Nine on Nine

It's hard for me to write about this day without descending into a rambling string of clichés. But sometimes the best way to deal with a temptation is just embrace it. For as I gratefully mark the ninth anniversary of the date I first set foot in Hong Kong, I'm just so darn appreciative that all the stars have aligned, and I've gotten to spend such an astounding amount of incredible time in a place I love so much.

It was November 9th, 2009, and I remember thinking, "Here you are, just twenty-two years old, scarcely six months out of college, already having explored the wilds of Europe, Africa and South America! Now, it's time to tackle Asia!" What a schoolboy's view of life I possessed! I'm glad to say, I think I've matured greatly since that day. And, yet, at times I wish I could endow my thirty-two year old self with just a pinch of that naive, starry-eyed innocence (while never again summoning the pretentiousness).

All those internal changes that have taken place in the ensuing nine years are almost entirely thanks to Hong Kong, by which, of course, I mean, due to the people, situations and opportunities that have come my way because I stepped off that plane nine years ago. So yam bui, Hong Kong! Bottom's up! And thanks for all the lessons!

Last year, I missed this date while I was home in New York. And this time, I almost repeated things, with my most recent trip home nearly causing a similar fate. I only got back to town yesterday, a little over twenty-four hours ago. And, as is almost unnecessary to write, it was a fantastic trip home.

I mean, how could I not love spending my second consecutive Halloween in the good old USA, trick or treating with my cousins in Brooklyn and indulging in a little late night partying on the Upper West Side with Heidi and a gaggle of new friends.

The real catalyst for my trip home, however, was my cousin Michelle's wedding, my fourth this year! She married her sweetheart, Vin, in a gorgeous ceremony in Spring Lake, New Jersey on a drizzly Friday, but somehow, the weather held out and the venue—The Mill—just might have served the best wedding food I've ever had. 

To make the event even more memorable, an emergency alarm was triggered at one point, which mandated a visit from the local fire department, complete with blaring sirens, red trucks and one amazing photo op! Michelle is blessed with a phenomenal attitude, and I can imagine many other brides losing their temper over such an intrusion on the biggest moment of their lives. Michelle not only took it all in stride but seized the opportunity to hop in the driver's seat of the truck and blow the horn a few times! 

I'm not going to lie, I was plagued with one of the worst hangovers of my life the following day, but it was well worth it. And my dad did cook me a nice lobster for dinner once I'd finally managed to drag myself out of bed.

On Sunday, New York City was putting on its annual marathon, and my friend Heidi had urged me to come in to witness the spectacle. She ranks Marathon Day as one of her top days on New York's social calendar, and I must say, I now understand why.

With pitch-perfect fall weather, discreet mimosas in thermoses and a load of good company, it was one unforgettable day, and knowing that a few of my friends were running in the massive race helped ramp up the excitement factor for me. I hope it wasn't my last encounter with the New York City Marathon!

Monday was a marathon of its own for Heidi and I, in a way... She had booked the day off work, because we wanted to take some time to tick off a few major items from our New York To Do List. Although the Morgan Library was closed, we made a post-breakfast journey from the Upper West Side to the Museum of the City of New York on the Upper East Side to learn more about the place where we both spend (and have spent) a great deal of time. The museum even has the bronzed tap shoes of dance legend Bill 'Bojangles' Robinson on display, in addition to plenty of other historical items and informative panels, so it certainly was an entertaining, educational morning for the two of us.

Afterwards, we rushed down to Midtown, for a planned lunch at Barbetta, which also turned out to be closed. Instead, we ducked into Beppo, which Heidi had been to before and granted her seal of approval. What can I say? My friends have good taste. It was a wonderful lunch, with homemade pasta and mozzarella en carozza, capped off with delicious zabaglione and all washed down with two lovely bottles of red from the restaurant's incredible (and incredibly reasonable!) wine list.

We taxied back up to Heidi's, and I made impromptu plans to meet Ryan at nearby Lincoln Center. It would be our only chance to catch up during this trip, so as short as it would have to be, there was no way I was skipping it. Two glasses of wine later, Ryan and I were on a downtown train so he could head home to Jersey and I could meet Jackie for a quick drink in Grand Central Station, at its famous Oyster Bar. It was a little rushed, to be sure, but catching up with my old pals is one of my major objectives each time I return home. And although I sincerely hope to have more quality time with both Ryan and Jackie when I am back again next month for Christmas, these two encounters were hurriedly memorable in their own quirky way.

From Grand Central, I had to head back uptown to 76th Street, where I was again meeting Heidi and two of her friends to try our luck at catching Woody Allen's weekly jazz show at Cafe Carlyle. You see, Woody performs each and every Monday during most of the year (and has done so for years), but somehow I only became aware of the tradition fairly recently. Ever since, attending one of his concerts has been a major goal of mine.

