Hong Kong Hotel Duel: The Shangri-La vs. The Conrad

I live near the Island Shangri-La and the Hong Kong Conrad.  They’re just a hop, skip and an underground tunnel away.  I also live for live jazz, swank hotel bars and cold martinis.  So I’ve become a regular at both The Shangri-La’s Lobster Bar and the Conrad’s Pacific Bar.  One excels where the other fails and I find myself torn between the two.

First, the Shangri-La is the Shangri-La.  Hong Kong is the hotel’s base, and it’s flagship property doesn’t mess around.  It’s posh but not pretentious, luxurious not obnoxious, grand without going gaudy.  The Lobster Bar is a bit frilly for my taste (think lavender and lanterns), but I understand it.  We’re in Asia.
The back lit bar spotlights the impressive liquor selection and redirects your attention away from the lackluster views of Victoria Harbor and the skyline.  It’s all very Jack Nicholson talking to the ghost bartender in The Shining.  In fact, you half expect to see the kid in the Big Wheel and those Beluga Whale headed twins.  “Come and play with us, Danny.”

The Conrad is not on its home turf and it shows.  It’s as if the place doesn’t know how Asian to get without making guests laugh out loud.  So it tries to have it both ways.  It’s definitely more masculine than the Shangri-La.  The furniture is massive, the common areas less decorative, and the Pacific Bar slightly suburban.  It’s almost too spacious, the haphazard placement of the tables arranged not with the band in mind, but in spite of it.  It’s the lobby lounge that nearly forgot it had live music.

But here is where the Conrad excels.  The views are better.  The windows are bigger.  The furniture is more comfortable.  And though you might not get the coziness of the Lobster Bar, you do get a comfy couch and the relatively unobstructed views of the harbor and skyline.

But guess what?  No Grey Goose, only Belvedere.  Call me uppity, but I really think I can taste the difference.  Grey Goose rules and the Shangri-la has it.  I just belly up to the bar at the Shangri-la and my lady bartender says, “Grey Goose straight up with a twist.”  I smile.  She even knows to bring me those deliciously sinful chips with the pepper.  I never eat chips in real life.  Only at the Shangri-la.

The Pacific Bar doesn’t serve chips.  They serve peanuts and rice boogers (crackers).  How cheap can you get?  They even have the nerve to serve it in this fancy little sliver tray.  They’re peanuts for Christ’s sake, not cashews, almonds or even Brazil nuts.  Why not just open the plastic lid and hand us the tin can?

But my Pacific Bar waitress is cute in that scruffy, disheveled, “I can’t believe I got this job but I’m gonna be me God dammit” kind of way.  When she sees me she yells, “Belvedere martini!” and smiles without reservation or any regard for her surroundings.  I love her!

So it all comes down to the music.  And this is where I’m fickle.  I prefer the Shangri-La to the Conrad, but if the woman who fronts the Lobster Bar’s band is lackluster, I’ll happily go to the Conrad.  If the Conrad’s singer is second-rate, then I’ll happily return to the Lobster Bar.

The Lobster Bar has recently replaced the sultry songstress, Danielle Eva, with Senorita Velveeta.  And though the amazing pianist and bass player are still there, Velveeta’s voice makes me cringe.  And her repertoire is straight out of a bad airport hotel lounge.  Pobrecita.

I just hope that poor bag of bones with the thin voice isn’t still singing at the Pacific Bar.  Poor girl looked as if Stevie Wonder did her makeup.  She was all eyelashes, rouge and lips.  She looked like a zip-lock bag.

Red and blue make green!

Recreational Waterboarding: It’s the new thing!

Can’t sleep?  Restless?  Try waterboarding!

Stiff neck?  Stressed at work?  Turn on the faucet!

Bored?  Plagued by random thoughts?  Whip out the hand restraints and face cloth!

You just knew that once Christopher Hitchens tried waterboarding out for Vanity Fair several months ago, that the whole thing would just catch on like wild fire.  Those pics were priceless by the way.

