Hong Kong
I don't have enough time to do this justice, but I'm sitting in a the "Business Center" of my hotel here in this metropolis built on an archipelago, wondering what to say... perhaps I'll just summarize and ramble about my trip since I don't have to be at dinner for 16 minutes. Somewhere upstairs Lars is quixotically pondering where I am and my mom and sister are probably laughing at him. Onwards.
My 15 hour flight here on Monday was due to leave at 11:55 pm, some 5 minutes before the arrival of two things assorted members of my family have been eagerly awaiting: the new Wilco album (myself) and Bill Clinton's autobiography (my, dare I say left-leaning mother). Inside an anonymous airport store that sells a variety of LA kitsch, candy, and plenty of annoyingly glossy magazines were some plastic cases rubberbanded shut marked "My Life Do Not Sell until 6/22/04" My mom eyes this, coveting what's inside, and I step away, fearing the glint in her eye does indeed represent her desire to rip the damn thing open and steal a copy. Which she unceremoniously does, and walks nonchalantly down the terminal and onto the plain. Lars shakes his head in a way that adjectives fail to describe (those of you who know him will know what I mean) and we're off.
We arrive on Wednesday morning in Hong Kong in an enormous, empty airport at 6 am which my thevious mother notes was "the most massive public spending effort ever" and somewhere there's a documentary on the subject of who it was built on hydralic jacks and the like. "Better not tell Lars," she says. Later we went up this rickety, Angel's Flight-like railway to the highest peak on HK island - this city is all skyscrapers and mountains - and LArs insisted we go on a hike up to the top and around. He later found a stream he liked very much, "look at this stream guys. Don't you love the babbling sound?" I could kill myself; it is 90 degrees, humid as a sauna and pouring. Then we went through this market which instantly brings Blade runner to mind and bought some fruit and a watch with Mao. The second hand is his arm waving to the masses. Also, the fruit we later discovered to be smelly, as Lars walked into our room and asked "what's that musty smell?" donning a dumbfounded expression. I told him it was my vagina. For dinner we went to some restaurant which immeadiately brought a mix of Dr. Zhivago and a variety of Cirque de Soliel shows to mind and mom (drunkenly) and I (not drunkenly) discussed selling Lucy into the porn industry. I'm late... I'll mention the rest later from Thailand.
My 15 hour flight here on Monday was due to leave at 11:55 pm, some 5 minutes before the arrival of two things assorted members of my family have been eagerly awaiting: the new Wilco album (myself) and Bill Clinton's autobiography (my, dare I say left-leaning mother). Inside an anonymous airport store that sells a variety of LA kitsch, candy, and plenty of annoyingly glossy magazines were some plastic cases rubberbanded shut marked "My Life Do Not Sell until 6/22/04" My mom eyes this, coveting what's inside, and I step away, fearing the glint in her eye does indeed represent her desire to rip the damn thing open and steal a copy. Which she unceremoniously does, and walks nonchalantly down the terminal and onto the plain. Lars shakes his head in a way that adjectives fail to describe (those of you who know him will know what I mean) and we're off.
We arrive on Wednesday morning in Hong Kong in an enormous, empty airport at 6 am which my thevious mother notes was "the most massive public spending effort ever" and somewhere there's a documentary on the subject of who it was built on hydralic jacks and the like. "Better not tell Lars," she says. Later we went up this rickety, Angel's Flight-like railway to the highest peak on HK island - this city is all skyscrapers and mountains - and LArs insisted we go on a hike up to the top and around. He later found a stream he liked very much, "look at this stream guys. Don't you love the babbling sound?" I could kill myself; it is 90 degrees, humid as a sauna and pouring. Then we went through this market which instantly brings Blade runner to mind and bought some fruit and a watch with Mao. The second hand is his arm waving to the masses. Also, the fruit we later discovered to be smelly, as Lars walked into our room and asked "what's that musty smell?" donning a dumbfounded expression. I told him it was my vagina. For dinner we went to some restaurant which immeadiately brought a mix of Dr. Zhivago and a variety of Cirque de Soliel shows to mind and mom (drunkenly) and I (not drunkenly) discussed selling Lucy into the porn industry. I'm late... I'll mention the rest later from Thailand.