Minneapolis is 13 hours behind Hong Kong, during daylight saving time. So 6:00 in Hong Kong is 17:00 the previous day in Minneapolis. I assumed it would take me a day or two to adjust. When I woke up at dawn on Friday morning, it was dinner time in Hong Kong. I don't normally wake up at dinner time, but I have been known to get up at or before the crack of dawn. It looked like I was adjusting immediately. That seemed strange, considering the long day I just had.
Chelsea was just as surprised as I was, and quickly took advantage of the situation. She had to work that day and assumed I would mostly sleep, but if I could take her to work, I could use her car. Bringing all those Chinese documents turned out to be a good thing. Minneapolis has a pretty good transport network, but it is not nearly as expansive as Hong Kong's. The metro goes nowhere near her neighborhood. A car would be useful, if only I could remember to drive on the right side.
There was an entire city and a lifetime of memories to see. I knew where my first stop had to be. I went to my last high school boyfriend's house. That might seem like a strange choice, but his mother was like a mother to me, and I knew he would not be there. I lived in their house at the end of high school and they practically adopted me, which made dating their son a little weird. That's a pretty long story. I probably wrote about it in a book somewhere.*
We had a great morning together. We have kept in touch, so she knew all about everything I have been doing and I knew about what her children were up to. I used to be close to her daughter, but I have not seen her since she was a teenager. She is 23 now and has a job, a boyfriend and lives in Boston. Unfortunately, I would not get to see her on this trip. I would see her brother, my ex-boyfriend, but not this morning. It was just the parents and me. That was the closest thing to a family reunion I was going to get. I had other places to go and we knew we would see each other again that weekend.
I drove around the old neighborhood. I was in town for a high school reunion, so I think I was supposed to. It's in the by-laws. I thought I would drive past my parents' house, just out of curiosity or something else, but I never did. I braced myself for some big cinematic emotional moment, but in the end, I was more indifferent than anything else. I had places to go and that house was out of the way. This might have been the perfect day for driving through childhood. It was a hot summer day, but cloudy. It always looked like it was going to rain. There was a little bit of thunder here and there, which made the soundtrack more dramatic, but it never actually rained. It was also Friday the 13th.
I drove past the old high school. That is required. I should call it the new high school. There was a major $125 million renovation after I left. Today's school looks nothing like where I went. Memory lane was effectively a detour. I'm sure the current students do not fully appreciate it, but the school looks so much better now.
The neighborhood cultural attractions are golf, shopping and outdoor recreation. I don't play golf and I was never a member of any of the clubs. Mall of America is a sight to behold, but I live in Hong Kong, which is essentially a giant shopping mall. Malls don't impress me. What I really wanted to see were the falls.
When I was growing up, it seemed perfectly normal to me that we had waterfalls in the middle of the city. Now, I can appreciate how unusual that is. Minnehaha Park is a wonderful place to walk around or ride a bike. It is maybe a fifth the size of New York's Central Park, but it has everything you need in a park – hiking trails, picnic grounds, athletic fields, historic buildings, ancient geological sites, Minnehaha Falls and the Mississippi River. If size is your thing, Wirth Park is pretty much as big as Central Park and there are hundreds of others, mostly near or around natural lakes. Some national park agency keeps ranking Minneapolis the best park system in the country, for what it's worth.
All that parking around in the middle of July made me hot and tired. As it turned out, I was staying in a house with a swimming pool. One of the great things about Minneapolis, or any small big city, is that outside of a few pockets downtown, you can drive around on a Friday afternoon without ever hitting any traffic. The ten mile drive to Chelsea's house took about 20 minutes. Driving the ten miles from the Kennedy Town MTR station in Hong Kong to the Chai Wan station could easily take an hour or more. That is why they built the MTR.
