese New Year weekend was the day to visit China's other "Special Administrative Region" (or as I like to say, "all the fun of China without the communism"): Macau.

Macau lies a mere hour and a half ferry ride from Victoria Harbor, but requires a passport to enter, a security check, and a line through customs to enter. The former Portuguese colony-turned-gambling destination might as well have been a country of its own, even with its great deal of autonomy.

Little did I know that such a lighthearted plan, like heroes' past, suffered from a long-running fatal flaw: the inability to plan, and the inefficiencies of a large group. I should've seen it coming. In fact, I kind of did. But that doesn't unravel for way, way longer. There's plenty more awake time to get to those events.

It all started at the train station. We were supposed to all be there for 9. I thought it was a good 6-8 person group. Which is fairly difficult to accommodate for most. As in, nobody could ever dream of having room for us. Brooke and I know this, look at each other, and sigh. 

With the addition of some of the Irish and other European girls that we've come to know pretty well here, we were 13. Thirteen, as in "there's no chance we'll move quickly today". 

A half hour delay for us to even get on the train isn't good news for the rest of the day, but we shrug it off, nervously. It loomed. Foreboding.

We make our way over to TST, where the ferry terminal is. Ferry terminals are basically super ghetto airports, but without any semblance of security, which is kind of scary in a terrorist-cozy world. Arriving at about 11 at the terminal, we hop in line for a noon ticket... Sold out. Everywhere. Chinese people are crazy this weekend with gambling. Only spots available for 13 are on the 1:30 boat. 

At first, we all lean for the "let's just go home and rest option" implicitly, including myself, but then a strange campaign by a few with the "we're already here" (counterargument: no we're not?) to just get the ticket, get there by 3, spend 7 or so hours on Macau, and then catch the latest ferry back for a little sleep loss, no harm or foul. Everyone is now huddling around, meaning that despite everyone talking about it, nothing is getting done. After a group appeasement, we buy our tickets, and leave the terminal for lunch in TST somewhere.

The debauchery continues here. Stop in some hole in the wall, and it was really quite ingenious what they did. They must have been frothing at the mouth seeing a group of 13 foreigners stepping into their entrance. The lady notices us wonderbreads, and hands us a special English menu, comprising of more pictures, English translations, and above all... Inflated prices to the Chinese version of the menu. To retaliate, we all order stuff by pointing at pictures on the wall next to low prices for the day. Two can play at their game, and our frugality defeated our actual appetites in this bout.

We rush back to the ferry terminal, and get in the huge line for our ferry. Passports stamped, etc. Ferry ride was a fast hour, pleasant. The advent of the past 5 years in boat jet engine technology has catapulted this industry back to industry, and an easy hour and fifteen later, I'm waiting in customs for my first real travel outside of Hong Kong. According to Ainhi, our resident translator, our rowdiness in getting in line and conversing with one another merited some snickering curse words by the surrounding Chinese people around us, especially after we ran out of the ferry to grab a closer spot in the passport lane.

It was a new world, an almost-understandable world for me. Everything was in Portuguese. I could read the signs! I hadn't had that luxury in so long. This place already made me smile in the perfect island sun.

A quick background about Macau, for those who don't really know its claim to fame. Macau currently holds two perplexing records: its citizens live in the most densely populated place on Earth, yet also enjoy holding the world's highest life expectancy. Didn't see that one coming, did you?

Bathrooms, map collecting, and concession-grabbing (thirteen) later, we walk out to dissect the bus routes and after way too much debilitating, we finagle our way on a shoddy bus for the main cultural square downtown. 

Notice the sign: "... of lighting area for crackers." Definitely talking about me. Thanks Macau.


We drive out a bit. And wow.

