NYC for CNY

Happy Year of the Dog, everybody! I hope you all had a fantastic Chinese New Year celebration, and I wish you a healthy and prosperous run over the next twelve months. As you've probably come to expect by now, my Chinese New Year was not spent in Hong Kong, but rather, overseas. For every year since I arrived here—save for 2014—I've used the multiple public holidays that come along with Chinese New Year to travel to countries like Thailand (2010), the Philippines (2011), Vietnam (2012), Malaysia (2013), India (2015), Burma (2016) and Laos (2017). Indeed, some of the greatest trips of my life have been over the Chinese New Year holiday. And 2018 has been no different!

Chinese New Year—often abbreviated CNY—is commonly compared to Christmas, in terms of its importance in Hong Kong culture. It's not quite a perfect match, but it does come close. And, so, while I've only spent that one Chinese New Year itself in Hong Kong, I still get to experience snippets of the celebration each year, even if I'm jetting off somewhere. It's sort of like if you spent the three weeks leading up to Christmas in New York, but then departed on the 22nd of December. Sure, you'd miss Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, but you'd get a solid dose of American Christmas culture, including the decorations, music, holiday-themed television shows and festive food, even if you miss out the big days themselves. It's the same thing here. Although I leave a few days before Chinese New Year, I still get to enjoy the aesthetic beauty it lends to the city, most notably in the florist shops all around town, peddling the iconic CNY plants and flowers.

As you know, the Winter Olympics in Pyeongchang, South Korea, have just drawn to a finish, with the Closing Ceremony taking place earlier tonight. Yes, it's long been a goal to experience these Winter Games, especially after having gotten to take part in London's 2012 Summer Olympics. Back in 2014, Sochi seemed a bit far to go, so it never really entered my periphery. But Pyeongchang is just around the corner, so it seemed to be a good bet. Thus, years ago, I put a mental "save the date" in my mind, and when I saw that the timing of this Chinese New Year and the Winter Olympics would be coinciding nearly perfectly, my mind was made up. I mean, why not, right? It all just seemed so easy and logical.

As the date drew near, I was still telling people about my plans, although I was hesitating to book  tickets. First, I realized what the temperature would be in South Korea... I mean, I always knew it would be cold. It's the Winter Olympics, after all, and I have loved the games since I was a kid, watching athletes sliding down snowy slopes, or skating on ice. But the glamour of it all—plus the warmth of my own viewing locations—distracted me from the bitterly chilling truth, which hit me all of the sudden when Hong Kong's own temperature dropped to a mere 50° in early January, which had me busting out the heaters. As a spectator at mostly outdoor events, did I really want to endure sub-zero temperatures for sustained periods of time? 

I think stopping me even more than the weather, however, was the logistics of coordinating a trip to the Winter Olympics. I learned that Pyeonchang is at least seventy-minutes by high-speed rail from Seoul, where the friends with whom I'd most likely be staying live. That would mean I'd have a good three hours per day spent on trains just to get back and forth from the venues, not to mention the fact that the various arenas and slopes seem very spread out once there.

Looking back, I also realized that I was so immensely fortunate for the convenience of my summer experience in London. Having Alex and Amy to do to the bulk of the legwork made my life so easy. Basically, I just showed up at Heathrow and everything from that point on was taken care of.

Even more than this, though, the nature of a Summer Olympics being held mostly within a major city while the Winter Olympics is spread across mountainous countryside means it's much more tricky to attend a Winter Games. I mean, think about it... Where are Summer Olympics normally held? In world capitals.... Just look back at the last five: Rio de Janiero, London, Beijing, Athens, Sydney.... How about the last five Winter games? Sochi, Vancounver, Turin, Salt Lake City and Nagano.

Summer games are always going to take place in a major metropolis, but it's a crap shoot with the Winter Games. Yes, maybe you'll get them somewhere like Vancouver, or Turin, or Salt Lake City... But the other options are random ski resorts like Sochi or Nagano (or Pyeongchang), which I'd never heard of until they won their Olympics bids. And in these types of places, the venues tend to be spread out, with many events not only far from any semblance to a 'downtown' but also significantly far from each other, without a major city's thorough public transportation network to shuttle you around. 