The swimming pool at Chelsea's house was big enough for a family, and I had it all to myself. Chelsea would be at work for several more hours. The neighbor houses were a respectable distance away and bordered by fences, bushes and trees. The nearest surveillance cameras were probably at the small shopping center two miles away. None of the professionals who maintained the pool and lawn were expected until the next week. Discounting any NSA satellites that might be pointed at the suburbs of Minneapolis, I had about as much privacy as I was ever going to get. With all the clouds, even satellites would not be an issue. The constant overcast might not be swimming weather to most people, but I liked it since I go from lily white to beet red in minutes. So I did the only logical thing I could do. I got as naked as a dolphin and spent a short eternity in the clean, clear water.
By the time Chelsea came home from work, I was dead to the world in her comfortable guest bedroom. The funny thing about adjusting immediately to the time difference was that I did not. As soon as I was out of the pool, showered and dried, I went out like a politician's moral outrage when the cameras turn off. Chelsea had planned to take me out that night and meet some of the old gang again, but when she found me asleep, she let me be. I wanted to go out, but I could not blame her for not waking me up. I would see all of those people at the reunion anyway.
* Living With Livia
The international … seller
Available at all the best bookstores
Friday, July 27, 2018
Tuesday, July 24, 2018
High School Reunion
2. Old Friends
I don't know if you are supposed to stay at your parents' house when you go back for a high school reunion, but that was never an option for me. “My room” was most likely converted into something else a long time ago.
My original plan was to stay at one of the high rise hotels downtown. The closer to Nicollet, the better. Then I got an offer I could refuse, but chose not to. An old friend from high school offered to put me up in her house. Something about being in Minneapolis made a house more attractive than a hotel. Looking out a high window and seeing all the other tall buildings, walking out onto a busy shopping street is something I can do every day in Hong Kong. But an honest to goodness detached, single dwelling house with a porch and yard in a quiet neighborhood with wide streets and other houses is something you just don't see around here. That is the way I grew up, so it was only fitting for a visit to my hometown.
When I say Chelsea was a high school friend, that is an exaggeration. We were not especially close. We had a few classes together and waved in passing, but we never shared our darkest insecurities over tater tots or pasties. We started talking again when this whole reunion thing came up, and when I mentioned some of the downtown hotels I was looking at, her Minnesota immediately kicked in and she offered me her house. For a second, I was surprised. That is not the sort of thing we do in Hong Kong. But then my Minnesota kicked in and I realized I would have done the same.
As it turns out, she has a very nice house. It is nowhere near downtown, but it has a porch and yard and sits on a wide suburban street full of houses that don't all look the same. Best of all, it has a swimming pool. My apartment building in Hong Kong has a pool, but public pools in China are disgusting. This was a private pool that is professionally maintained. If her lawn is any indication, I would say professionals come out to her house on a regular basis. As soon as I saw the pool, I was glad this reunion was in summer instead of winter.
Chelsea is obviously doing well for herself. She lives alone in a house large enough for a family, waiting for Miss Right to come along and help her fill it. She is perfectly content to live 15 miles from where we went to high school. She told me she could not imagine living outside of Hennepin County. Even St Paul would be a stretch for her. At the same time, she wanted to hear all about my life on the other side of the world.
When she picked me up from the airport, she offered to take me out for a night on the town. It was dinner time and downtown Minneapolis has more options than outlanders ever imagine. But I had just spent the last 23 hours at airports and on planes. I wanted to see some of the old sights, but I could wait. We stayed in that night. Chelsea warned me that she was a bad cook. That is when I decided to tell her that it would not matter.
I never introduce myself to people with, “Hello. I'm Hailey and I have no sense of taste.” And if I did, most people would look at my clothes. But it seems to come up more often than I would prefer. When you share a meal with someone, whether at a restaurant or homemade, they almost always want to know what you think. I am not going to lie and say something is good, especially after I have been told the cook does a bad job. I think I have reached the point where I know I'm just going to have to tell pretty much everyone sooner or later.
The problem with telling someone you can't taste anything is that they always ask why. Every single time. No one just accepts it and moves on. Then I have to explain that I technically have a sense of taste but have no sense of smell and the two are like salt and pepper. This inevitably leads to a longer conversation. Sometimes I wish Tom Hanks would star in a movie about someone without a sense of smell. Then most people would understand the basics, or at least whatever is explained in the movie. It might not be the most exciting movie to watch, or even very accurate, but at least it would be easier for me. Then again, less than 0.002% of people with autism are anything like Rain Man. Temple Grandin does more for autism every day than that movie will ever do.