Macau is the most beautiful place I've seen to date on this trip. It is amazing. For one, the personality exudes, oozes, and whispers personality in soft, susurrant waves. Each street teems with European flare, yet also hides a culture all its own from the Euro-Asian fusion. The subtle interplay between classical European architecture, coupled with marvelous high-rise apartments and traditional Asian hotspots and utility in designs (outside of the conspicuous consumption-mirroring, glass-and-metal behemoths that were the casinos in town). In my mind,this is what Hong Kong should have been, and kind of what I thought it would be. And the line is almost literal. On one side of town, there are huge, arching, architectural marvels; but on the smaller parts, you have these massive European squares, complete with columns, stucco pastels with personality, cathedrals, and Portuguese influence. In the same breath (literally, you cold hold your breath, walk into the back alley and find this), we saw some worshipping in a Buddhist temple. 

What a world, what a life.

 Notice the gargantuan entity looming to the right-center of this photo... This is by far the most impressive building (on the proxy of "how on Earth is that thing standing up") I've seen here. More snippets later.

 The spectacular Catholic church here.

Had to capture that. Beam of sunlight giving the gentlest reminder that He was there. He's always there. Perfect.

The temple.

So we meandered through the Asian-narrowed, yet European-cobblestoned streets, where Portuguese restaurants bordered Chinese pharmacies with ancient remedies, people of all backgrounds meshed together, bakeries selling Portuguese egg tarts also sold Chinese almond cookies (ripe with free samples) with Chinese characters on top. Peeling Portuguese marvels leaned against renovated apartments, held up by bamboo scaffolding.

At the end of this alley lay the first of the Portuguese landmarks here: the ruins of St. Paul's. St. Pauls was an old mission-turned-Catholic-school in the area in the 1500s. A fire set the building ablaze, but by some kind of miracle, a single arched wall stood, and to this day, still stands, high on steps above the rest of the city. I saw plenty of arches and grand arcs in Italy with the same grandeur, but I tend to prefer the solemn, yet dignified ruins of this region's dual identity. In all of its subtleties, it still remains amazingly complex, the duality and interplay of the cultures.

The stairs leading up to it, minus the avid bunch of walkers and not sitters, mirrored the Spanish Steps, I tended to think. Overall, though, it was impressive.

Again, the classical European Renaissance attention to detail looms heavy, yet you could read a plaque in Cantonese. The idiosyncrasies here never failed to perplex me in the most heart-warming way. As of now, the whole problem of getting here, the muddled inefficiencies of moving at a snail's pace (thirteen), it all took a backseat to the displays here.

"Oh, I spot a social commentary photo!" You got it, reader. You got it. The view of the Grand Lisboa (see what I mean with the standing!?) from the back of the ruins.

Note the cobblestone. Picturesque, no?

Adjacent to the ruins was the other major Portuguese landmark: the Macau fort, settled high on the neighboring hill. Everything felt peculiarly European as we made the trek up.

 Don't know how old the fort really is, but it was old enough to have cannons and stuff. So I'd say that classifies as "old".

 My baby.

 "Really Jeff, another look-at-my-artsy-juxtaposition-of-old-and-new shot?" Hey, you try making good shots come from a 2 megapixel cell phone camera.

I found this particular view, from the back side of the fort looking out into the residential areas of the main peninsula, very endearing. The heavy growths of trees marking the end of the European complexes were apparent, and the dividing line into a population where only 2% of the people can actually speak Portuguese, yet still has it on every street sign. All in the name of tourism, perhaps? I tend to think they're proud of their extremely diverse heritage.

So we made it through the tourist attractions, and the tourist attractions, like the sirens they're supposed to be, were mellifluous as Macau, with its never-ending bustle, piqued my genuine interest. But was it just a facade of the tourist? Or was the real European charm sitting there the entire time? 

I point to the latter, now, knowing that people actually live here, and that these people love life enough to stick around longer than anyone else, despite the constant influx of mainland Chinese people who smoke and gamble with their lives. That, combined with the irreproachable charm of the people, the personality emanating from its core, and the vibrant culture had me hooked. An afternoon into the adventure, and I was a Macau junkie. Call it Kashmir.