Still, it was a major international event; I had the days off work; flights weren't entirely unreasonable.  But I was finding it difficult to take the plunge and book. Who knows what would have happened if it hadn't been for an unexpected Dubai trip appearing my on work radar.... I might be in Korea right now, on the heels of having just attended the iconic Closing Ceremony...

But appear it did... A corporate client with whom I work very closely expressed a need for me to visit their Middle East office before May. Then, another client happened to mention that she might be in Dubai the week of 18 March, and, if so, suggested my boss and I join for some meetings. Suddenly, the relatively flexible "any time before May" became the very specific "week of 18 March."

This would potentially throw some other plans of mine for a loop. You see, I had been thinking to fly home on 16 March for two weeks. But now, it seemed, I might be in Dubai instead. The main reason I was going to fly to New York in mid-March was to take in a rare performance of my favorite opera, Semiramide, at the Metropolitan Opera House in Lincoln Center. There were only six performances slated to be given, spread over a span of about four weeks, and March 17 would be the final one. A week or so later, Denzel Washington is opening in a new production of The Iceman Cometh, one of my father's favorite plays. So I thought I'd buy tickets as an early birthday present for him. And the next week is Holy Week, culminating in Easter Sunday, which is always nice to spend with family. It seemed to be a perfectly timed alignment of several stars. I crossed my fingers I'd get to keep my trip as planned, but it just wasn't to be.

The dates for the Dubai trip got confirmed with certainty two weeks ago come Tuesday, so my March trip home just wasn't meant to be. With my own work schedule, mixed with some friends coming to visit Hong Kong, the only Semiramide performance that plausibly fit in with my agenda was the first one, on 19 February. That was the second of the two Chinese New Year holidays this year. With the news, it became a duel between Pyeongchang and NYC. And, compounding the dilemma, these were mutually exclusive events.  It came down to either the Olympics or the opera... If I wanted to catch Semiramide, I'd have to skip the Olympics; if I booked flights to Seoul, I'd miss the first Semiramide at the Met in twenty-five years, and who knows how long until the next one?

I guess it sounds weird, but Semiramide was a big thing for me. The next day, I found myself on SkyScanner playing around with flights. To my absolutely delighted surprise, a round trip, direct flight to New York over Chinese New Year was ridiculously low-priced, in fact, only slightly more expensive than the three-and-a-half hour flight to Seoul.

On Thursday evening, I was on the phone to my sister Danielle to see her thoughts... I also called Heidi about seeing Semiramide. Both responses were positive. On Friday evening, I left work and visited the Flight Centre, officially booking and paying for my itinerary. In less than four days, I'd be on the plane!

I celebrated with Pizza Hut's Chinese New Year "Fortune" pizza special, one of the most delicious ways possible to celebrate my last minute flight! I also called Heidi again, and we booked tickets for Monday's performance, the first in a quarter of a century.

Needless to say, I was ridiculously excited over the next few days...

As my travel plans were taking shape, I also spent a fair amount of time—three nights in a row—at the Chinese New Year Fair in Victoria Park. I've only been to this major event a handful of times in the past, but as you may recall, a former AirBnB guest of mine, Jenny, recently opened a German goods shop near HKU station, and she also rented a booth in the fair to sell some items and raise awareness of her shop. I spent all evening there Saturday and Sunday helping out, and even popped by on Monday night after work, to say goodbye to Jenny and her husband Gert, and to pick up some CNY snacks they prepared for me to take back home to family and friends.

Shockingly, like that it was Tuesday, and it was already time to fly. What a last minute trip!

