A BEAUTIFUL LIFE IN A SWEET-SMELLING HARBOR (Part 1)

There were only a couple of weeks left for me to finish my sightseeing. I made a list and set out to check off the sites one by one.

On Sundays and holidays the streets of Hong Kong filled with thousands of Filipinas. These women crowded overpasses, stairwells, curbs and all available park spaces. Sitting on blankets, they shared picnics and photographs, strummed guitars, chatted on cell phones and played card games.

These are the maids and nannies of Hong Kong. Each worker earns an average of $230 a month, typically sending a portion of this income to family back home.

One of William's assistants, a local named Jason, showed us his apartment. The main room was big enough for a loveseat, television and table with three chairs. There were two small bedrooms: One fit a single bed, the other a double. The kitchen could accompany one person at the two-burner stove. There was also a half-fridge and a small washing machine.

Jason explained the layout of his apartment was exactly the same as the one across the hall, where a couple and their young daughter lived with their Filipina nanny. The parents slept in one bedroom, the girl in the other and the maid on the small couch. Because both parents worked, they needed the childcare, but for everyone's sanity the employee had to get out one day a week and joined her friends on the streets.

Is this what Christmas Day looked like in Hong Kong? Where did these women go for cover when it rained on a Sunday? Would they ever go to school and advance out of this? Would they marry and have families of their own? These thoughts rolled around my head as I sidestepped row upon row of women, young and old, enjoying a reprieve the best way they could.

I heard the story of a little girl who, for her school's costume day, brought her maid on a leash. As the family cat. I pondered this scenario as I traveled on a bus, chugging over hilly terrain. I was on my way to the spot where the English discovered South China.

Aberdeen conjures images of sweaters, sheep and bagpipes, but this was not Scotland. The bay of Aberdeen is where the British first laid eyes on Hong Kong. Oh yummy, let's take it. The whole kit and caboodle...lovely.

And so they did, and did, and did.

Less than thirty years ago, Aberdeen's harbor was populated with over a million trawlers and sampans. As of 2004, there were about 250.

To the British, the harbor had become an eyesore, with its ragamuffin sea craft bearing extremely poor inhabitants. Entire fishing families lived on these boats. Some of them had never laid foot on terra firma. In a clean sweep, the boat people were taken to government housing in Kowloon and on Hong Kong Island. That lasted until those tenements grew distasteful and the residents were moved to state housing in the New Territories.

BEIJING: April-May, 2004 (Part 10)

Near the end of the tour we visited the Summer Palace, a park of nearly three square kilometers, most of which is water. Beautiful buildings of ancient architecture surrounded a large lake where an empress dowager liked to fish as recreation. Indeed, her version of the sport consisted of sitting in a boat with rod and line while her servants swam underneath and stuck fish on her hook. Got another one!

Beijing. Big, bold, breathtaking Beijing. My desire for pagodas and red-tiled rooftops was sated as was my yen for local food. I could go home satisfied that I was able to touch on a portion of China's vast history and rich culture.

Our final morning was spent in — guess what — a shopping mall. I bought a purse. A bubblegum-pink purse. I don’t know what I was thinking. I never used it. I chalk the purchase up to vegetable deprivation.

Mr. Leung was excited about this particular mall because the top floor housed a food court where one could find excellent meals at very low prices. I wandered the many levels of the center, then passed through the restaurant area, where my friends happily lunched. I couldn't do it. I needed a salad and the idea of one more chunk of pork was beyond comprehension.

Later in the Beijing airport I was certain I would find a salad. I came upon a cafeteria with a showcase featuring synthetic replicas of their menu items. A plastic hot dog with plastic mustard. Plastic spaghetti with plastic red sauce. And then...there it was. A plastic Caesar salad, with little brown plastic croutons. A server raised her eyebrows as a way of asking my order and I pointed to the salad.

The what?

She came around the glass case and studied the thing. She called her co-worker over and the two of them gawked at it like they'd never seen such a thing. They looked at me and shook their heads. They had no idea what that thing was but would I like a hot dog?

When we arrived back in Hong Kong I turned to my group à la Dorothy saying farewell in Oz. In five short but long days I'd become fond of each of them. I loved that they had taught me how to wash all my dishes with hot tea. I developed such affection for the lady who regularly chatted with me in Chinese as I nodded and smiled. We had a nice hug at the airport.