The best part about spending the last 23 hours at airports and on planes is that it provides a convenient excuse to avoid long conversations. After describing how senseless I am, I played the exhausted card to get out of explaining why. I could always tell my big sob story later. It would have been rude for Chelsea to push any further at that point, so she made us dinner and I went to sleep.
My original plan was to stay at one of the high rise hotels downtown. The closer to Nicollet, the better. Then I got an offer I could refuse, but chose not to. An old friend from high school offered to put me up in her house. Something about being in Minneapolis made a house more attractive than a hotel. Looking out a high window and seeing all the other tall buildings, walking out onto a busy shopping street is something I can do every day in Hong Kong. But an honest to goodness detached, single dwelling house with a porch and yard in a quiet neighborhood with wide streets and other houses is something you just don't see around here. That is the way I grew up, so it was only fitting for a visit to my hometown.
When I say Chelsea was a high school friend, that is an exaggeration. We were not especially close. We had a few classes together and waved in passing, but we never shared our darkest insecurities over tater tots or pasties. We started talking again when this whole reunion thing came up, and when I mentioned some of the downtown hotels I was looking at, her Minnesota immediately kicked in and she offered me her house. For a second, I was surprised. That is not the sort of thing we do in Hong Kong. But then my Minnesota kicked in and I realized I would have done the same.
As it turns out, she has a very nice house. It is nowhere near downtown, but it has a porch and yard and sits on a wide suburban street full of houses that don't all look the same. Best of all, it has a swimming pool. My apartment building in Hong Kong has a pool, but public pools in China are disgusting. This was a private pool that is professionally maintained. If her lawn is any indication, I would say professionals come out to her house on a regular basis. As soon as I saw the pool, I was glad this reunion was in summer instead of winter.
Chelsea is obviously doing well for herself. She lives alone in a house large enough for a family, waiting for Miss Right to come along and help her fill it. She is perfectly content to live 15 miles from where we went to high school. She told me she could not imagine living outside of Hennepin County. Even St Paul would be a stretch for her. At the same time, she wanted to hear all about my life on the other side of the world.
When she picked me up from the airport, she offered to take me out for a night on the town. It was dinner time and downtown Minneapolis has more options than outlanders ever imagine. But I had just spent the last 23 hours at airports and on planes. I wanted to see some of the old sights, but I could wait. We stayed in that night. Chelsea warned me that she was a bad cook. That is when I decided to tell her that it would not matter.
I never introduce myself to people with, “Hello. I'm Hailey and I have no sense of taste.” And if I did, most people would look at my clothes. But it seems to come up more often than I would prefer. When you share a meal with someone, whether at a restaurant or homemade, they almost always want to know what you think. I am not going to lie and say something is good, especially after I have been told the cook does a bad job. I think I have reached the point where I know I'm just going to have to tell pretty much everyone sooner or later.
The problem with telling someone you can't taste anything is that they always ask why. Every single time. No one just accepts it and moves on. Then I have to explain that I technically have a sense of taste but have no sense of smell and the two are like salt and pepper. This inevitably leads to a longer conversation. Sometimes I wish Tom Hanks would star in a movie about someone without a sense of smell. Then most people would understand the basics, or at least whatever is explained in the movie. It might not be the most exciting movie to watch, or even very accurate, but at least it would be easier for me. Then again, less than 0.002% of people with autism are anything like Rain Man. Temple Grandin does more for autism every day than that movie will ever do.
The best part about spending the last 23 hours at airports and on planes is that it provides a convenient excuse to avoid long conversations. After describing how senseless I am, I played the exhausted card to get out of explaining why. I could always tell my big sob story later. It would have been rude for Chelsea to push any further at that point, so she made us dinner and I went to sleep.