It was literally the smoothest airport experience ever. My flight had landed almost two hours ahead of schedule. I was one of the very first through customs, and not having checked a bag, I made an immediate beeline for the SkyTrain, which pulled up a few moments after I arrived on the platform. Two stops later, I was at  Jamaica Station, where a New York Penn Station-bound express train would be arriving in six minutes! I bought a ticket and descended to the platform. Once in Penn Station, I got to the 2/3 line just as an uptown train pulled into the station, so I was disembarking at 72nd Street in no time. In the end, I even beat Heidi to her own apartment, as she was still heading back from work!

A few years ago, I booked flights into JFK instead of my standard Newark, which is only about a twenty minute drive from my family's home in Central New Jersey. It was such a horrible experience that I vowed never to fly into JFK again. As I recall, it took me hours to get from airport to apartment. Now, I'm a firm convert. This all went so smoothly, and I was on a major travel high!

"What do you feel like eating?" Heidi asked me as we caught up in her apartment.

"Boneless chicken wings," I answered. I'm not sure why, but I was craving them.

So we headed about ten blocks north of her apartment to Blondie's, a wing specialist and sports bar, with beer and plentiful televisions. We ordered hot and barbecue varieties of the wings—and both bones and boneless versions—as the Olympics pair figure skaters twirled about the rink. I had an IPA, while Heidi sipped Carlsberg. And it was so nice—if a little trippy—to be back! Augmenting the the surreal vibes, although figure skating was playing on the tvs in the restaurant, the sound system was broadcasting a basketball game being shown in the bar area. So the combination of basketball commentary and the sound of squeaky sneakers in conjunction with graceful jumps and twirls kept me giggling as I wolfed down delicious crispy wings, and, of course, a second round of beer. 

The weather was cold but gloriously so. With a warm coat, I wasn't at all bothered by the temperature. The last time I was home in winter—in Christmas 2015—I was shocked by the cold, and hated being outside. I guess what I realized this time around is that somewhere between 15° and the mid-30°s is the threshold between unbearable and manageable. And, for some reason, 35° in New York City doesn't feel nearly as cold as 50° in Hong Kong!

It was also the first time I've experienced February in the United States since moving overseas in 2009. That's right, over eight and a half years, I've spent time at home in every single other month except for this one. It felt like some sort of special cycle had been completed. 

Back at Heidi's there was more Olympics, mixed in with arias from Semiramide on YouTube, photos from Heidi's recent trip to Sicily, and, eventually, a late night pizza run. Welcome home, Parisi! 

My sister's idea was not to tell my dad about this last minute trip, but rather to hatch a plan to surprise him. So after Ash Wednesday mass with Heidi on Wednesday morning—and a quick lunch with my pal Rusty in Midtown—I was Matawan bound on the New Jersey Transit, pulling in to the home station a little after 3pm. 

When we got home, my sister told me to wait outside while she went in to see what dad was up to. "He's on the couch watching television," she excitedly told me. "Here's the mail. Walk in and give it to him. He's been asking me to bring it in all day."

I quietly tiptoed up the stairs and turned towards the living room. "Here's the mail, dad," I said.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he exclaimed with a huge smile! (He might not have used the word, "hell," but I'm keeping this blog PG-13.) 

Over the next eight days, we all just enjoyed spending time together. And ate a lot of food! I always love coming home to binge on the goods I just can't find in Asia, and this trip was no exception. Chief among these is the incomparable bacon, egg and cheese on a bagel, the best way to start any day. Ironically, every visit home always also includes a pit stop at McDonald's for breakfast, because biscuit sandwiches just don't exist in Hong Kong, and I have to get my fix when I can. Entenmann's  donuts, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Cocoa Pebbles, and Pop Tarts also regularly figure in my trips, which they did again.

The days just dissipated, and most of them—though individually phenomenal—seem to blur together, with the Olympics on television, trips to the supermarket, watching Jeopardy! or Wheel of Fortune, even meeting my sister's new boyfriend for dinner at the Pine Tavern one night. But there were, of course, the standouts. 