Bye to Mr. Leung and his wife. Bye to Leonard and his mom. And then Bryan, who actually managed to pick up a few English words unrelated to the Lakers. Certainly more than I accomplished, language-wise. Ni hao was all I had learned, but I would never forget it.

*****

Home is where you make it, and during our Hong Kong adventure we had made our home there. Now I was ready to get back to base camp in Los Angeles, reclaim our pets and jump-start my life. I was unsure what that would entail. After four years of following William around the globe I had no idea what my future held back home. I dreamed of writing more than the unsold screenplays I had labored over. As William's career was gaining traction, mine had slipped into nowheresville.

Who was I? What was I supposed to be doing? And where had my artistic life disappeared to? Purpose and creativity eluded me. William would follow me home in a couple of months, but until that time I would live alone with the weight of those questions. It was time to sort this stuff out and I needed to do it back home.

My final days in Hong Kong started to feel nostalgic. I viewed the malls and street life with seasoned eyes while remembering my initial impressions. After almost two months in the territory I imagined myself a local. As ready as I was to get back to Los Angeles I still wanted to savor the tastes and smells of our Hong Kong adventure.

BEIJING: April-May, 2004 (Part 9)

Every morning we dined on Western-style breakfasts. Lunches and dinners, however, were another matter. Our bus would pull up to a Chinese restaurant with waiters lined up outside to greet us. We were then seated at a large round table with a lazy Susan in the center.

No doubt English-language tours were suffering American-style hamburgers while I was getting the real thing. I was feeling pretty smug about this aspect of my trip...until dining protocol knocked me down a peg.

The one point of etiquette I knew was a rule of tea service. In Chinese society it is considered impolite to grab the pot and pour one's own tea before first serving those around you. In a pathetic attempt to show off I reached for the pot and started to pour when distress signals flew at me from around the table.

The pot was carefully removed from my ignorant hands. The ladies at the table showed me what was what. They poured the tea into a large empty bowl and began to wash their cups, bowls, plates and chopsticks in the steaming brew. The gentlemen joined in and washed their utensils as well. A new pot of tea for drinking was delivered as the cleaning ritual was completed.

After tea is poured the receiver raps his or her knuckles on the table as a thank you. Mr. Leung told me the story: An emperor of the Qing Dynasty wished to mingle with commoners and made a sneaky getaway from the Forbidden City. He traveled in disguise throughout Beijing, accompanied by his servants. Because the attendants were in the presence of undercover royalty, they devised a clever form of kowtowing and let their fingers kneel in obeisance.

Our meals were predominately meat. Huge platters of pork, beef and chicken filled the table along with large bowls of rice and soup.

Most days, one lonely plate of bok choy served as the vegetable quotient. After five days of carnivorous mastication I developed a bordering-on-crazy craving for vegetables. The dish of bok choy would whiz past me on the lazy Susan. I'd try my best to snatch it but often missed as the plate spun out of reach.

Leonard, next to me, described what we were about to eat at each meal.

Hot and sour soup.

Love hot and sour soup, I said as I scooped a huge ladleful.

Do you know what that is? Leonard asked, pointing at something in my bowl.

Looks like a noodle of some kind, I answered, and slithered it into my mouth.

That's blood.

What?

They spin blood really fast into that long skinny thing.

So, what happened to the bok choy?

We did enjoy a special meal of Peking Duck, or more accurately, Beijing Duck. It was crispy, fatty, delicious and jam-packed with MSG.

Back at the medical institute, when a doctor lectured our group about good health, I wanted to throw my hand up and ask, Did you ever consider cutting back on the MSG, or trying brown rice and hey, what about your colleagues outside smoking their brains out?

BEIJING: April-May, 2004 (Part 8)

The next morning we were up at seven and, after a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast and coffee, set off for two of the more interesting sites on our tour.

At the height of the Cold War, the Chinese government constructed a covert underground bomb shelter between 1969 and 1979. They built a subterranean city for three million people, with hospitals, theatres, food storage, recreational facilities and schools for every level of education.

Far below the city's surface we walked through tunnels so cold our breath was visible. A row of white lights hung above us. A second row of warning lights used to hang parallel to them. If the tunnel flashed red, the Soviets had arrived.

