White Noise Records

Haute Society

Yesterday I was sitting at the schoolbus stop in the afternoon heat, waiting to go down to Cantonese class when my cellphone rang. "Hello?" I answered (though I'm dying to answer the telephone "Waai?" in the local style, I'm still too scared that someone on the other end will actually reply in Cantonese and I won't know what to say). "Hello, Samantha? This is Lenny. Do you still want to go to the fashion party tonight?"
Ah yes. The magical ridiculousness known as Friendster rears its head again.

Even before I arrived here, I had searched Friendster for HK residents with similar interests, and sent some messages inquiring as to cool local bars, galleries, shops etc. Many replied, including Lenny, a fashion magazine writer who immediately seemed cool and uncreepy (the fact that his profile lists him as "in a relationship" definitely helped as well). We sent a few messages back and forth and then last week he invited me to a party for "Japanese fashion brand GDC". Somehow with my undiagnosed dyslexia I misread this as "CDG" and for a moment got heart palpitations at the idea of going to a Comme des Garcons party. I recovered my senses and trolled Google-- apparently GDC is the new BAPE-type streetwear sensation out of Japan. Not Rei Kawakubo but not chopped liver either-- I promptly accepted and then Lenny replied that the party was "28 Aug". Which is why he was calling me on the afternoon of July 28th, when I was headed to class and had already turned down some fellow Yalies' invitation to a Lan Kwai Fong daiquiri night in the hopes of really getting some Cantonese studying done that evening.

"Tonight? I thought it was next month?" I said, already knowing that my plans to be a good schoolgirl were going down the drain. "No, tonight." He had apologized in his last communique "sorry Sam because my English so fuck up!", and I realized that not only would I have probably screwed up telling someone the date of a party in Cantonese (today in class I accidentally said that my birthday was in some imaginary 20th month of the year)... I also don't even know how to say that my Gwongdungwa is so fuck up. Which is why I need to hang out with young people to teach me bad language. "Okay, where do you want to meet?" I guiltily resigned to the excitement of going to a party, and spent the entire busride to class figuring out what I was going to wear. It's not easy being presentable, let alone chic, in humid heat that still breaks 95 F at midnight.

Later that evening, decked out in a sensible outfit of denim skirt, tee and some pointy black flats (that allowed running in case this stranger I was meeting turned out to be too strange), I waited outside the HMV in Tsim Sha Tsui. Soon a posse of stylish Hong Kongers approached me, smiling awkwardly. I smiled awkwardly back, trying to figure out which one might be Lenny, until a spikey-haired guy stepped forward and said "Are you Samantha?". This was he, and after informing me that we were to wait for more friends at the magazine stand, I got introduced around to the group.

As I am helpless at remembering names and faces at the best of times and in my own language, remembering names and faces in Hong Kong is proving to be nigh on impossible and fairly surreal. I braced myself as Lenny pointed to each twenty-something in turn. "This is Joanne..." (simple enough) "Way..." (did he say Wade or Ray or Wayne?) "Kiki, Kiki..." (Okay, Kiki 1 and Kiki 2) "Spoon..." (Uh-huh) "and.." (even the MC hesitated a moment, unsure) "Chappie?" (she nodded, smiling. I smiled back.) I'm never sure if I'm hearing correctly, or if I'm over- or under-adjusting for a Cantonese accent (real or imagined, as it turned out Spoon has a British one), or if my synapses are just unused to having to dig through such a bigger sourcepool for the potential names someone might say. Most people in Hong Kong have both Cantonese and English names, the English ones sometimes received from a teacher or parent but more often chosen by themselves. My friend Alvin got his when he was quite small: his father sat him down with an English-name dictionary and started reading the choices aloud from the letter "A" onwards. Alvin quickly got bored and stopped his Dad at random, saying: "that one's good enough." "Alvin" it's been ever since. Some names correspond phonetically to the Cantonese (my friend “Emily”'s given name is "Mei Ling"), but the transliteration of English names into Cantonese and back out is a tricky business indeed [I'll detail my ever-thwarted quest for a good Cantonese name in another post], so most are completely unrelated. Which leaves your average HK pre-teen to choose from any name, noun or adjective that sounds cool. Even the hippest American nick-names have got nothing on the sheer originality and swagger of: "Rock," “Rico,” "Dejay," "Flower,” “Athena,” or “Yellow”. It’s no wonder that when meeting new people, my linguistic channels (trained for the generic litany of “Chris,” “Amy,” “Jeff,”) go on overload.

