Two Weeks and Change

I arrived two weeks ago and my time thus far can be described as a feverish attempt at acclimating to life in a new country.

Though living in Kat Hing Wai is as local as it gets, I’ve happily succumbed to the usual tourist spots and sights of Hong Kong too (much to the chagrin of some of my cousins). Quarry Bay, Hong Kong Island, Central, Wan Chai, Mong Kok; I’ve gone out of my way to get into the way of all the tourist crowds and have enthusiastically joined the other wonderstruck foreigners.

The Yik Cheong building off of Quarry Bay is a tawdry and jostling collection of apartments compiled into a colorful concrete sprawl. Never have I witnessed a more dense bundle of flats in Hong Kong. ‘Concrete jungle’ does not do this architectural behemoth justice. The varying hues of eroding pastel that color the walls create a picturesque sight, giving people an excuse to stop and stare upwards.

Though it was built decades ago and makes no attempt to mitigate its squalid appearance, animated tourists scurrying about the bustling street markets run like a current of modernity just underneath the building. A resident of this colorful conglomerate constantly lives no more than a few arms length away from a neighbor in every direction.

I seemed to have developed an acute sensitivity to the most trifling delay. A moment of slowed walking, a fumbled cashier exchange, or a public interaction that occurs at any manner other than cursory now seems to nudge me ever so slightly. Any fluctuation from Hong Kong’s usual swiftness instills a fleeting feeling of contempt. I already feel this way after such a brief stint here, it makes me question the tolerance of someone—maybe myself —living here one, two, three years down the line.

The weather remains mercurial: the forecast alternates between a heavy, sweltering wall of heat and a tropical rainfall—yet, more often than not, the moisture-laden air offers a thorough enough soaking to bridge the difference between the two. Nearly every night, I go to sleep listening to the sharp whip of thunder with the soft pitter-pattern of rainfall, while the cracks in my room curtains leak bright, sporadic flashes of lightning that seem to try so hard to keep my eyes from closing.

My family was sitting at dinner the other night, and I stood up to get water for myself and asked who else would like a glass; four people agreed. I meandered to the kitchen and — thinking I was clever and adroit — was able to carry five total glasses of water and hand them out accordingly. I sat down quite pleased with myself, thinking how my previous summers of working as a wedding caterer paid off, when suddenly my aunt and uncle began telling me how rude I was. I scoured my previous three minutes of existence in search of my misstep.

My mental forage was interrupted by my realization that, in the Chinese culture, each glass is meant to be held individually with both hands as a sign of respect before handing it off. Though I thought I was being expedient, fumbling around holding five cups of water was perceived as impertinent and rude.

The people I’ve met here resemble a thoroughly mixed grab-bag of nationalities. Within my new teacher cohort — 28 ripe and rookie pedagogues — I’ve met individuals from South Africa, Australia, Scotland, Wales, England, and a handful of other too-small-to-recall locations around the UK.

Us group of teachers represents a small niche of strictly native English-speakers though, nonetheless, even interacting in the English language here has been an adjustment. Most of the English I hear among the other teachers is either a South African brand of English interlaced with Afrikaans slang, Australian English, or British English (or as the Brit’s here tell me often: “the proper, correct type of English”). I get ridiculed for saying ‘trash can” instead of “waste bin” or for saying “shoes” instead of “trainers,” and usually the mockery is delivered in some iteration of ‘tit’ or ‘twat.’

For a group of people that are meant to be English language teachers, we seem to find much of our English seems to diverge — working with young kids in a school highlights these differences in obscene ways. Though I’ve tried to temper my English to be “less American and more proper” to minimize my overtly American mannerisms, it has inevitably been — and will continue to be —  a work in progress.

During teacher training, I was asked to “pull out a rubber” by a coworker of mine from the UK — a female — and I was taken aback by how inappropriate the timing and wording seemed. Neither my vulgar teacher counterpart nor the children glanced up. As I began questioning whether I had misheard or whether it was already too late to mumble “that’s what she said,” my coworker reiterated her crass remark with even more gusto — “pull out a rubber!”

Fun fact: it is “proper” English to call a classroom eraser a “rubber.”

Between the caprice of the weather, the Chinese customs, and the discrepancies within the English language, my adjustment to life in Hong Kong has nonetheless gone well. Admittedly, having family in every nook and cranny of Hong Kong does help unwrinkle the usual wrinkles of changing countries. Despite the speed bumps, my family is wonderful, my coworkers are a joy, and I find myself content with the ample amount of time I still have to read, write, and drift aimlessly about the vibrancy that is my new home.

In short, I am thankful.