Friday, July 20, 2018
High School Reunion
1. The Great Suburban Showdown
Flying east on a plane
Drinking all that free champagne
I guess I saw this coming down the line
And I know it should be fun
But I think I should've packed my gun
Got that old suburban showdown in my mind
Sit around with the folks
Tell the same old tired jokes
Bored to death on Sunday afternoon
Mom and Dad, me and you
And the outdoor barbecue
Think I'm gonna hide out in my room
I've been gone for a while
Made some changes in my style
And they say you can't go home anymore
Well the streets all look the same
And I'll have to play the game
We'll all sit around in the kitchen chairs
With the TV on with the neighbors there
Out in the yard
Where my Daddy worked so hard
He never lets the crab grass grow too high
Oh, the place hasn't changed
And that's why I'm gonna feel so strange
But I'll have to face the music by and by
I've been gone for a while
Made some changes in my style
And they say you can't go home anymore
Well the streets all look the same
And I'll have to play the game
We'll all sit around in the kitchen chairs
With the TV on with the neighbors there
We'll drive into town
When this big bird touches down
I'm only coming home to say goodbye
Then I'm gone with the wind
And I won't be seen again
Till that great suburban showdown in the sky
© 1974 Billy Joel
I was thinking about that Billy Joel song a lot before I left for Minnesota. The details are different in my situation, but the spirit is the same.
I flew east, but flying west would have only been a couple thousand more miles. There was no free champagne. I think they only do that in first class, and first class from Hong Kong to Minneapolis is beyond my budget. But I splurged a little and flew business class on the Hong Kong to Chicago leg. My last flight before this trip was on a private plane, so 15 hours in economy would have been unbearable. I flew the Chicago to Minneapolis leg in economy because it is only an hour and a half, and since it was on an American airline, the business class price was absurd.
Naturally, dealing with two different flight classes on the same trip made it more complicated than it should have been. Ordinarily, I probably would have flown on Delta from Tokyo to Minneapolis. Minneapolis-Saint Paul International is one of Delta's largest hubs and they have flights spreading out all over the place, just not to Hong Kong. But Delta's business class rate was too high. Cathay Pacific was far more reasonable, but a different airline handled the Chicago-Minneapolis leg. I'm the one who wanted to do things a little differently, so I guess all the unnecessary complications were my fault. I need to learn how to just do what the giant corporations tell me to do.
I did not pack a gun on the flight, obviously, but I did bring my international driver's permit, just in case the opportunity to borrow someone's car presented itself, and my Hong Kong driver's license, because the international permit is only valid with a home license. On the flight from Hong Kong to Chicago, no one cared what kind of documents I had with me, as long as I had my passport. At O'Hare, they searched my bags like it was going out of style. All the Chinese must have confused them.
My Hong Kong driver's license looks like a library card. It would be ridiculously easy to counterfeit. Since we have a separate ID card, no one uses their driver's license as ID, so all that matters are that the names and numbers match. My international driver's permit looks harder to fake, but it has a lot of Chinese writing, as well as English. My Hong Kong ID is more high tech, and probably difficult to counterfeit, but it also has Chinese writing all over the place. The reason that confused the undertrained TSA agents in Chicago was because I do not look the least bit Chinese. Telling them that I live in China meant nothing. The first agent asked me if I was there on business. Apparently, that is the only way an American would ever live in China. The fact that I was taking a domestic flight from Chicago to Minneapolis probably did not help. Maybe it would have been easier with the international terminal TSA agents. I only dealt with them on the flight home, and they were not at all confused that I was going to China. They probably assumed it was for business. Of course, it would have been easier if they simply kept their dirty mitts out of my purse, but you know how dangerous ID cards are.
I suppose I should be happy that I was not strip searched or got to do one of those fancy full body cavity searches. “Better safe than sorry”, Americans say to rationalize their loss of liberty. But it is not safer. Getting x-rayed six ways to Sunday does not make you safe. Throwing away your $1 bottle of water so you can buy a $10 bottle of water inside the airport is not about safety. Four ounces of shampoo is not more dangerous than 3.4 ounces. Taking off your shoes does not make you safe. Profiling little old ladies so you can pretend you do not profile certain ethnic groups does absolutely nothing to make anyone safe. Making mothers drink bottled breast milk to prove it is not a super spy potion is not better safe than sorry. It is stupid. An argument can be made that wasting time on people who are highly unlikely to be terrorists takes time away from people who might need more scrutiny. It is not racist to realize that a 20-year-old man flying alone is more likely to do damage than an 80-year-old woman with her family.