This evening, however, I fared pretty well. Lenny, Joanne, Ray, Kiki and Kitty , Spoon and (hell yes) Chappie and I headed off to a posh TST mall called Silvercord to pick up the party invite from the GDC store and eat something in the food court. [A whole other post will have to discuss the HK mall culture, as it’s too much to explain here.] The dinner table we commandeered in the crowded plaza was the setting for a leisurely meal and chaotic conversation that only Robert Altman could have properly captured. Bits of chatter were volleyed back and forth across the steaming dishes and from Cantonese to English and back again, adjusting and retranslating for me or for those who didn’t understand my replies. The following topics were covered (some multiple times with multiple interlocutors): where I grew up, where I went to school, what did I study, how many brothers and sisters do I have, my relationship status, have I been to Asia before, have I been to Hong Kong before, have they been to America before, have they been to Japan before, have I been to Japan before, do they like their jobs, do they live with their parents, is that common in America... dang dang (Cantonese for "etc. etc."). And in between, there was lots and lots of untranslated Cantonese, which they kept apologizing for, but I honestly didn't mind. It's definitely good for me to be immersed in the language I'm learning and try to construct meaning, but beyond that I relish the unique social dynamic it provides-- the chance to be social but quiet. Sometimes I really just like sitting back and listening. But there were also moments that broke through language barriers. Some quite comically: in a scene worthy of an Apple commercial, someone took out their brand new iPod from its Comme des Garcons case and then everyone brought theirs out, all of us scrolling through each others' playlists and swapping recommendations for music.

Then onto the party. I was so busy talking with Kiki and Joanne about their jobs at Monday (an HK teen fashion magazine) while we walked through the TST streets that I didn't even realize we were about to enter the party until we were on an escalator in a futuristic building headed towards some flashbulbs. Lenny got our entry passes (a black GDC sticker) from the black-garbed and head-setted bouncers, and we were ushered into a sleek elevator. 30 floors up we exited into "Aqua", a bar with floor-to-ceiling absurdly cinematic views of the Central Skyline. We had barely sat down in a booth right when a waitress swept by and deposited six drinks of assorted jewel tones in front of us. "Wait- what are these?" Spoon asked. The specials of the evening, mixes of Japanese vodka and plum or longan juice, of course. It had been pleasantly buzzing when we entered the party, but within 10 minutes it was obnoxiously crowded on the main floor, so we went upstairs to the lounge loft and got seats with even more of the insane vistas and less of the deafening abstract-hip-hop the DJ was spinning below. We sat, we drank. I met more people with more names to remember (including a pair of twins, Jody and Joanie-- ? Come on, that's just cruel)-- Japanese fashion designers and buyers and stylists and sound engineers and BMX bikers and skaters and DJs. These people were much much cooler than me. When they asked “What do you do in Hong Kong” and I replied “Ngoh gaau Yingmahn hai Jungmahn Daihhohk" (and then I repeated in English, when they didn't understand my incorrect tones, "I teach English at Chinese University"), I could have sworn I saw them flinch slightly. Lenny and Joanne pointed out the local celebrities that I obviously didn't recognize ("See that guy over there in the mesh cap? He's a big model" "See those four cute girls at the table? They are in the pop group Cookies" "The guy to my left is an old friend, he used to be in Hong Kong rap group LMF"). They also helpfully pointed out Takashi Kumagai, the creator and head designer of GDC, who was sitting on a couch near us surrounded by fans and taking in the whole scene with a drink in his hand. A "fashion show" happened at midnight that was more like a bunch of models breakdancing on the main floor, but we could watch the closed-circuit projection at one end of the loft. We sat and drank some more (at one point the bar was just handing out bottles of Veuve Cliquot champagne). But all of a sudden it was 3am and the bartenders began to close up and we decided to make our way to Mongkok and the night buses to our respective homes. I had class the next day, and Spoon and Kitty had to be up especially early to shoot a GDC fashion layout for that weekend's newspaper. Parting at Argyle Street and Nathan Road, I said goodbye to these kind strangers and got on the bus. The entire ride back to the New Territories, I sat back as the neon flashed by and practiced all the new swear-words I had learned.

HK Arts Center and Wanchai

Saw some fairly mediocre digital short films and animation at the Agnes B. theatre of the Hong Kong Arts Center, but it was worth it for the view from the "Open Restaurant" on the 6th floor and the neon dinosaurs outside.

Red Flowers Blossom to Greet Chairman Mao

Another Sunday in Mongkok-- this time shopping with Sonia and Rachel. In one 3-story mall called "Trendyzone," we stumbled upon a used record and comic shop that had a surprising number of old Communist propaganda records. I picked up a couple, to the bemusement of the older woman running the store. I imagine foreigners like me are the only ones who care about a faded LP of children's songs for Chairman Mao these days. Some titles on this record include: "We Are Little Red Guards, Full of Pep and Vigor (Song in Unison)", "Uncle Lei Feng Smiles on Us (Song with Actions)" and "Learning to Be a Worker." Will let you know when I locate a turntable to listen to them.

pubbing on peking road

Mongkok Goldfish Market and Falun Dafa Protest

After dim sum in Mongkok with Rachel and Yomei, we strolled the neighborhood's "goldfish market", which sells fish of every fin and stripe, and numerous odd mammals as well (hairless guinea pigs, kangaroo rats). Since HK apartments are so small, people are more inclined to buy a koi or hamster than a dog for a pet. Kittens and bunnies were in abundance, but I was particularly drawn to the chinchillas that were about the size of fat cats and looked like creatures out of a Miyazake film. I don't think we're allowed to have pets in the Friendship Lodge, except perhaps fish, and I'm seriously considering a small black Siamese fighting fish in a simple round bowl for my room.