Pretty soon you’ll have the inevitable heart attack, death or partial paralysis that comes from recreational waterboarding.  Crazy kids!  The effected family will go on Oprah.  Barbara Walters will halt an argument between Joy and Elisabitch to announce in her high-pitched, sing-song voice, “Did you hear about the little boy who is now clinging to his life in St. Louis after waterboarding with his friends?”

“Mmmm!” says Whoopi shaking her head.

I say we should just waterboard controversial people simultaneously and publicly during the evening news.  That’ll get those ratings up in a jiffy.  First, Nancy Pelosi and Rush Limbaugh!  Who can last?  Who’ll come out the better person?  With more street cred?

On CBS, Katie Couric can challenge Sarah Palin to a waterboard face-off.  I’d advise Katiekins to cheat given that Palin is already brain dead.

Next Miss California and Perez Hilton on ABC.  Which bitch will gurgle first!?  C’mon Senor Perez, show that skanky bimbo the way to her Sweet Lord!

Shameless and Ungrateful in Hong Kong: Expat searches for nanny

A few weeks ago, while having my morning coffee and quiche at my local Pacific Coffee, I noticed a Caucasian expat seated on one of those comfy chairs while her child ran amok, licking the windows, riffling through the magazines and walking in front of customers holding cups of steaming coffee. She was calling out his name (Jonah or Marcus or something equally obnoxious) while she sipped her coffee and smiled at no one.

I briefly hoped the kid would be doused with scalding tea or hit in the head by a random briefcase. But then I remembered that my anger should be focused on that pasty Amazon with the thick legs, dirty-blond hair and ponytail. Who was this woman? And why did she think it was OK, if not acceptable and even cute to let her kid roam Pacific Coffee without any real supervision? She seemed intelligent enough, no drool on her chin.

Then a Filipina walked back from the restroom and I knew what was up. This expat mom was waiting for her nanny to return from the potty so that she could get back to sipping her coffee without having to police her kid. I get it.

No. Wrong.

This expat mom was interviewing this Filipina for a nanny position. And this Filipina immediately started to supervise little Talbot or Caleb while Mom asked questions in a loud voice so that everyone, including the Filipina’s family back in Manila, could hear.

“When are you available? Can you clean? Is Sunday OK with you? What about every other Sunday? Where do you live? Are your papers in order? My husband is running late but will be here shortly.”

As if on cue, in walks the suit.

He asked the same questions but in a normal inside voice. I got back to my reading and planning. Everyone in the restaurant seemed to relax.

Several minutes later, the Filipina left and the Amazon went off on her husband.

“Mary gets to play tennis on weekday mornings. I want to play tennis. Her maid stays with the kid early in the morning. Why does this one think she’s so special that she can’t? She’ll have it too easy if we hire her. I want her to work mornings and on Sundays. Kathy’s nanny works Sundays so I know it can be done.”

I was shocked. Horrified. Embarrassed for this lady. It’s one thing to think shameless thoughts, to complain ungratefully in private, and then to grab hold of yourself and say, “Baby, get a grip!”

But here was this expat woman airing her dirty laundry for all of expat friendly Pacific Coffee to see. I mean, she was hanging up caca-stained panties and inexpensive hose.

I left. I couldn’t stand to stay and listen to her complain any longer.

I teach part-time, I plan for my lessons at Pacific Coffee. I also get manicures, pedicures, massages and facials. I buy groceries, run errands and plan vacations and weekend get-aways. I have a great housekeeper who keeps my clean place even cleaner–Virgo neat-freak that I am. But God help me if I ever become a shameless and ungrateful expat. Even on my bad days, life just ain’t that damn bad. I have it pretty good. And for that, I am grateful.

Throwing something out the window in Hong Kong

In a mainland Chinese village, throwing something out the window might squash some ants, leave an alley cat blind in one eye, or scare the dumpling out of a neighbor.  In Hong Kong, tossing something out the window could leave someone dead or worse–a vegetable dumpling.

That is why it’s alarming that a neighbor on a higher floor has seen it fit to throw stuff out the window.  I should say through a window because on both occasions there was broken glass in front of the main entrance to my building.

