SHENZEN, April-May, 2004 (Part 1)

For weeks I'd whined about higher-than-expected clothing prices in Hong Kong, so it was time to venture deeper into retail Shangri-La and give the shopping pastime another chance. I learned a paradise of bargains was located in a town called Shenzhen.

Hong Kong is made up of four main districts: the island, Kowloon, the outlying islands and, up north, the New Territories. Shenzhen lies across the border from the New Territories. I said the name over and over because it felt good in my mouth, like a song: Shenzhen, Shenzhen, Shenzhen.

In 1980 China opened the area as a commercial shopping district when they realized capitalism might have a point. Because it's in mainland China, a visa is required. The paperwork makes it clear your intention is to shop — not spy.

Shenzhen carries a reputation of being a not-altogether-safe destination. Before I left Los Angeles, I mentioned the possibility of my visiting Shenzhen to William's parents.

They expressed concern, dashed off a note and insisted I carry it with me:

Get off the train, go through immigration, cross the bridge and go into the mall. DO NOT leave the mall, EVER. If you leave the mall you could be MUGGED, ROBBED, BEATEN, MURDERED or WORSE.

Okay.

Three women from William's work went on a Sunday afternoon and came back claiming they'd been followed the entire time by "a very sinister man."

William didn't want to go and, more importantly, didn't want me to go. But I needed a little danger to buck up my courage after fleeing Lockhart Road like a big baby. I wanted to see Shenzhen.

William tightened the straps on my backpack. He checked me out to see if looked "muggable." He took me by the shoulders, looked me in the eyes and said, Just come back alive.

This is a part of marriage I really like. The part where someone really cares if you come home alive. The part where my jacket is zipped up or "drive safe" is called out when I head to the car. The part where a hand reaches out in sleepy darkness to pat my thigh when I'm wide awake waiting for the ceiling fan to tell me my future.

I'm not so crazy about what we call "the box." I don't take well to being shut out and William takes very well to shutting himself in. He's capable of immersing himself in a task for long stretches of time, which serves him well at work, where he has put in up to twenty-six-hour workdays.

But when he remains in "the box" at home, I take it entirely personally. I'll get grunts instead of answers. Heavy sighs when I break his concentration. And I think it always has to be about me. Something I did or didn't do. Said or didn't say. I simply cannot accept it has nothing to do with me.

Before we redid the house, he was delighted to have the joint shuttered up with the blinds closed. I came along and tore them down. People will see in, he said. My reply: And they'll be bored. There's nothing to see. Really, we aren't that interesting.

HONG KONG: April-May, 2004 (Part 16)

Years ago I learned a travel tip that serves me well to this day: Hop on a bus, anywhere, and look. In Hong Kong, many of the buses are double-deckers. I took my Octopus card and deliberately got lost.

Octopus is the name of Hong Kong's "smart payment" system; Octopus cards can be bought almost anywhere to be used almost anywhere. Once purchased there is no time limit and simply adding cash keeps it current. I used it on ferries, trains, buses and trolley cars. You can also use it at McDonald's, William liked to remind me.

The ferry to Hong Kong Island was charming, the metros fast, quiet and clean, the buses reliable. Getting around Hong Kong was a pleasure.

A city bus usually has a circular route. It's a cheap and easy way to sightsee, but in Hong Kong it can also be an adventure. In fact, if you're a fan of thrill rides, take a Hong Kong double-decker.

I'd climb to the upper level of the bus, sit in the front, grip the rail and hang on. Many streets were hilly, curvy and narrow. When negotiating a turn, the driver slowed his two-tiered behemoth to a near-stop and inched us to within inches of the retaining wall. I held my breath and waited for the sound of metal on rock, but we always cleared the turn and continued on our way.

In calmer moments, the ongoing enterprise of Hong Kong's construction fascinated me. From our apartment window I watched mile-high buildings rise, encased in intricate bamboo scaffolding. Bamboo is plentiful, substantial as metal and has the added grace of flexibility. Workers clambered up and down the wooden matrix with ease.

I harbored doubts about the quality of the construction, however, since our apartment regularly filled with the aroma of whatever the folks next door were cooking. William would arrive home from work thinking he was getting a hot meal, and I'd tell him to visit the neighbors because we were having a cold salad.

