A Storm All My Own

“Do you have enough tape for your windows?”

I looked back quizzically — tape for my windows? I flashed an uncertain smile at the elderly store clerk and kept walking out of the cramped, derelict convenience shop that I had stumbled into for a water bottle and a welcomed puff of cheap air conditioning.

Ordinarily I would have quickly forgotten the interaction, dismissing it as a momentary lapse in my Chinese. But as I made my way home through paths which were, of course, tortuous and devoid of sharp corners and straightaways (feng-shui is seldom absent from design but often remains unnoticed as a piece of the landscape) — I chanced upon a handful of lower level flats, all with a conspicuous “X” spelled in tape across their windows. As I continued, I realized that each passing flat, house, and apartment window bore this curious stamp. Looking at window after window and X after X, I questioned my wisdom in walking out of that rickety shop and neglecting the cashier’s question: it seems I really do not have enough tape for my windows(!)

This was the morning of Saturday, September 15th: notable as both the eve of super-typhoon Mangkhut, the most severe typhoon in Hong Kong’s history of history-keeping, and the eve of my own, personal storm, incisive in its own right.

Growing up in southern California, the harshest weather I’ve weathered was about ten minutes of rainfall per year paired with just enough wind to rustle a paperback book. I’ve been lucky enough to have never learned what to do when a super-typhoon threatens your reality — I’m also lucky enough that my family here in Hong Kong does know what to do and how much tape to accrue the day before storms.

Super-typhoon Mangkhut was my loud and unabating alarm clock early Sunday morning. It proceeded to plague both myself and greater Hong Kong with enough aggression to hurt and inconvenience the people hapless enough to find themselves outdoors. Turbulent winds seemed determined to direct the abundance of rain to fall horizontally — small pellets of water hit my X-crossed window as if discharged point-blank from a rifle; each subsequent, miniature bead of water seemed to be competing with the previous as to which sound could resonate longer.

The day afterwards, fallen and shredded trees riddled roads, sidewalks, and rooftops, creating an ensemble of green and natural shrapnel for me to navigate as I walked to work amidst the aftermath. The famously infallible public transport of Hong Kong was incapacitated for the first half of the following Monday, crippling the ordinarily fast city into an uncharacteristic sluggish limp. The brisk few hours of clean-up and regeneration was extraordinarily efficient and first-world, yet the whispers I heard in passing were complaints of how inconvenient it was to have even a single morning’s defective commute.

The very notion of describing the weather with the term “super–typhoon” invokes intensity — paring “super” with “typhoon” seems to encapsulate just as fitting a description as any combination of adjectives, adverbs, and artistic liberty. This past weekend, nature provided a glimpse of the unmitigated and indifferent authority it wields. How lucky I was to (safely) witness the immediate and easy influence it seemed to hold over the day of an entire population; the acquiescent grace with which every single citizen agreed to stay indoors reflects a power beyond the jurisdiction of man…

I put in many hours staring out my bedroom window during Mangkhut, listening to the thundering yet melodic pitter-patters and whooshes of the storm, digesting the melancholy mood the wet window created. Quiet moments like this have been infrequent, given my hours spent between work and family, though when these periods of reflection arrive, a forlorn silhouette materializes in my mind’s eye, a frank representation of my own loneliness.

Of course, I am grateful for the loving, open arms of my relatives here in Hong Kong; I am grateful for the small handful of teachers I have met here so far; I am grateful to live in a city that bridges culture from the East and the West, from the modern to the classic. I am grateful for the advent of technology and the platform I’ve created here to share my experiences with my readers.

Notwithstanding the many blessings in my life, there remain sporadic bouts of piercing loneliness here — whether it has followed me here or I’ve dragged it along with me, I cannot tell. There are certain homely comforts that can only be noticed with their absence, things such as waking up to the easy California sunshine, or seeing other people over six feet tall, or even hearing American music being played anywhere besides my own headphones. Small trifles add up when there is no one who overlaps with what now feels like a previous lifetime of mine. And yet, these pale in comparison to being physically — geographically —  removed from the most important people and relationships in my life. The fifteen hour time difference between here and home makes it difficult to communicate with loved ones (usually, either I’m asleep or they’re asleep, or I’m at work or they’re at work).

Despite the excitement of living abroad and the many photos, tales, and smiles I share with others, there remains a disquietude; the less romantic side of solo-traveling often remains undisclosed and buried beneath sparkling photos and witty captions. The bustling excitement of my new, overpopulated city is by no means a full-proof antidote to homesickness — the vibrancy from a sea of millions can sometimes be more alienating than invigorating.

This feeling creeps into quiet moments and taps me on the shoulder, subtle enough not to induce solemnity though firm enough to nonetheless remind me of someone or something or somewhere. I do not go about my day ruminating and venting over what once was, nor do I loudly wear my loneliness like an unsightly forehead tattoo. These fleeting times are not unwelcomed nor unanticipated. I repeat to myself the reality of my situation often:

I moved to a different country — of course there will be some loneliness.

I am still adjusting to my new life and learning more everyday how to best do so. I do not ignore glum and sullen moments of contemplation, but try to take them in stride as I do with my moments of excitement and joy. Recognizing the normalcy of something as simple as missing someone makes it more manageable, though this too is not a permanent fix.

Acclimating to a new city, job, and family occupies a great portion of my time, though a full day bound indoors with nowhere to go and shoddy internet connection affords many minutes of solitude to spend with your thoughts. The storm provided an apropos setting for a nostalgic and melancholy meditation, and the result of my reflection is this post.

The predominant thought that remained with me at the storm’s end went something like this:

I am thankful for this life and for those I have been fortunate enough to share it with. The surges of vitality I draw from my peaks and travels are as important as the troughs I inevitably fall into — there cannot be one without the other, just as I myself cannot exist without either.

This post magnifies the small, intermittent moments of poignancy I’ve experienced thus far in Hong Kong (moments that are, rightfully so, not typically examined under a public eye), though these musings in no way impact the truth of this statement:

All is well and I am happy.

For now, I look forward to my fast-approaching trips to the former Portuguese colony, Macau, and to Taipei, Taiwan — in addition to the experiences in between, all of which I can’t wait to continue sharing with you all.

Note to readers: Thank you for the infinite encouragement, feedback, and positivity you’ve shown me by reading and keeping up with my journey on Phil’s Next Stop. I did not expect this amount of support this quickly when I launched my blog five short weeks ago — I appreciate each and every one of you and I hope you’ve enjoyed the ride as much as I have.