The first time it happened, the broken glass belonged to a small kitchen window.  This morning, it was glass from the big, living room window.  These are not flimsy windows.  If you break one, it’s because you meant to do it.  You either grabbed a heavy chair and swung it at someone and missed, or you took a running jump towards the window.

The street in front of my building was closed for nearly two hours this morning while the authorities cleared it of debris.  Passersby looked up and pointed at the large hole in the window.  This was no accident.

I asked the doorman on duty what happened.

“The glass broke.”

Well no shit Sherlock.

“Why?” I asked.  “Was someone drunk?”

“Nobody home.”  He replied.

“Maybe they left in a hurry after they broke the window.” I said.

“Nobody home.”  He repeated.

He’s either lying or trying to scare the hell out of me.  A ghost did this?  Perhaps the ghost of the older woman whose son chopped her to death?  There is something strange happening in my building and this nosy neighbor is going to get to the bottom of it.

Swine Flu Hotel or the Metropark Hotel Wanchai

Living in the heart of Hong Kong is like living in a big western city expect with fewer white or black people.   Sure, the signs are in Chinese, but they’re also in English.  The buildings might be taller and the city more densely populated, but Hong Kong reminds me of New York in many ways–a New York with British English, a busy harbor and people who shove you out of the way not to be confrontational, but because you are, in fact, in their way.

I welcome this change after prissy, preening Tokyo with its abundance of rules, regulations and  suicides.  Hell, I’d contemplate suicide too if I had to put up with all that pressure.  Who wouldn’t?

Hong Kong is all about rules when it comes to one thing: communicable disease.  After SARS, the city government doesn’t mess around when it comes to sickness.  In the current environment, you so much as sneeze and you might have a cop hosing you down.  Of course, we all thought we were fairly immune from Swine Flu.  I mean, it’s all the way over there in Mexico, and China is pretty strict about most things, including visiting foreigners.

We were passing the Metropark Hotel on Saturday morning when we noticed the crowds and television cameras.  My partner assumed they were just filming a movie so we crossed the street to avoid any unnecessary hassle.  But as we passed the hotel from across the busy road, we noticed many policemen, a couple of ambulances and hordes of curious onlookers.

“Must be a murder suicide.”  I said.

I love messing with my partner.  He is so easily spooked.

“Oh, I’m wrong.  It was a jumper.  I just saw the clothe draped over the body.”

My partner pretended not to want to look, but I saw him nervously glancing towards the front of the hotel.

When we passed the 7-11 (yes, there are 7-11s in Hong Kong) to pick up the FT, we saw the headline of the local paper.  The Swine Flu had not only managed to make it to Hong Kong, it managed to land a few blocks from our apartment building.  Yikes!

Suddenly my year-round tan and passionate nature were a liability.  What if the local authorities rounded up all Mexicans and Mexican-Americans, put us in some urine-drenched cell and threw away the key?  It could happen.

Later, I saw the pictures and video of all the guests hanging out their windows, waving at the cameras.  When I went by the hotel again today, I had my mobile camera ready in case some German woman with cabin fever started spitting at passersby.  Unfortunately, the police had blocked the perimeter of the hotel from access and the only person I saw in the hotel was some white guy talking on his cell phone.  On the line with Kristie Lu Stout, no doubt.

Sai Kung Food Poisoning

Slightly off the beaten track from Hong Kong lies the dirty, little fishing village of Sai Kung, known citywide for its fresh seafood and tourist friendly boardwalk. My partner was there a few weeks ago for a golf outing, apparently these mini ferries whisk golfers from the pier to an outlying island covered by the deep, manicured green of a golf course.

When returning from a devastating game where he humiliated himself in front of balding, middle-age putters, my partner decided to stop and have a couple of beers at one of the many restaurants lining the boardwalk. He called me from Sai Kung twice in the span of an hour just to tell my how beautiful and peaceful it was.

“Is it like Stanley?” I asked.

“Better. It’s less developed and the water and green hills and mountains are more spectacular.” He said.