Macau lulled me into a fantastic complacency, and even after the events to come, these reverberating clips of imagery made it a truly unforgettable burst of vivacity, and a city that never ceased to amaze me with each passing cobblestone. 

Stay tuned for more later.

CNY Part 6: one repulsive bay, one fantastic district, and Hong Kong goes Mexican.

(Note to reader: check out the massive update to parts 3-5 that sort of just happened on a whim today. That earlier stuff is gold.)

And the flurry of fun didn't stop. This post will be a lot shorter (thankfully, I know, you begrudging reader), and hopefully more succinct. I'll get right to it.

Noah and Matt were up-and-getters this day, and set out for the annual New Years' horse races in Sha Tin. Preferring sleep, Ainhi, Brooke, and I decided to make a haphazard trip to Stanley again, just to see what's there. Yeah, the ultimate in tentative plans of action.

We took the train to Central, and then found a bus that went to Stanley. Looking over the map, we noticed an important landmark that we hadn't devoted a lot of time: Repulse Bay. Only pictured was what seemed to be a Buddhist temple.

Yeah, why not.

It was that kind of day.

Except that we forgot that we had actually seen this from Stanley before, as we turned the corner around Victoria Peak on the bus... To a beach.

Oh yes.

To quote myself earlier when I was talking to one particular person in my life: "I got to go to the beach. The sun was shining without haze and pollution for the first time in over a week, kids were playing pretend games in the sand, people were tanning while the warmth actually retained itself. I had the opportunity to take off my shoes and socks, roll up the sleeves of my jeans, and feel the sand between my toes for the perfect therapy of the afternoon, and walk across the beach with the other two. Leisurely, happily."

The sand literally tickled my toes. I had apparently been wearing shoes for that long. The sun soaked everything with a bit of whimsy. Languid, almost, but still with the phosphorescence of the warm day. 

The three of us walked the duration of the long beach. Because it wasn't swimming season, few people were here, and a lot of European families (meaning speedo-clad, middle-aged men) dotted the off-tan sand.


It was snowing at home. I laughed to myself a little as the three of us made our way down to the temple, with even better views of the bay.

 "Repulse Bay" was coined in the British era, hilariously, where the Hong Kong and British navy successfully fended off attack, or "repulsed" a Japanese invasion. Now, it's just ironic, and gladly so.


We took a look at the temple, only to find the greatest juxtaposition of sights in my young life. 

That is a high-rise, metal and glass, way-too-curved-to-be-standing-up apartment complex overlooking the run-down temple. And look where the cameras are pointing.


This is Hong Kong, in one picture.

Eventually, we caught the bus to Stanley and labored through the street market again (and haggling to no avail -- 10 years ago, this was where you got a deal. Now it's just a famous tour attraction and a cash trap; go to Mong Kok East for the real deals).

Eventually returning back to Central via bus... We all of a sudden realized that we were in the heart of downtown, and it was eatin' time. We had heard from others and guidebooks that SoHo, the eclectic international neighborhood near here, was excellent for dining, and looking for a bit of nostalgia to munch on, we headed to the "mid-level escalators", which are literally a series of high-rise pedestrian bridges over the city that have escalators and moving sidewalks the whole route.

And when we got there, our jaws dropped.

Best. District. Ever.

Next to the Italian eatery there was a burger joint which was next to a French place which was next to a Nepalese place which bordered the Irish pub which was next to a Greek place... You get the idea. Some were pricey, but deals were there. There was a bar that we could see from the escalators... And in high definition, you could see an NBA game playing on ESPN. No joke.

Walking around, we took it all in. There were a commotion of dialects and languages being tossed around as people of all sorts of races hopped from place to place. Here, Hong Kong was truly international.

My stomach's internal "good food radar went berserk as we crossed one of the streets. I heeded that call... And stumbled into... una restauranta Mexicana. Taco Loco (though not the chain) invited us with the candid aromas of salsa and dozens of satisfied customers inside, all smiling as they gorged themselves on tortilla-covered grub, salsas, and margaritas.

