Hong Kong ahead

It is March. Time for my annual pilgrimage to Hong Kong to visit Asian mills with whom I work. Time to eat fabulous fish served straight from the aquarium to my plate via a quick trip to the wok.

For those of you who have not been to Asia, fresh fish has a whole other meaning there. Many restaurants have fresh and saltwater tanks teeming live seafood. [Side note - do you only use "teeming" when describing sea life? I don't think I have ever used it in a "dry" application.] You either allow the waiter to pick the fish from the tank for you or, more likely, you go to the tank with a friend and scrutinize the fish for good energy, a healthy sheen, fats lips or any other sign that means "fresh" to you. You weigh the merits of the flounder against the prawns and either pick the better or, more likely, both. Food is excellent and cheap, and the Chinese way is to order so much food that there is more left on the table than in the guests at the end of dinner. Emptied plates would a horrific embarrassment to the host.

Some of the best meals I have had are with my friends Alain and Michael. Individually and collectively they encompass the best of global cuisine. Each was raised in a food-centric culture; Alain from the storied French gourmet-centric society and Michael from the fusion, street food, melting pot culture of Taiwan. They have lived together in Bangkok for over 20 years and have been immersed in Thai cuisine, notable for the best blends of spice and savory on Earth. They not only know where to eat and what to order in Hong Kong, but also which Thai sauce to add from the small bag of tabasco-sized bottles hidden under the table that they smuggled in on their flight. Yes, smuggled. It is easy to envision a Hong Kong border guard tossing the small vials of goodness into the bin out of national pride and spite.

All of the above is actually a tangent. What I had wanted to mention was that I hate to travel. No, that is a bit strong. I hate to PLAN to travel. How eager would you be to book a ticket that means sitting on your ass in coach for 16 hours? The trip is a bear, and I dread it. It also stinks to leave the family behind for two weeks. I think about how I will miss my morning cuddles with the kids and our third-grader's bedtime cello recital. I think of missing my wife's kissing and bitching and her angelic smile and homey smell. This makes it tough to buy a ticket, even when I know I have to go.

While alone abroad I will worry about work, and think I should be home selling instead of in Hong Kong spending. I will feel like a small fish in a big sea, and feel that my contributions to my industry are insignificant. But I will have other feelings too. I will be inspired to try something new at work and at home, and that is why these trips are important.

I will feel alive and joyous as I ride the ferry across Kowloon bay each morning to the convention center. Think of how lucky I am to be alive, and to travel to beautiful places and befriend people from all over the world. I will be thankful for the scent of the south pacific, for the red hawks circling above, the old junk easing its way out to sea and the roast pork and coconut buns in the waxy bag in my lap.

I will wonder if, had I been blessed to be a full-time resident of Hong Kong, I would rise at six every morning to take a power walk along the boardwalk past the old men and women practicing tai chi. Whether I would learn what benefit I could derive from each dried sea creature in the large barrels at the grocer's or from the ghastly mammal part preserved in ancient wooden drawers at the pharmacy.

I will take all of the experiences home with me, and incorporate them into my life and my work. The kids will get small gifts, and many kisses. My wife will get no material gifts, but will grudgingly accept my continued gratitude and pretend to be overwhelmed by my boundless passion for her (for which I know she is secretly grateful).

fuck you blogger

My preceding post was twice as long, but blogger lost the copy.

Fuck you blogger. Fuck you.

The perfect parasite?

A dear friend of mine - let's call him Bert - is perhaps the greatest wit I have the pleasure to know. He can hold court for hours on politics ("The US is screwed up beyond belief, but everywhere else is worse"), religion, finance, and food. It is, however, his observations on family that I wish to discuss today.

To quote Bert: "The human child is the most perfect parasite." Quite a bold statement to elevate children above leeches, tics, fleas, ringworm, and lice. Yes, he ranks them even above politicians, lawyers, and his three ex wives (the price of being a wit I suppose).

I have four kids and feel quite qualified to comment on this theory. I have three girls, ages 8,7 and 5, and a knuckle dragging neanderthal stinky boy, 4. If you haven't guessed yet, Boy takes after his father in both conduct and hygiene.

Are they parasites? Let's see a random definition from the worldwide interweb:

"Parasite": something that [has] . . . dependence on something else for existence or support without making a useful or adequate return."

At first glance it does not look good for the little pipsqueaks. Children are the most wholly dependent creatures imaginable. They require constant feeding, bathing, education, and amusement. Unlike your common house cat, they have no ability whatsoever to supplement your efforts. None of my children have scored themselves a small bird or mouse for a snack. I do not find them often playing with a ball of string for hours or napping on the windowsill. When a cat needs to go potty, it does not call out your name for companionship or, better yet, cry out "WIPE ME!!!" when it is done. I've wiped a lot of ass in the last eight years.

Still, they deliver a "useful or adequate return." Nothing compares to the feel of a small hand in your palm, gentle kisses at bedtime, the never-ending stream of artwork, rediscovering children's books, building blocks, the excuse to watch a pixar film or to bake cupcakes for any reason or none. Every inch of ass wiped is rewarded by a mile of smiles and love. I'll keep wiping.

You only need to get it right once.

I have a theory, or maybe its a philosophy (I never know which). It has a few flaws, but it works well for me. Here it is:

You only need to get it right once.

Doesn't that sound sensible and, more important, doable? It does not matter how many times you've screwed up in the past - just get it right. With many things in life, you only need to get it right once and the future is clear.

My marriage is a perfect example. Beloved wife and I met as young, often drunk, restaurant workers. We ran around town and generally had a good time. We had our differences, but we mostly had fun. After about three years the magic was, as they say, gone. We were still friends, but there was no romance, no fun adventures, and we just didn't connect. We had grown apart and soon we split apart. I was devastated.

We remained close after the split, and she called me often from her travels across the country with a Shakespeare troupe. When the tour finished and she returned to New York, I realized that we should be married. She thought I was mad (crazy mad, not that other mad) and insisted that we had tried and it failed: "I never go back to an old relationship"

That was when I had my revelation - it didn't matter. It didn't matter that we failed to make it work previously. You see, "Happily Ever After" only needs to be accomplished once. So fuck up your relationship two or three times, its OK. The important thing is that you learn from the mistakes and just get it right one time - and make sure its the happily ever after time.

More life lessons and observations to follow.