Saturday was pretty unforgettable. My Aunt Barbara and cousin Michael drove out to our house from Staten Island. We went to the Buttonwood Manor for lunch (I had boneless chicken wings again) and afterwards, they came back to the house, where we had a nice long chat with my dad. Snow had been forecast for that evening, and I was unbelievably excited when the white stuff started falling from the sky.

That night, the Olympics was on NBC, and I switched on an artificial fireplace a few feet away. I guess it sounds like a small moment, but I simply relished every minute of that evening, until I fell asleep. 

In fact, I watched a ton of Olympics over this trip, and it was fantastic. I don't think I could have followed the Games any more closely had I made it to Korea, and I definitely wouldn't have caught nearly as much coverage had I stayed in Hong Kong. And though I know Team USA didn't do as well as many had predicted or hoped for, to me, the whole shebang was still an incredible display of sportsmanship and culture. And I loved every minute of it.

Sunday in Brooklyn was another great day, celebrating my cousin Julian's birthday with family and complete with my Aunt Paulette's famous mocha cupcakes. 

But Monday was the day I had been waiting for, and, in a sense, the reason behind this whole trip. Having stayed at my cousin Vicki's house after Julian's birthday, I was simply able to hop the R train into Manhattan the next morning. After dropping my cousin Georgianna off at her school, Dad let me off at the subway stop in Bay Ridge. I took a few moments to walk around the streets where my grandmother once lived before getting on the train.

I spent that afternoon with my friends Rusty, Kim, Jackie and Ivan at an Upper West Side bar called DTUT, where we played Jenga and laughed an awful lot. It's so great to know that every time I come back, such good friends are willing to rearrange their own schedules to spend a few precious hours catching up. I could have lingered over our pints for many more hours.

But I was very mindful of the clock, so I wouldn't be late to meet Heidi at the old Cafe des Artistes—now called the Leopard at des Artistes—for a fantastic pre-opera dinner surrounded by the restaurant's gorgeous, historic murals.

That night, we saw Semiramide from phenomenal balcony seats in the storied opera house. The first Met performance in a quarter century, and the most amazing bel canto singing you've ever heard. "It's like the vocal Olympics," Heidi leaned over and told me during a short pause.

The few precious days left after the performance were spent with family back in Jersey, savoring the joy of being home. I ventured back into New York on Thursday afternoon, to spend one last night in town and make for an easy segue to JFK the next day.

I woke up around 5am on Friday morning, switching on the Olympics one final time and watching some exciting short track speed skating as I got ready to leave. Heidi came out to join me for a little while, before I headed out at 6:15am.

Flying out of JFK was just about as smooth as flying in had been. The subway took me from Heidi's to Penn Station in a jiffy, it was less than ten minutes until the next express LIRR to Jamaica, and the AirTrain was just about to depart when I stepped through the doors. 

As for my Olympics ambitions, well, fear not, the next Winter Games are in Beijing in 2022, and I've pretty much made up my mind that one way or another, I'll be in attendance. (In two years' time, the Summer Olympics will be taking place in Tokyo. Maybe I'll be there, too.) As for these games, I'll never forget the experience of savoring such a memorable extravaganza back home. In the end, perhaps it wasn't mutually exclusive. I got my Olympics, and I got my Semiramide. And I sure as hell added another unforgettable installment to my litany of Chinese New Year extravaganzas!

The Poon Choi Club and the Lacerated Hand

Saturday was an eventful day. One of the two things for which I'll long remember it is because my friend Joy coordinated a Poon choi dinner in the New Territories—and was gracious enough to invite me along. The second reason is because I almost had to skip out on the dinner and swap it for a visit to the ER, as I seriously hurt my hand in a household accident. 

Poon choi is a traditional Hong Kong dish, tracing its roots back over seven centuries to the old walled villages of the New Territories in the far north of the Kowloon peninsula. Some say the translation is "Chinese casserole," while others claim it means "big feast in a bowl." Both would seem to make sense to me, but I can offer no further comment onto which is more accurate. 