Since moving to Hong Kong, I have flown to a few countries in Europe, East Asia, Canada, Israel, Mainland China and the United States. None of those flights presented any particular security challenge. Even the flights into the United States went relatively smoothly, probably because they all left from Hong Kong. It was always the airports within the United States that caused the most trouble. The Roman Empire was also unusually paranoid right before it fell.
Drinking all that free champagne
I guess I saw this coming down the line
And I know it should be fun
But I think I should've packed my gun
Got that old suburban showdown in my mind
Sit around with the folks
Tell the same old tired jokes
Bored to death on Sunday afternoon
Mom and Dad, me and you
And the outdoor barbecue
Think I'm gonna hide out in my room
I've been gone for a while
Made some changes in my style
And they say you can't go home anymore
Well the streets all look the same
And I'll have to play the game
We'll all sit around in the kitchen chairs
With the TV on with the neighbors there
Out in the yard
Where my Daddy worked so hard
He never lets the crab grass grow too high
Oh, the place hasn't changed
And that's why I'm gonna feel so strange
But I'll have to face the music by and by
I've been gone for a while
Made some changes in my style
And they say you can't go home anymore
Well the streets all look the same
And I'll have to play the game
We'll all sit around in the kitchen chairs
With the TV on with the neighbors there
We'll drive into town
When this big bird touches down
I'm only coming home to say goodbye
Then I'm gone with the wind
And I won't be seen again
Till that great suburban showdown in the sky
© 1974 Billy Joel
I was thinking about that Billy Joel song a lot before I left for Minnesota. The details are different in my situation, but the spirit is the same.
I flew east, but flying west would have only been a couple thousand more miles. There was no free champagne. I think they only do that in first class, and first class from Hong Kong to Minneapolis is beyond my budget. But I splurged a little and flew business class on the Hong Kong to Chicago leg. My last flight before this trip was on a private plane, so 15 hours in economy would have been unbearable. I flew the Chicago to Minneapolis leg in economy because it is only an hour and a half, and since it was on an American airline, the business class price was absurd.
Naturally, dealing with two different flight classes on the same trip made it more complicated than it should have been. Ordinarily, I probably would have flown on Delta from Tokyo to Minneapolis. Minneapolis-Saint Paul International is one of Delta's largest hubs and they have flights spreading out all over the place, just not to Hong Kong. But Delta's business class rate was too high. Cathay Pacific was far more reasonable, but a different airline handled the Chicago-Minneapolis leg. I'm the one who wanted to do things a little differently, so I guess all the unnecessary complications were my fault. I need to learn how to just do what the giant corporations tell me to do.
I did not pack a gun on the flight, obviously, but I did bring my international driver's permit, just in case the opportunity to borrow someone's car presented itself, and my Hong Kong driver's license, because the international permit is only valid with a home license. On the flight from Hong Kong to Chicago, no one cared what kind of documents I had with me, as long as I had my passport. At O'Hare, they searched my bags like it was going out of style. All the Chinese must have confused them.
My Hong Kong driver's license looks like a library card. It would be ridiculously easy to counterfeit. Since we have a separate ID card, no one uses their driver's license as ID, so all that matters are that the names and numbers match. My international driver's permit looks harder to fake, but it has a lot of Chinese writing, as well as English. My Hong Kong ID is more high tech, and probably difficult to counterfeit, but it also has Chinese writing all over the place. The reason that confused the undertrained TSA agents in Chicago was because I do not look the least bit Chinese. Telling them that I live in China meant nothing. The first agent asked me if I was there on business. Apparently, that is the only way an American would ever live in China. The fact that I was taking a domestic flight from Chicago to Minneapolis probably did not help. Maybe it would have been easier with the international terminal TSA agents. I only dealt with them on the flight home, and they were not at all confused that I was going to China. They probably assumed it was for business. Of course, it would have been easier if they simply kept their dirty mitts out of my purse, but you know how dangerous ID cards are.