I couldn't get my head around the idea that this was going on while I was busy deciding which Bee Gees album to buy.

Tragically, China has wiped out most of its historical landmarks. Much of this destruction happened during the Cultural Revolution under Mao Tse-tung. To counter the loss, they decided to preserve in the city's center a housing area dating back two hundred years.

We visited an apartment in a gray stone building. The woman of the household was of the fifth generation to live there. She shared it with her husband and daughter.

The living space inexplicably placed the kitchen outdoors (it snows in Beijing, just like New York City). The main room contained a double bed, a small couch, a wood table and an armoire. A hot-water metal pipe ran along the wall to provide heat. Because summer temperatures could reach well over a hundred degrees, an air conditioning unit hung from the ceiling.

Our group crammed inside the tiny apartment to hear the family's history. As a welcoming gesture the woman had piled peanuts on a sheet of newspaper for us to shell and munch on. The family would be paid a small stipend for allowing us to invade their privacy and I was touched by their hospitality. These people were considered relatively well-off in a country where the average income is a thousand dollars a year.

We drove through Beijing's neighborhoods and saw serious, filthy poverty. I was confused. Poverty in our capitalist society made sense to me; it's one of our greatest negatives. But a Communist society was supposed to eliminate such hardships, or so I thought.

Meanwhile, Hong Kong, on this May Day holiday, was packed with mainland Chinese, some laying down as much as five thousand dollars a pop in jewelry stores. Throngs of people leave the mainland for shopping sprees in Hong Kong because they believe the quality of goods is higher.

As my friend Leonard pointed out, That should show you the gap.

From the bus window, I watched brand new Volkswagen sedans maneuver through heavy traffic. Those visions of streets packed with Chinese citizens dressed in standard gray Sun Yat-sen suits and pedaling bicycles were little more than a memory. Chinese banks gained 52 percent profit in 2004. Construction was prevalent and "going great guns," as they like to say.

BEIJING: April-May, 2004 (Part 7)

Two nights after the climb I decided to treat myself to a massage. I'd never experienced a Chinese massage and was certain it would heal and refresh me. As I took the elevator down to the hotel spa I imagined I would soon be melting in relief.

I made my way onto the table and the tiny therapist went to work.

Pressure is fine, Madam? she asked.

Yes, I whispered.

That was a complete lie. I swear to God, this woman's hands were right out of a Black & Decker toolbox. Fingers like drill bits drove into my back. She was disintegrating my kidneys.

Fine, madam?

Yup, I choked.

What is wrong with me that I can't say no? Because I don't want to show weakness? Because I'm afraid of losing face? How very Asian of me.

Through the little hole in the massage table hung my face...a mask of pain, a Gorey-esque scream, my eyeballs bulging out of my head.

You're very tense, madam. You need ninety-minute treatment.

Not the cheapo forty-five minutes I'd agreed to. I wasn't sure I could last another forty-five seconds in the hands of my torturer.

Okay, was all I could answer.

When she got to my legs, I stifled screams. Squeezed my eyes shut, gritted my teeth and swooned when her knuckles pressed into my calves. Holy Mother of God.

That was good, madam? she asked, her face bright with pride.

Excellent, I murmured and stumbled back to the elevator. After a long soak in a hot bath, I crawled into bed and slept more deeply than I could ever recall.

That massage therapist knew her business. That breaker of bodies was a serious pro.

BEIJING: April-May, 2004 (Part 6)

Mei-Xing waved a yellow flag and Mr. Leung and I rejoined her flock. We were about to leave the low-slung walls of the Forbidden City to visit one of the wonders of the medieval world.

The Great Wall of China took two thousand years to build and is approximately thirty-one thousand miles long. In most tourist photos you see of this landmark, sightseeing visitors amble along a gently inclined section of the Great Wall that overlooks a beautiful mountainous terrain.

Just my luck — that particular area was currently closed and we were directed to an extremely steep path. The route included stairs that led straight up a virtual Mount Everest. Each stone step was over a foot high.

No problem, I thought. It'll be a pretty good workout and we'll get a hell of a view.

