As much as I thought I could resist the shopping thing, once more it proved unavoidable.
The next day, I discovered a Deco-designed department store called Shanghai Tang. A boutique of impeccable Chinese chic. I admired the polished wood floors, wrought-iron staircase railing and dresses hand-made in slippery silks and brocades. These were displayed next to aqua, coral and lemon-yellow cashmere sweaters stacked perfectly on shelves. I didn't dare touch and I didn't buy, but boy, did I take it all in.
William and I spent an evening at the famous Temple Street night market. We climbed out of the subway, walked three blocks, and we heard them before we saw them: Cantonese singers performing traditional Chinese opera.
I'm not an opera buff, but I can appreciate the melody of Puccini. This was not that. This was discordant, squeaky and bordering on shrill. I'm told it's an acquired taste (the cilantro or caviar of music) and with time and careful listening an appreciation develops. This may be so, but what I heard that night was heartache, high drama and shrieking. Lined up one after another, these Cantonese singers in garishly painted faces fought for our attention. Felliniesque.
The Temple Street night market is known as "The Nightclub of the People," and here was the evidence. The crowd, the singers and the sellers shone under brilliant green, blue and red lights. The streets of Hong Kong are always as packed and glowing as the Las Vegas Strip.
We arrived at a row of fortune tellers with their hopeful customers. Spread in front of each oracle, a method of divination: a raised palm, Tarot cards and overturned teacups. The clients, still and desperate, hung on to every syllable dropped from the seers' lips.
I'd be exactly like that, I thought, because I have a weakness for wanting to know: What the hell is going to happen to me? Maybe these people could tell me where I was supposed to find my purpose and creativity. Maybe they had the inside track on this information. I slid closer, like a moth hovering near a light bulb, and felt William's hand on my elbow tugging me to the other side of the street.
Whatcha doin'? he asked.
Looking. Just looking. Jeez.
Uh huh.
Well, you never know. Really you never know who might know something of value.
That may be so, but I can tell you they don't.
I glanced back over my shoulder and secretly speculated if they knew: What the hell is going to happen to me? What am I supposed to be doing with my life?
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