So after spending Saturday afternoon in Stanley soaking up the sun, breathing in the fresh air, smiling at the sand and facing the breeze, I thought of what pleasures Sai Kung might hold. Better than Stanley? I imagined my partner and I moving from bustling Hong Kong to this magical beach village. I had promised my partner that I was open to the idea of moving to a beach community after two years in the city center. Why not? How many times would we get the opportunity to live on a Stanley or Shek O or this Garden of Eden called Sai Kung.

Imagine my surprise when we got to Sai Kung after a taxi ride that was far less spectacular than the one to Stanley, and I found not this oasis of calm, not this friendly, quaint village, but his garish, noisy hellhole. Around every corner, my expectations were not only dashed, but pistol-whipped and shot execution style. It was as if the whole of Central Hong Kong during lunchtime had moved to this stinky, Godforsaken hamlet. I tried to smile and act excited but I just wanted to get the hell back to Hong Kong.

Sai Kung is in the New Territories but it looked neither new or like any territory any country or Special Administrative Region would claim. The promised water view was blocked by this little bump of an island just off shore. The green hills and mountains were nowhere near as dramatic as in Stanley. Hell, Stanley’s boardwalk was quiet compared to the screams, wails and cries I heard–and that was just the little, old ladies.

I did leave Sai Kung with a souvenir of sorts. I got food poisoning at the restaurant I selected. You see, I let my partner choose one of those dirty, choose your own sea food joints. He can’t lie to save his life so I knew his food was mediocre. After he was done, it was my turn to choose a restaurant. I settled on one of the open air eateries near the pier. They were popular with expats and tourists so I figured it was safe. I’m pretty sure it was the stir-fried vegetables that did me in. You don’t have to cook vegetables as thoroughly as you do meat and I could tell from the first bite that something was wrong. Just thinking about that heaping plate of salmonella makes me cringe.

My partner felt badly about what occurred to me later that evening and all day yesterday, especially given that yesterday was our anniversary. We had planned to have dinner at a nice restaurant. Instead he ordered take out from Pizza Express and I ate a small bowl of brown rice.

Happy Anniversary, Baby!

A whale in Hong Kong

A humpback whale appeared in the waters around Hong Kong late last week. Apparently, it got separated from its pod and wandered into the unfamiliar and overly friendly waters of Victoria Harbor.

When the story first broke, everyone jumped in their boats and headed out to greet the whale. The next day, authorities urged citizens to please leave the whale alone, and even provided maps of where the whale was spotted so that we could avoid these areas. Well, the authorities should have just handed out itineraries, as everyone used these maps as guides when they hopped in their boats to go visit with the whale.

A few days later, the authorities pleaded with people not to disturb the lost whale. They told us that he needed time and space to get his barrings, so that he could swim back out into the open sea to continue his annual migration to getting laid. They said that any interference with the whale would cause it to get sick and die. Now, everyone headed out to see this horny bastard before he bought the farm.

Next the authorities warned that anyone caught trying to greet the whale would be fined. The fine was nominal so the sightseeing continued.

Now the fine has been raised substantially as an even greater deterrence. Let’s see if this works. I’m just guessing you’ll see more yachts than kayaks tracking our lost visitor.

At least the poor whale didn’t end up in Tokyo Bay. He would have been killed for “research” and turned up in the food stalls at the Tsukiji Fish Market. Oishides!

The Widow of Wanchai

Can I get a witness?

My man is busy. He wakes up to his blackberry alarm and begins working from home. He puts in twelve hours at work, and then returns home to his laptop to resume working. All he does is work.

When we have dinner–the only time I get him in the evening–he talks about work. Work, work, work. Marcia, Marcia, Marcia! I’m going out of my fucking mind.

The busier he gets, the angrier I get. The more time he spends away from me, the more time I want to spend with him. And when we do get time together, it’s usually socializing with his work colleagues. When I finally do get some alone time with him, we argue for half of it.

I’m the Widow of Wanchai. I play second fiddle to a blackberry. I am Julie, the Cruise Director to his Captain Stubing. I’m the John Oates of our Hall and Oates.