I suppose I should be happy that I was not strip searched or got to do one of those fancy full body cavity searches. “Better safe than sorry”, Americans say to rationalize their loss of liberty. But it is not safer. Getting x-rayed six ways to Sunday does not make you safe. Throwing away your $1 bottle of water so you can buy a $10 bottle of water inside the airport is not about safety. Four ounces of shampoo is not more dangerous than 3.4 ounces. Taking off your shoes does not make you safe. Profiling little old ladies so you can pretend you do not profile certain ethnic groups does absolutely nothing to make anyone safe. Making mothers drink bottled breast milk to prove it is not a super spy potion is not better safe than sorry. It is stupid. An argument can be made that wasting time on people who are highly unlikely to be terrorists takes time away from people who might need more scrutiny. It is not racist to realize that a 20-year-old man flying alone is more likely to do damage than an 80-year-old woman with her family.
Since moving to Hong Kong, I have flown to a few countries in Europe, East Asia, Canada, Israel, Mainland China and the United States. None of those flights presented any particular security challenge. Even the flights into the United States went relatively smoothly, probably because they all left from Hong Kong. It was always the airports within the United States that caused the most trouble. The Roman Empire was also unusually paranoid right before it fell.
Saturday, July 7, 2018
Dating Underwater
9. Serenity Now
I woke up early in the morning after sleeping more soundly than I have in a long time. A small inn in the mountains on an island is nothing like my apartment in the middle of Hong Kong. The last time I went out of town was Beijing, and I did not sleep well on that trip at all.
Hisoka was already in Tokyo for his big meeting. The plane that got me to Hiroshima was going back to Hong Kong in the afternoon. If I wanted to leave later or spend another night, I would have to book a commercial flight. I thought about finding a hotel in Hiroshima and spending some time there, but I have not had a real job since September. A free flight home was probably a good idea.
Miyajima was just as deserted in the early morning as it was at night, but far sunnier. The hotel gave me a ride into the village and I wandered around what looked like a ghost town. Itsukushima Shrine was practically resting on the water at high tide the day before. The reflection off the water made the torii look like it was floating. In the early morning low tide, the shrine sat on solid ground. The torii was in mud and tiny puddles.
Having already seen the village, I went in the only direction I could go without a boat. I walked uphill until the street became a path. It only took a few minutes for the village to dissolve into woods. As I walked up a gradual incline, the stream near my path casually ran downhill. The woods were completely deserted, except for a few deer who were neither impressed nor offended by my presence.
The quiet was amazing. The island was asleep. Even the birds were not yet awake. I heard almost none in the hours when they usually make the most noise. The deer were awake, but they make so little noise, they can sneak up on you without warning.
Every time the path crossed one stream or another, there was a small wooden bridge with red railings. The paths went from pavement to dirt to stone steps, but each bridge was built with pride and purpose. The temples and shrines were small enough to blink and miss. I only noticed a few because they had bright red torii out front. Even when the shrines were camouflaged by the woods, the torii stood out.
With no tourists in sight, I felt like I was experiencing the island the way it was meant to be. I was a tourist, but I was not part of a group, making noise, throwing trash on the ground or complaining that my surroundings were not like home. Miyajima is a sacred island, and in the peaceful early morning hours, I could see why. When people wandered onto the island thousands of years before tourist gift shops were invented, they must have thought they were in heaven. I wanted nothing more than to stay there all day, but when the ferries starting arriving, there would be backpackers and selfie sticks. Sooner or later, a Chinese tour group would arrive. I love a lot of things about Chinese culture, but Chinese tour groups are anything but silent and serene. My private holy site could not remain private for long. I also had a plane to catch if I wanted to go home for free.
Getting from Hong Kong to Miyajima would have been difficult without Hisoka, mostly because I did absolutely no research before I left. Getting back was easy. The hotel happily drove me to the Miyajima pier. The ferry to Hiroshima was straightforward. Getting a taxi at the Hiroshima pier was effortless. There were more than enough waiting around. It was a long taxi ride without anyone to talk to, since the driver did not speak English, but I had music.