I also made plans to explore Wan Chai, a district on Hong Kong Island also known as "Sailortown." Popular with U.S. armed forces during World War II and the Vietnam War, military personnel spent their R&R in Wan Chai's red-light neighborhood. Here I was at ground zero for The World of Suzie Wong, a love story between an artist and a prostitute (with a heart of gold, of course).

The area had cleaned up considerably since Suzie modeled for Robert Lomax. It was now chock-a-block with fancy restaurants and domiciles for the wealthy. The Wan Chai waterfront is home to the Hong Kong Convention and Exhibition Centre and the Hong Kong Performing Arts Center, where Broadway musicals open year-round. In the mood for Annie? Wan Chai is where you'll find her.

Much of the area was shiny and new, but I was in a more salacious mood and attracted to the more, let's say, colorful side of Wan Chai's history. Lockhart Road upholds these ideals. It probably wasn't a great place for a woman on her own to poke around at night, but I felt brave and secure in the daylight. At first.

Once again, it was as if I were transported into a movie. Colored lights flashed atop bars called Blue Girl, Copacabana, and Pussy Cat. A giant martini glass pulsed in neon as its green olive blinked on and off. This street of dreams still beckoned hardworking sailors on a Saturday night and acted as a wonderland for an inquisitive tourist.

I looked up, I looked around, and mid-Mary Tyler Moore-spin I stopped. I was being scrutinized by the ladies outside the clubs. I was in the wrong movie and they were setting me straight. I did not belong on Lockhart Road. I didn't dare go inside, or even pop my head into a bar on Lockhart Road.

I shouldn't have been so nervous. The likelihood of being mistaken for a working girl was preposterous, but I sensed I was out of my element in this neighborhood. My presence on Lockhart Road was akin to stepping into a couple's bedroom by mistake. I scurried off like a chastised child.

HONG KONG: April-May, 2004 (Part 15)

Gosh, do you think I'll need a jacket?

Wonder if I should bring a sweater?

These sentiments disappeared completely from our conversations.

By the third week of April, Hong Kong's days were hot and humid. I found myself taking cold showers and doing a lot of laundry. On the streets I periodically ducked into stores for the cool rush of air conditioning. I gulped the icy ventilation as if sucking from an oxygen mask. I would stroll an aisle or two, feigning interest in the merchandise, then dive back into the stifling heat for a few more blocks.

Five minutes outside and my sunglasses were sliding off my nose in a river of sweat.

To hear the locals tell it, we're having a perfectly cool spring and it doesn't get really bad until July.

I met a middle-aged woman in the elevator of our apartment building. She was from Atlanta. Four years ago she moved to Hong Kong with her husband, an IBM consultant.

I asked how she liked living here.

Oh, I love it! she enthused, then added, I do have to return to Atlanta for the summer though...it's so much cooler there.

Having spent summers in the American South, cooler was not a word I'd use.

Of course, we're having a lovely, cool spring in Hong Kong this year, she said with a big smile.

I looked down at my blue jeans, soaked through and embarrassingly dark with perspiration. Instantly grouchy, I wanted to smack her across the head with my backpack.

Here's what I did love about our neighborhood: We lived on the same block as the Hong Kong Cultural Centre, the Hong Kong Museum of Art and the Hong Kong Space Museum. A little further up the street, we had the science and history museums.

All these venues were free on Wednesdays, so that's when I went. One evening I popped next door and saw the Merce Cunningham Dance Company at the cultural center. Walking next door for highbrow entertainment was my idea of convenient...and all the buildings were air-conditioned.

HONG KONG: April-May, 2004 (Part 14)

William had no idea what stone he had overturned with his response, but it was a big one.

It took me a long time to share my writing with him after that. He continued to offer to proofread my emails, but when I wrote a book I didn't show one page to him. I didn't believe he could really hear or understand my writing voice, and worse, I'd let a dream spill out of my mouth.

William had issues with voicing his own aspirations. When I said things to him like One day you're going win an Oscar, he would roll his eyes and look at me like he ardently hoped I would shut the hell up.

I tend to jump up and down, yelling my dreams for the world to hear. My husband is the opposite.

What's your dream? I asked him.

He shrugged.

Come on. You must have something.

Make money and retire.

That's it?

Sure, I want to take care of you. That's good enough for me.

I don't believe you.

It's true.

I don't believe you.

And I was right.