Booking a table here can be pretty pricey, but a limited number of bar seats—nine to be exact—are available on a first-come-first-served basis. Owing to the unanticipated closures of both the Morgan Library and Barbetta, I was prepared to be disappointed for a third time. But our quartet was close enough to the front of the standby line that my hopes sprang back up again when I did the mental math.

Suddenly, the doors of the cafe opened and a bouncer came out to announce the entry procedures. "For those of you who booked a table," he bellowed, "you can simply come in, let me know your name, and come back before the performance starts. For those trying for standby bar seats, I only have seven available tonight, because two seats are already reserved for friends of Woody Allen." He then proceeded to summarize the cover charges and drink minimums for the bar.

With two of the nine seats out of play, I again thought we might not get in, but the group at the front of the line shockingly opted not to attend after learning about the exorbitant entry fee. That meant we were now the first bar hopefuls in the queue, and the bouncer promptly seated us at the four best stools in the house!

Heidi and I ordered a couple of Sidecars, while her friends opted for a bottle of wine. And I just took the time to admire the beautiful hand-painted murals by Marcel Vertes while we waited for the show to start and the tables to begin to fill up with patrons.

We started talking with a friendly German tourist seated beside us who had visited the Cafe twenty or so years ago as a youngster on a Monday when Woody Allen was unexpectedly sick. Now back, he was just as determined to finally catch the show as we were!

While enjoying my cocktail, Heidi pointed over my shoulder, and I turned to see Woody Allen himself seated at the table behind me, putting his clarinet together as he chatted with his buddies. It was one of those impossibly surreal New York moments that will stick with me forever.

The show started, as Woody and his band played a mixture of old favorites and obscure tunes. Cocktails continued flowing freely, with a Bronx, a Manhattan and a Gibson all on the rotation, while the intimate space was filled with dixieland jazz.

It was an expensive night, make no doubt, but also an incredible experience. And I have about a million photographs to prove it. You can be sure that I went to sleep that night about as satisfied and content as I've ever been.

Tuesday was Election Day, my last full day at home, and you can bet my dad, Danii and I made our way to our local polling station in the heavy rain to let our voices be heard. Though I've voted absentee in every major election since moving to Hong Kong, it was a very special feeling to step into the voting booth and cast my ballot in my home state.

On Wednesday, I had to make my way to JFK to fly back to Hong Kong, but the glorious autumn weather—and the equally glorious autumn leaves that greeted me during a morning jaunt through Central Park—made it a little bittersweet to board that plane.

Of course, it's sheer heaven to be writing this curled up on my bed with Fredric, though I must confess I did have overly ambitious plans for a rooftop party tonight to celebrate the occasion. I still entertained the notion late into the afternoon, but a reality check in the form of a tinge of jet-lag convinced me to scale things back considerably—and what a great choice it turned out to be!

Just after six, I met my good friend Liz downstairs from my office for a bowl of the most amazing local noodles this town has to offer, at least in my opinion. The joint is called Kiu Heung Yuan, and the stuff they dish out is simply killer. The noodles themselves achieve a perfect texture, but it's the sauce and toppings that send me to nirvana every time—a blend of Sichuan pickles, homemade gravy, peanuts, and your choice from the likes of fatty beef slices, pork shoulder, ribs and beef shank to complete the mix. If not for a self-imposed rule that only allows me to visit the place one time a week, it's possible I'd be a daily caller on the friendly folks at Kiu Heung Yuan!

Post-dinner, I hopped on the tram home from Sheung Wan to Happy Valley, imagining all the landmarks of the island wishing me a happy anniversary as we glided over the tracks. And once I was home, I switched on Love is a Many-Splendored Thing, the 1955 American classic movie, a great deal of which was actually shot on location in the Pearl of the Orient. As my little mutt and I sat on our couch soaking in the bygone beauty of old Hong Kong while spotting the precious vestiges that mercifully remain unchanged sixty some-odd years after its release, I kept feeling waves of chills surging through my body.

Although I love my city pretty much every day I'm here, there's something extra special about the ninth of November that ramps up the nostalgia factor and really grabs me by the heart. I remember all the strangers who've become old pals, all the home friends who've come to visit, all the favorite restaurants that have closed their doors, all the roommates who have come and gone, all the moments that, strung together, encapsulate the last nine years of my life.

But I think the thing I love most of all is the promise of untold adventure this place still has hiding  up her sleeve. Yes, maybe the reason this date is so special to me is the perennial realization that I still have got a dash of twenty-two year old Paul lurking under my skin, and today's the day when he finds his way to the surface to remind the old man he's still there, always ready for the next adventure!