Checking in at the airport was a little complicated. I was taking a private flight and everything inside the airport was designed for commercial flights. After asking a few people at information booths, with varying degrees of information, I found myself where I needed to be. They were expecting me. Getting on the plane in Hiroshima was just as easy as it had been in Hong Kong, even without a dozen Japanese businessmen.
The flight was empty. I'm pretty sure that every flight I have ever taken out of Hong Kong was fully booked. I can't remember the last time I was on a plane with several empty seats. This was definitely the first time I was the only passenger. I'm sure the service is always first class on a private flight, but when the entire crew only has one passenger, they pay attention to you.
When I asked the purser why they did not simply cancel the flight, she explained that the plane had to go back to Hong Kong. That flight was going to happen whether I was there or not. Had I stayed in Hiroshima and taken a commercial flight back, the private plane would have flown empty. At least the crew could have relaxed. With me there, they had very little to do, but they were all on the clock.
Back at home, I had time to contemplate the strangest first date I have ever had. I want a second date, and I know Hisoka does too, since we have spoken on the phone, but I doubt he has enough free time to date anyone. I cannot go to Tokyo every time I want to see him and he cannot come to Hong Kong just to see me. The private plane is not his personal property. Using it to shuttle us back and forth is not always going to be an option.
And if we do have a second date, it will be hard to top the first one. He would have to take me to Bora Bora or somewhere ridiculously amazing. We will be lucky if he can find the time for dinner and a walk in the park. But whatever happens, we will always have Miyajima.
Hisoka was already in Tokyo for his big meeting. The plane that got me to Hiroshima was going back to Hong Kong in the afternoon. If I wanted to leave later or spend another night, I would have to book a commercial flight. I thought about finding a hotel in Hiroshima and spending some time there, but I have not had a real job since September. A free flight home was probably a good idea.
Miyajima was just as deserted in the early morning as it was at night, but far sunnier. The hotel gave me a ride into the village and I wandered around what looked like a ghost town. Itsukushima Shrine was practically resting on the water at high tide the day before. The reflection off the water made the torii look like it was floating. In the early morning low tide, the shrine sat on solid ground. The torii was in mud and tiny puddles.
Having already seen the village, I went in the only direction I could go without a boat. I walked uphill until the street became a path. It only took a few minutes for the village to dissolve into woods. As I walked up a gradual incline, the stream near my path casually ran downhill. The woods were completely deserted, except for a few deer who were neither impressed nor offended by my presence.
The quiet was amazing. The island was asleep. Even the birds were not yet awake. I heard almost none in the hours when they usually make the most noise. The deer were awake, but they make so little noise, they can sneak up on you without warning.
Every time the path crossed one stream or another, there was a small wooden bridge with red railings. The paths went from pavement to dirt to stone steps, but each bridge was built with pride and purpose. The temples and shrines were small enough to blink and miss. I only noticed a few because they had bright red torii out front. Even when the shrines were camouflaged by the woods, the torii stood out.
With no tourists in sight, I felt like I was experiencing the island the way it was meant to be. I was a tourist, but I was not part of a group, making noise, throwing trash on the ground or complaining that my surroundings were not like home. Miyajima is a sacred island, and in the peaceful early morning hours, I could see why. When people wandered onto the island thousands of years before tourist gift shops were invented, they must have thought they were in heaven. I wanted nothing more than to stay there all day, but when the ferries starting arriving, there would be backpackers and selfie sticks. Sooner or later, a Chinese tour group would arrive. I love a lot of things about Chinese culture, but Chinese tour groups are anything but silent and serene. My private holy site could not remain private for long. I also had a plane to catch if I wanted to go home for free.
Getting from Hong Kong to Miyajima would have been difficult without Hisoka, mostly because I did absolutely no research before I left. Getting back was easy. The hotel happily drove me to the Miyajima pier. The ferry to Hiroshima was straightforward. Getting a taxi at the Hiroshima pier was effortless. There were more than enough waiting around. It was a long taxi ride without anyone to talk to, since the driver did not speak English, but I had music.