I looked at the menu. Affordable. Potentially delicious (reading the word "guacamole" made my appetite swoon like a twitterpated boy band enthusiast). Authentic.

For the second night in a row, we feasted.

We were happy. And you know what? Our happiness made us happy. Pleasant. Today was perfectly easy. For once, we weren't a massive group of definite tourists. And for a second, we were back home at our local lugar de comida Mexicana. Not exactly cultural immersion in its fullest, but it was a night to remember as the discovery of my new favorite district in the city. Expect to hear "SoHo" a few more times this semester.

CNY Part 5: the chaos that never was, and sushi's happiest hour.

The fireworks had ceased. And all were satiated for their thirst for airborne, partially inflamed thrills.

But now, there was a massive problem of logistics.

How do you get over 200,000 people out of one bay, all going the same direction?

The Hong Kong Police knew how to handle this one: let them take the streets. And what a sight it was. In fact, I was awestruck by that display, but this spectacle, where all of the viewers were given free reign to walk down Nathan Road, the largest road in Hong Kong, was astonishing. If there's anything comparable, it would be a riot. But it wasn't. There was no ill will. Just masses upon masses of people. Controlled chaos, meet oxymoronic irony: I not only witnessed it, but fully participated.

By the MTR. No chance.

We had no idea where we were going. All we knew was that we loved it. The feeling was something like a mellow adrenaline: it was a rush, it was exciting, but we weren't exactly going crazy. All was still... perfectly copacetic. As if we walked down the middle of the road en masse any old afternoon. The chatter of the spectacle was dulcet, heightened in its lack of industrious car sounds. Just. The sounds of the crowd in no particular hurry, but still moving at alarming rates. Mellifluous, the sound really was.

Matt noticed a building in the horizon, and, whipping out his trusty iPhone, suggested we feast, since we hadn't really done so yet, and restaurants now being open. His suggestion: sushi. Not just any sushi, though. Authentic sushi bar sushi, but at half price. At 10:30 pm.

At Sushi One in Kowloon, it was sushi happy hour, and everyone strangely agreed to this principle. Following the crowd before taking our exit onto a sidewalk, the journey reached its resting place. Cooing farewell to our riot-that-wasn't, we followed an escalator to a bizarrely white marble floor of some building, with a line already in its fledgling stages for other potential diners.

At the strike of 10:30 and the happiest hour (and a half, technically) of all for our soon-to-be-filled stomachs, we took our slot in a strangely intimate booth at this strangely posh sushi bar. The walls were black, but reflective, with polished metals and shining beads abounding.

Wasn't kidding. This is a reflection.

We used the menu for its pictures, and pencil-ordered a smorgasbord of delectable bites. Well, I was told we were. I only suggested a tempura shrimp, and then eventually eased up and ordered more (especially when I found out there was a minimum payment).

That was a great decision.

Salmon, not my favorite. But my favorite was on the far side... Tempura fried soft shell crab. The Louisianan in me smiled greatly. Soy sauce was a startlingly nice accent, and the crab was fried to a perfect, flaky crisp. Not an abrasive crunch to be found.

Salmon/shrimp and avocado of some kind. It had a fancy name, but it was rockin'.

I was never too fond of American sushi, but here in its rightful continent of origin (and actually next to a sea that would allow for fresh catches), it was all good. I didn't have one bad piece of fish.

Sorry Jaim, and sorry Johnson family for having to witness these shots.

In America, we would have spent hundreds of dollars on all of the sushi we ate. But instead, as a group of 5, we spent a total of HK$661 (which should have been over $1,000), meaning about US$17 per person. It was the new year. Everyone was pleasantly jovial. Still copacetic. We may have just been blips upon the millions of other blips in this tumultuous city with all-too-many things happening, but we couldn't have asked for anything more than good friends, good company, and a helluva lot of good fish.

Hey, we get a feast every once in a while, too.