HONG KONG: April-May, 2004 (Part 8)

William and I adjusted to our lives Hong Kong. He was excited to be working with a director and crew he had worked with previously. I often joined William and his assistant for lunch. I liked her enormously. Maria was smart, calm and efficient. William counted on her and they had a good working relationship.

At one of our lunches, William quipped something and Maria laughed. He made another comment and they shared another laugh.

What's the joke? I asked.

He looked at me and answered, Oh, it doesn't matter...you wouldn't get it.

Try me.

It's okay, don’t worry about it.

After a few minutes, I glanced at my watch and said, Sorry, I have to run. I forgot I have an appointment with the tailor. See ya.

I bolted. Gou pi!

Later I confronted William.

You know that tailor appointment I had today?

Yeah?

I lied about that.

What do mean?

I had to get out of there.

Why?

That you wouldn't get it stuff . That was lousy. I felt like someone's clueless aunt. Like I was back in high school.

William looked like he'd been smacked. He looked way too shattered for the crime, if you ask me.

I really missed this one, Mel. I feel awful, I'm really, really sorry.

Yeah, I can see that. Okay. It's okay—

And he went on and on about how awful he felt. He berated himself over and over.

I spoke up. Hey, I'm the one who's hurt and you're taking that away by being more hurt.

And thus began a routine we would re-enact over the next few years. I'd call out a grievance. He'd be chagrined. Pained. Overwrought. Then I'd comfort him and wonder if I was overreacting.

William is a perfectionist. This makes him really good at his job...but sometimes difficult to live with. I'm a ruminator. This is handy as a writer...but sometimes difficult to live with because I can internalize everything then suddenly explode in an all-out attack.

We know we will wrestle with these issues our whole lives together. Knowing and doing are two different things — but at least we know.

HONG KONG: April-May, 2004 (Part 7)

On Easter Sunday I thought William and I should experience afternoon tea at the Peninsula hotel. Work had kept him busy and his sightseeing had been limited to cell-phone and DVD stores. It was high time for high tea, a signature British tradition left behind by exiting colonialists.

In 1997 the English gave up Hong Kong after 156 years of colonial rule. We were living on Salisbury Road, we shopped on Nathan Road and visited Aberdeen Harbor, but for the most part the British are very much gone and, though English is widely spoken, the streets are filled with a bustling Chinese population.

Nevertheless, I sensed glimmers of Hong Kong's colonial past. The spirit of a Macao-era Jane Russell lingered, a glass of champagne in one delicate hand while the other held a cigarette between perfectly manicured fingers. Maybe it was the time I'd spent with Mr. Tailor draping brocade silk across my body, but I could easily imagine Shantung suits, Mandarin collars, hairdos slick with pomade and a magenta orchid tucked behind a lady's ear.

There was something vaguely 1950s about Hong Kong. Curlicue ironwork, creaking wood stairwells with polished banisters, and intricate black-and-white floor tiles pulled me to an earlier time. I noticed a brick wall charred in history and wondered what its story was.

Yet every day I witnessed more construction and escalating architecture. It was odd to be in such a storied city surrounded by predominately 21st-century buildings. I'm an arrogant tourist; I wanted old stuff. I searched for cultural originality: a couple of pagodas, at the very least.

But Hong Kong insisted on reveling in her multiple personalities. She was an exotic hybrid of East and West, rich and poor, old and new. I'd catch an unfamiliar scent emanating from a Chinese apothecary and ponder who used those ancient concoctions. Next door, in a chic lime-green cocktail lounge, a group of hipsters sipped rosy cosmopolitans. And then the gadget stores with racks of watches, cameras, cell phones and DVD players.

My head reeled. I took a moment to stand in the commotion and let it swirl around me. For all of Hong Kong's modernism, I wanted to go backward. I wanted to steep myself in the romantic long ago I imagined Hong Kong to hold. Hence: tea time.

At the Peninsula, my heels clicked across the marble floor as we followed the maitre d' to a small table set with linen napkins alongside a creamer and sugar bowl in gleaming silver. We were surrounded by high, buttery walls topped in ornate gilt. Palm shrubs potted in bronze urns provided lush greenery beneath chandeliers hanging in gold fixtures.