Later we went to Causeway Bay for Japanese food, and walked out of the subway right into the middle of a protest about the Chinese government's treatment of Falun Dafa (or Falun Gong) practitioners. Very intense street theatre. On one side of the display, people dressed in bright yellow uniforms went through slow taichi-like motions; on the other, people dressed as Chinese cops acted out slow-motion torture on people dressed as prisoners (complete with bruise makeup). I'm not sure what to think about Falun Gong-- most well-informed people say that they are actually a cult, but also that the Chinese government is actually persecuting them. This demonstration made me realize that Hong Kong is still a very different place than China. Even talking about the issue in the Mainland is taboo, and I remember that at the Yale-China orientation, my Mainland counterparts who will be teaching in Guangzhou and Changsha were told explicitly never to discuss Falun Gong (among other things) with their students for fear of the Chinese government.

Shi Mian Mai Fu and the Movies

Yesterday I went with Sonia to see the new Zhang Yimou film “House of Flying Daggers,” starring Zhang Ziyi, Takeshi Kaneshiro and Andy Lau. This is an English title, the Mandarin is "Shi Mian Mai Fu" which means something like "Ambushed from Ten Directions" (and the Japanese are releasing it as simply "Lovers"). Not sure when this one will reach the states, but I can say that it’s even better than Hero (Zhang Yimou's last Martial Arthouse outing), not to mention "Crouching Tiger," (the film to which any luscious period kung fu film is inevitably compared). It's definitely one of the most beautiful films I've seen in a long while-- the actors, sets, production design, costumes, choreography, cinematography and exquisitely contrived plot are all simply breathtaking. (You can see more pictures here, and a slightly cheesy trailer for the Japan release here.)

Though a lot of critics who saw the film at Cannes and elsewhere are giving it rave reviews, the local HK critics have been less than kind-- they frankly don't like it, and neither does the general public. My friend Sonia with whom I saw the film was polite, but I could tell she didn't like it that much either. "It was beautiful, but the plot was too unbelievable," seems to be the party line. Entire university conferences are held on the topic of global cinema and the international film market (such as the Taiwanese Cinema Conference I helped organize this past year at Yale), and particularly address this paradox of directors from "national cinemas" being ignored or disliked in their "nation" of origin. I don't have much original to say on the matter, except that it is always funny to realize that liking the kinds of "Eastern" films I do just proves my very "Western" tastes. (For instance, I like Tsai Ming-Liang, who has more fans in the audience of the Venice Film Festival than in Taiwan.) Then again, I like a bunch of Asian mainstream popcorn pop-cinema too (everyone should see the amazingly fun Infernal Affairs before Martin Scorcese rips it off ), a lot of which is appreciated by home audiences and foreign critics alike (ex. Takashi Miike). The whole paradigm gets even weirder, however, when you account for international grass-is-greener cinemaesthetes, who are bound to dislike their local art directors because "they pander to foreigners", but prefer foreign (art) directors because they seem "purer." I met one Hong Kong film buff who sniffs at Wong Kar-Wai but (ironically) loves Quentin Tarantino. In the U.S., of course, it would just be the reverse. (Incidentally, I don't care if liking Wong Kar-Wai brands me as a predictable foreigner or anything else-- he is pretty much the reason I came to Hong Kong, all these years after the revelation of seeing Chungking Express for the first time-- and I'm just going to wait for October's 2046 while holding my smelly Western breath.)

SARS superhero

This little guy kind of looks like Sonic the Hedgehog, but he's actually the mascot for SARS prevention (note the mask and how he's furiously washing his hands). He's all over the place as part of the post-SARS emphasis on hygiene and health. Lots of malls have randomly-placed "Sanitation Stations", where you can smear some Purell on your hands and grab a Kleenex during your busy shopping day. Then again, there are many restaurants where Hong Kongers wash their own plates and utensils with hot tea to "disinfect" them, so I don't know if this is all just psychic sanitation or what.

Sprite on Fire

...with burning ginger sensation. This is my new favorite drink. Hell, it's my new persona. Sprite on Fire. Asia is so much better than America.

the blur of the first days

So yeah. I'm in Hong Kong.

girl on the wing

Brief notebook jottings in the Seoul airport:

It's 5am in Korea, dawning in rainy solid gray through the futuristic windows of Incheon airport. I’m in total timezone limbo—been flying with the darkness all night. 3 hour layover before 8:40am flight to Hong Kong, and whatever future awaits me there. I feel ragged, tired, open, aching, time-warping, uncertain. Ignorant. As in, I don’t really know what I’m getting into, moving to Hong Kong to teach English for two years, or even why I’m really going. I’m a college graduate now. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now, so this seems as good a plan as any.

start me up

i'm moving to hong kong next wednesday, july 7th (technically thursday july 8th as my flight departs at 12:30am). heading out into new territories, the new territories. yeah.