In the New Territories, communal meals were once common, so Poon choi became closely associated with the region. It was a natural choice for major feasts, rituals, weddings and other celebrations, and to this day, the dish is tied in with the traditions of the old walled villages of Kowloon. 

Many of these communities still organize an annual Poon choi feast, normally during the winter months of the year, due to the hearty nature of the food, which would be less enjoyable on a typically sweltering Hong Kong midsummer's day. One such village is San Tin, near the Chinese border in a remote stretch of the New Territories. And as luck would have it, my friend Joy—while not from San Tin—has a connection that occasionally gives her the opportunity to attend the festivities, and on rarer occasions still, to bring along some of her friends. This year, I got tapped to join in the fun, and for weeks now, I'd been looking forward to it. 

So, at about 2pm on Saturday afternoon, I started getting ready. I filled a bag with dirty clothes to take to the cleaners downstairs, planning to drop it off on my way out. And I selected a warm wardrobe—three layers: polo shirt, sweater and overcoat—to combat the current cold streak that's been tormenting me of late. We'd be dining in an ancestral hall, you see, technically "indoors" but with a section of its ceiling thrown wide to the skies above and with its enormous front doors permanently cast open onto a small square. 

As I was pulling my right arm through the sleeve of my blue polo shirt, I felt a strange sensation. I knew instantly that something was wrong, and when I looked down, my heart sank. The part of my hand between the pinky and ring finger was stuck deep into a piece of broken glass on the lampshade of the cheap Ikea light beside my bed. 

The culprit!

That blasted lamp! It cracked at some point during my thirtieth birthday party, when I had brought it  upstairs to the roof to provide a little extra illumination for the gathering. While tidying the next day, my dad pointed out that the lampshade was badly damaged. For some dumb reason, instead of throwing it away, or at least making an effort to render it less dangerous, I simply plugged it back in beside my bed. Well, for nearly thirteen months, I've been eyeing it with suspicion and cautious trepidation. I knew it was a disaster waiting to happen, but not being the most proactive of human beings, I never did anything about it. 

Pulling my hand out of the lamp, I knew this was a potentially serious injury. Inspecting the wound, I could see far into the inner cavern of my hand. The skin was wide open, and the gash was profound. Instantly, I ran to the kitchen and grabbed three or four paper towels, stuffing them between the two fingers and clenching a tight fist, while I tried to calm down and rationally decide the best course of action: skip the dinner and make a bee-line for the emergency room, or proceed as normal with my participation in an indulgent Poon choi feast. 

Common sense did not win out. The rarity of a gweilo being invited to an authentic Poon choi dinner felt like a one-in-a-million opportunity, and I had little intention of missing the meal. I kept my hand firmly gripped, and the paper towels seemed to prevent any massive bleeding. Surprisingly, in spite of the truly terrifying image burnt into my eyes upon first looking between my fingers a few moments before, I wasn't really in much pain. So I gamely finished dressing, pulling on my sweater and then zipping and buttoning my overcoat. Forgetting the bag of laundry, I descended the stairs, caught the tram to Wan Chai, hopped on the MTR, and made it to our meeting point in Kowloon Station slightly ahead of schedule. 

When Joy saw me, and I told her my predicament, she immediately instructed me to visit the MTR customer service desk, where, she assured me, they keep a first aid kit. As promised, they did, and from that kit, I was given gauze and antiseptic alcohol wipes. While we awaited the appearance of the rest of what Joy had dubbed the Poon Choi Club, she cleaned the wound and wrapped it tight. 

My hero, Joy, dressing my wound

Just outside Exit B, the other members of the group began to gather. Joy was the only one I knew, so everybody else was meeting me for the first time with a bloody, bandaged hand. So much for first impressions. First up was Abishek, from India, who was actually with Joy when I arrived. Then came Vicki, from Germany, followed by Zoe and Jens. Andreas, the only guest besides Joy who had participated in the Poon choi ritual previously, came next, then Emily—from Shanghai—and Chris. A few moments before the official meeting time of 3:30pm, Abishek said, "In two minutes, we'll see if my prediction for R&R to be late will come true." 