That I’m the more popular of the two in social settings means nothing. I only want to be the most popular for him. And it’s not like I’m some fat slob dragging my ass to the gym. I maintain/preserve my youth and looks with weights, running and vodka. People still think I’m in my 20s for God’s sake.

And all the personal pampering I do at salons or spas isn’t going to make up for the fact that I’m lonely in Hong Kong. Sure, my kids at the school I teach at help. But they’re a distraction more than a substitute. Life has to be more than spur of the moment trips by myself to Macau or martinis for one at the Shangri-La. I miss our beers at Tommy’s in Park Slope. Our runs in Prospect Park. And our Saturday nights at the Brooklyn Museum of Art.

Amen.

Doormen, Drunks and Santa Clause

Doormen are like Santa Clause.  They know when you’ve been bad or good, and they know when you’re awake–and shouldn’t be.

A drunk trying to act sober is like a fading Hollywood hottie trying to age gracefully.  It ain’t gonna happen.  Try looking at yourself in the mirror after a few, put on your best church face, and see what I mean.  It’s the eyes.  The eyes always give you away.  And if you’re like me, the red and puffy cheeks.

When you live in a doormanless building, there’s no one there to judge you when you get home.  Nobody there to give you that “You crazy ass drunk” smile, or those eyes that say, “I can smell the filth on your clothes, Whorina.”

I remember those looks when I lived in doorman buildings in New York and Chicago.  I was the straight-laced, preppy do-gooder by day, the thrill-seeking, slutty cocksucker at night.  I smiled and tried to look sober as I arrived alone, or quickly ushered in a trick before the doormen could catch his eye if I arrived with John Doe.

But then you settle down, move into a three-story walk-up, and later to the other side of the world.  My partner and I hadn’t lived in a doorman building together before our move to Hong Kong.  In New York, we lived in Brooklyn, and in Tokyo, our key would open the Star Trek security door.

Here in Hong Kong, it’s back to the knowing glances of doormen.  And while my rug-burn days are over, I still drink and will occasionally come home drunk.  The doormen have also seen my partner and I argue in the lobby, run down in our pajamas after the false alarm, come in with pizza, arrive sweaty from a run, ask to use the golf simulation room (him), ask about the murder on the 27th floor (me), and kiss (I recently learned they can see inside the elevator behind their desk).

During Chinese “Christmas”otherwise known as Chinese New Year, it is we who have to give gifts to them.  Next year, I’ll give them all a bottle of bubbly and say, “Drink this and come see me.”

A mother murdered in Hong Kong–in my building

I was at my local Pacific Coffee shop reading the paper when I saw the headline, “Accused killed mother in 150 chops, court told.”

I immediately thought of that powerful and unexpected scene in the movie I saw last night, Rachel Getting Married.  In it, Debra Winger slaps daughter, Anne Hathaway.  Then Hathaway returns Mom’s slap with a right hook.  Somewhere John Travolta laughed out loud.

My mind wanders on.

Why use the word chop?  Why not cut or slice?  Hell, dice?  Did the son count his chops?  If so, why 150?  That seems like an awful lot of times to “chop” someone, especially when most of the wounds were on the head and neck.  Didn’t his arm get tired?  Surely his mom died after the seventh or eight chop.

I read on.

It happened in my apartment building!

“Oh my GOD.”  I said out loud.

It happened on the 27th floor, but the article didn’t specify which tower.

I read on.

The son believed his mom was a spy from Japan–rikery story.  He runs some import/export company here in Hong Kong.  What the fuck does that mean anyway?  One of the supervisors on duty discovered the woman on the floor after he entered the apartment–the front door was ajar.   I guess it’s good to know that they patrol the building looking for murderers when we’re asleep.

When I got back to my building, I asked the doormen if he knew about this.  He played dumb.  His English isn’t very good so it was easy.  I showed him the article.  He immediately said, “Tower Two!  Tower Two!”

Hmmm, I bet it happened in Tower One.

This evening, I’ll ask one of the doormen who speak English about the incident, the murder.  Nothing like someone else’s drama to take your mind off the ho-hum of your own dull life.