I began the ascent. Stone guardhouses were built at intervals along the hill. Other tourists mingled around them to take pictures and rest before either continuing upward or, more sensibly in my opinion, descending down to the gift shop and ice cream stand.

Peering up, it was impossible to see an end spot for our hike because the path meandered around many corners. During the walk I would think every guard station was the final one only to see another in the distance.

Mr. Leung, a bundle of energy, caught up to me at a rest stop and threw down a challenge to go higher.

Oh sure! I agreed.

And higher we went.

Leonard reached us, flush with the pep of a nineteen-year-old.

Higher? he laughed.

Well, sure, I puffed.

And higher we went.

Hey, how about some pictures? I suggested to the testosterone twins and we stopped at a guardhouse while I pulled out my camera. I looked over the wall, way, way down at the posse of wives awaiting our return.

Higher? Mr. Leung called out as he moved further up.

Um, sure...no problem, I answered with as much zeal as I could muster.

We climbed up the Great Wall of China for over an hour.

You know, fellas, of course I could keep going but I just wonder if Mei-Xing might be wanting us to come back to the bus.

They hemmed and hawed and finally agreed to return to the bottom.

And that was worse. The strain of ascending had turned my legs into Pick-Up Sticks, brittle and ready to snap apart. Gazing down the steep incline, my head swirled and I prayed I could reach the bottom without making a complete fool of myself. Maybe I could sit on my bum and slip down each tall step. My stomach roiled with the sensation that I was about to tumble and crash my way down to the base. Why did I agree to higher, higher, higher? What is wrong with me that I can't say no?

For three long days after our visit to the Great Wall I felt like I'd been beaten with a lead pipe.

BEIJING: April-May, 2004 (Part 5)

Visiting the Forbidden City was impressive but I have to say, it's a dusty residence. We looked through glass windows into rooms filled with opulent furniture in sumptuous fabrics, but all I could see was the thick coating of dust covering every surface. Here's a tip for the Chinese government: Swiffer.

The rooms are no longer open to the public because officials fear the human touch would cause ruination. Folks, the grime's going to get it first.

I took an audio tour. The day was sunny and warm and, even with the holiday crowds, I never felt confined in the 180 acres of pavilions and courtyards. The grounds house 9,999 buildings, including the Halls of Supreme Harmony, Complete Harmony and Preserving Harmony. That's a lot of harmony.

Surely there would be no reason for agitation in such a place, but a cursory piece of historic research had me agog in a litany of bloodshed by suicide, fire and poison. Concubines and eunuchs were regularly hung by reams of white silk or cut to pieces by the slash of a sword. Light on harmony and heavy on cacophony.

Taking a break on a low stone wall, I was approached by a young man who said he was a painter and would I "please walk over here" to see his work. He told me he was chosen to move to the U.S., where a famous art teacher would mentor him. He just needed to sell a few pieces to pay for his passage. I took a quick look into the cubbyhole where some canvases sat. He pulled them out one after another to show me. I wished him luck and walked away.

A few minutes later, Mr. Leung, an English-speaking gentleman from our group, came over to me. He was concerned that I might have been inappropriately bothered by the fellow. I assured Mr. Leung I was fine and that it was only a scam.

What do you mean? he asked.

It's a con. These guys are all over the place. The works are painted in factories by copycat artists and tourists are told a big lie.

No.

Yes, I'm afraid so.

How do you know this?

And I showed him my Lonely Planet guidebook with the scam described exactly as I'd experienced it. I couldn't fault that guy. He was making a living and apparently it was a sanctioned one since he was given storage space in the Forbidden City.

Mr. Leung shook his head, sat beside me and we began to chat. He was traveling with his wife. He wondered why I was alone on the tour and I told him about William busy at work in Hong Kong.

You're very brave, he said.

No I'm not.

Oh yes, you are. It's courageous to take a Chinese tour all by yourself.

I laughed. No, I promise you, I'm not brave, I'm — and the word popped out of my mouth like a bubble in a cartoon — cheap.

There it was: the truth. I don't think I'm stingy with others, but I am with myself and here was the nut of my shopping anguish. I couldn't let go and spend with abandon. It wasn't in me. Some of us who grew up in stringent households have that quality ingrained in our character. I will forever search for a bargain.

I could think of exactly one person who appreciated this quality and he was waiting for me back in Hong Kong.