Up on a balcony, musicians played "Somewhere I'll Find You." We lunched on crustless cucumber sandwiches, creamy pastries and currant scones with clotted cream. All very, very. Oh look, Noel Coward tinkling the ivories. I gave him a wink. Here we were, together in Hong Kong. Who would've thought?

HONG KONG: April-May, 2004 (Part 6)

Back in Los Angeles a friend had recommended a Hong Kong tailor.

There's nothing like an outfit cut and sewn just for you, she gushed. And the craftsmanship is outstanding. When in Hong Kong and all that, I guessed. And here I was once more...shopping.

At night, I lay awake imagining designs for myself and, oh, perfect, an off-white linen suit for William. Does William want a linen suit? Irrelevant.

I decided to track the gentleman tailor down and see what he had to say for himself. I stepped into a dark, musty office building on Nathan Road, took a creaky elevator to the second floor and entered a showroom filled floor to ceiling with fabric bolts, design books and fashion magazines. The slender tailor, in his striped dress shirt, blue tie and requisite measuring tape around his neck, greeted me and we talked clothes.

I pointed to a picture of Paris Hilton wearing a pair of swank trousers with a matching jacket and asked him if I was being ridiculous. He assured me I was not. I believed him. He's very good, I thought, and together we chose a navy Thai silk.

He took my measurements, which are not remotely close to those of Paris Hilton. Heady with fantasy, I decided to splurge on a second outfit. Together we came up with a design: a sleeveless top to match a pair of flared pants in red silk brocade.

The talented tailor created an outfit so glamorous it would take me a full four years to drum up the courage to wear it out of the house.

The clothing I commissioned was not inexpensive, but compared to what tailor-made would have run back home, it was an excellent deal.

HONG KONG: April-May, 2004 (Part 5)

At the top, I found more — oh, swell — shopping malls. I donned blinkers, parked myself at a railing and took in the harbor view far below the thick forest of the mountain. First thought: snakes.

Deep in the greenery I saw the remains of a colonial estate. Cheek in my hand, I considered what must have been a formerly white mansion now turned a dirty gray. Who lived there? Who sat on those porticoes and balconies? The architecture stood out from the contemporary, gleaming glass of the condominium buildings. This mansion resonated of another time in Hong Kong's history.

Victoria Peak provides cooler temperatures than the city it overlooks. Before the construction of roads and the Peak Tramway funicular, passage to the top was provided by sedan chair. Personally, I would find it difficult to rest comfortably while two poor souls hoisted me straight up the severe elevation, but I suppose this was the rickshaw mentality of another time.

When the British began their colonization of Hong Kong in 1842, they introduced Victorian and Edwardian architecture along the harbor. As the popularity of transport up Victoria Peak by sedan chair grew, so did the concept of living on the mountain. Between 1904 and 1930, those rich citizens of Hong Kong desiring getaways raised their chins heavenward and started to build. Manors sprang up with the whimsical names of Treverbyn, the Haystack and Myrtle Bank. All very Tea time! and Tennis, anyone?

I longed to slash and crawl my way through the overgrown vines and roam the mansion I was studying. Second thought: snakes.

Back at the bottom of the Peak, curiosity won out and sent me into shops filled with gorgeous silks, pearls and china. I ran my fingers over the fabric and admired carved vases and sculptures. Just looking, just looking became a mantra, until it came to food. It was nearly dinnertime and I needed groceries.

I skimmed back to Kowloon on the ferry and found a supermarket. Meat and chicken were more expensive than expected, and stickers with Danish, Brazilian and French flags indicated some cuts had traveled nearly as far as I had. Because Hong Kong is an island, much of the food is imported: cheese and wine from Italy, lamb from New Zealand, lettuce from California.

Only after loading my cart and paying did I remember I wasn't back home and didn’t have a car. I could have flagged a taxi, but in my stubbornness and frugality figured the distance didn't warrant the extravagance. I heaved my bulging backpack over my shoulders and picked up a full bag in each hand.

Along crowded sidewalks I lugged, readjusted, and cursed myself for buying anything in a bottle or can.

And this became my grocery shopping ritual in Hong Kong. Unless torrential rain forced me into a taxi, I walked weighted down by my goods. In the end, I was rewarded by the loss of a good five pounds. Hmmm...maybe I deserved to celebrate with some new clothes.