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.