I didn't quite understand what he meant, but with seconds to spare, a young lady showed up and introduced herself as Rachel. "Regina is taking a taxi," she said as she caught her breath.

"It's OK," Joy reassured us all. "I told you guys 3:30 but I told the driver 3:40, so we're all good." Soon enough, Regina, too, turned up, and it was 3:42 when we were all seated on our pre-arranged private bus to San Tin, the Man Clan village in the New Territories where we'd be dining that night.

It took a good fifty minutes or so to arrive at our destination, meaning we were about as far away from Hong Kong Island as you can get without having crossed the border into the Mainland. And as we disembarked, I realized that San Tin was the old village I had visited back in the summer of 2014—which I described last July in The Lost Blog Post—with its impressive mansion, Tai Fu Tai, and neighboring ancient structures. 

Most of the others hadn't been to Tai Fu Fai before, so on our short trek from bus to dining venue, we took a moment to explore the gorgeous house. Seeing it for the second time, I was as equally impressed as the first by the fusion of East and West. Make no mistake, this is clearly an Asian home, but one whose owners displayed their enormous wealth and immaculate good taste by imbuing certain design features with decidedly European embellishments. 

The Poon Choi Club at Tai Fu Tai

A few zig-zags later, and we found ourselves at the village's main ancestral hall, where we'd be feasting in a little while. It was chilly inside, as expected, and I was glad I wore the coat, sweater and shirt. Since the event was BYOB, we had a nice assortment of beer, red wine, white wine and bubbles, and it didn't take long before we cracked open a bottle. My hand was starting to hurt a bit, so I filled up a glass and explored the upper floor of the building. 

Upstairs at the Ancestral Hall

Shortly, the villagers began filling the room, and all the other tables were soon occupied by the garrulous residents of San Tin. Apparently, ours was the only table of visitors, and Joy explained that although the clan puts on this festival every year, it's only on special occasions that they extend the invitation to outsiders. "One of my old primary school friends is part of the organizing team," she told me, "so I get the offer of a table from time to time." 

I had met Joy only on a couple of occasions before, first on a junk about two years ago and then recently at my New Year's Eve rooftop party, and maybe one or two other times in between. My good friends Toby and Anne were back visiting from Germany, and I decided to host a gig at my place as opposed to paying a stupid amount of money for an overrated bar night. I extended the invitation to friends of friends of friends as well, and Joy wound up coming along. While there, we got to chatting, and she mentioned this upcoming event. Of course, I immediately expressed interest. (Toby and Anne had gotten to participate in an earlier installment.) I had nearly forgotten about it when she followed up with me a few weeks later, and I feel very lucky that the stars aligned so that I could experience such a special happening, even if that benighted lamp did try to ruin the fun!

New Year's Eve on the Rooftop!

The first signs of celebration came in the form of firecrackers. These were deafening, and if you didn't know what was happening, you'd have surely thought a war had started. Thankfully, as this is a village-wide celebration, it seemed like the whole town was in attendance, so there was nobody unaware of the festivities.

Lanterns hanging in the Ancestral Hall

Then came the obligatory lion dance, more intricate than most of the others I've witnessed over my time here. In each corner of a sunken platform in the middle of the hall, four place mats were set down with a Chinese character printed upon them. Atop these mats was dropped some cabbage (choi in Chinese, which sounds like the word for luck, as Emily explained to me) and a mandarin orange (the symbol of Chinese New Year, as Joy explained to me), which the lion had to pick up and consume. He—they, really, since it takes two people to make up a lion—had to finish it all off by unfurling a banner, which was then displayed to the whole crowd to rapturous applause and confetti! 

The conclusion of the Lion Dance

Afterwards, was the food, which just kept coming. The first course was a double boiled duck soup, absolutely delicious, deep and complex in flavor, and with fowl so tender the ladle was sufficient to separate meat from bone as you served yourself from the communal bowl. I had two—maybe three—helpings. 

The start of the feast!

The second and third courses came in concert: a heavenly chicken cooked in yellow wine and another duck dish. These were quickly joined by braised mushrooms—unforgettably perfect—and fresh pineapple curiously marinated in ginger. Surprisingly, this second dish was a nice addition to the assortment, although it seems like the winner of "Which one of these things is not like the other?" 

Chowing down!

There were also fish balls, which I tried but did not love, and pork belly, which I tried and tried and tried again, because I loved it so much. Standing out among the rest, however, was a perfectly fried fish, its crisp and crunchy coating hiding succulent fresh meat beneath. After everybody at the table had a piece, there was only one left over. I did not hesitate for an instant to snatch the morsel for myself (after asking, of course).

At last, on top of all of this, was the Poon choi itself, covered in tin foil when it arrived and then placed atop a burner in the center of our table. The layers of pork, pig skin, stew, and tasty white radish had all been lovingly simmered all day before it arrived before us. They say that because the feast is held in the town's most sacred spot, it would be disrespectful to use anything other than perfectly fresh ingredients in its preparation. The result was truly delicious. 

Suffice it to say, more food was consumed at that table than I normally eat in a week, but, oh, what a meal! As we ate, the young children of the town were running about, picking up handfuls of confetti and throwing them at their friends; others were playing with dragon heads on sticks, chasing nobody in particular as they giggled with delight. There was even a gift-giving ceremony, where each toddler received a boxed toy. "It's like Cantonese Christmas," one of our group observed.

Towards the end of our meal, Jens popped open a bottle of champagne he had brought, as if this event hadn't felt celebratory enough! It was a perfect conclusion to the feast. Around 8pm, it was already time to leave, making it a short but undoubtedly sweet occasion. We grabbed a few unopened bottles for later, and most of us took our flutes with us to finish the bubbles on the bus ride. 

Cheers!

Although it felt like a full night, it was still early by the time we had returned to Kowloon Station. Having crossed by train to Hong Kong Island, Vicki re-dressed my hand with new supplies, again courtesy of the MTR customer service counter. Without a scissor, she had no choice but to continue wrapping it all the way down to my wrist. It turns out, her semi-professional wrapping skill is because she has experience as a horse doctor! What are the chances? "The horses react the same way," she told me as I winced while she cleaned the opening with the alcohol rub. I told her I wanted to employ her skills come Halloween, as my hand looked just like a mummy's. 

Abishek suggested cocktails at Foxglove, a somewhat hidden bar with live jazz near Duddell Street, so in we went. They mixed a fantastic Manhattan, but my second drink, a Gibson, was so extraordinary that I had to indulge in another. "Please tell the bartender it's the best one I've ever had," I implored the waiter. 

"Oh, sir, I made that," he told me. "I'd never heard of it before, so I just looked it up." For all the talk of mixologists and ritzy bartenders—which I normally love—it just goes to show you that the classic cocktails simply require the ability to pour and stir. 

Post jazz, Joy and I caught the tram back to Happy Valley. By this point, I'd have forgotten all about my hand had it not been for the ridiculous bandages! The pain was numbed by the progression of wine, champagne, whiskey and gin, and, of course, the fabulous memories. 

The Mummy's Hand at Foxglove

Sunday was a quiet one, as I nursed my wound and relaxed in Happy Valley. I brought that bag of laundry down, and I spent some time hammering the glass off the lampshade, so now it is just an exposed bulb with no jagged edges sticking out to trouble me. And all seems well with my hand. The gash is fully scabbed over, though you can certainly tell it must have been a nasty injury when it first occurred. I have most of the function of my fingers, though typing is a little slower than normal and my chopstick dexterity has temporarily gone downhill. But I'm oh-so glad I didn't forego my chance to experience Poon choi in favor of a trip to the hospital. And I suppose, on the upside, I'll always have a little reminder of my glorious induction into the Poon Choi Club—in the form of a permanent scar!