Checking in at the airport was a little complicated. I was taking a private flight and everything inside the airport was designed for commercial flights. After asking a few people at information booths, with varying degrees of information, I found myself where I needed to be. They were expecting me. Getting on the plane in Hiroshima was just as easy as it had been in Hong Kong, even without a dozen Japanese businessmen.
The flight was empty. I'm pretty sure that every flight I have ever taken out of Hong Kong was fully booked. I can't remember the last time I was on a plane with several empty seats. This was definitely the first time I was the only passenger. I'm sure the service is always first class on a private flight, but when the entire crew only has one passenger, they pay attention to you.
When I asked the purser why they did not simply cancel the flight, she explained that the plane had to go back to Hong Kong. That flight was going to happen whether I was there or not. Had I stayed in Hiroshima and taken a commercial flight back, the private plane would have flown empty. At least the crew could have relaxed. With me there, they had very little to do, but they were all on the clock.
Back at home, I had time to contemplate the strangest first date I have ever had. I want a second date, and I know Hisoka does too, since we have spoken on the phone, but I doubt he has enough free time to date anyone. I cannot go to Tokyo every time I want to see him and he cannot come to Hong Kong just to see me. The private plane is not his personal property. Using it to shuttle us back and forth is not always going to be an option.
And if we do have a second date, it will be hard to top the first one. He would have to take me to Bora Bora or somewhere ridiculously amazing. We will be lucky if he can find the time for dinner and a walk in the park. But whatever happens, we will always have Miyajima.
Tuesday, July 3, 2018
Dating Underwater
8. Midnight Serenity
By the time we got out of the hot springs and were properly dressed, Hisoka had missed the last ferry back to Hiroshima. He never planned on spending the night and only booked one room. We had a good time talking naked in the water, but I was not about to let him sleep in my room. It was not a matter of trusting him. There was nothing aggressive about him and I never doubted for a second that I could easily take him in a shouting match. The problem that night was that I could not trust myself. Hisoka was a kind and sincere man who happened to look really good naked. Had we slept in the same room, he would have considered it inappropriate as a gentleman to suggest any indiscretions against my honor. But I might have jumped him.
As it turned out, he was never going to take the ferry and had no intention of spending the night. He took a private boat back to Hiroshima. He had a big meeting in Tokyo the next morning and wanted to sleep at home rather than commute across the country. That sounded reasonable to me.
My night was more relaxing. After Hisoka left, I spent the evening at the hotel. There would have been no point in going back to the village. Even the bars were closed by then. I thought about reading a book and going to sleep early, but my mind kept wandering back to the mineral water. We have heated swimming pools, hot tubs and all kinds of spas in Hong Kong, but no natural hot springs.
The women's shower/locker room was empty and I wondered if anyone would be in the pools. Showering off all the minerals from last time, it crossed my mind that the hot springs might not be open all night. This was an island where everything closed early. Had I been in the United States, it might have suddenly occurred to me that I was naked and alone in a part of the building that was deserted and might be closed. In my country, that is either a red flag or the beginning of a horror movie. But this was Japan. Getting Marion Craned in the shower is not the Japanese way.
When I walked out of the locker room, none of the doors were locked. Nothing prevented me from going to any of the hot springs. Had it all been closed, the shower most likely would have also been closed. The springs themselves were natural. Turning them off was never an option. Instead of a handful of senior citizens relaxing in the water, there was a single young man. He was in the hottest pool, far enough away from where I wanted to be, but he was probably my age. This might not have been a red flag, but it definitely looked like the beginning of a pornographic movie. And we were in Japan. Japanese porn can get pretty weird.
Fortunately, he was not a half man/half octopus and he did not even acknowledge my presence. He was busy cooking in his pot and might not have even seen me through the steam. After I dropped my towel and sat on my rock, I forgot he was even there.
The hot springs were always nice, but at night when there was almost no one there, it was more peaceful. Other than the simmering water and a light breeze rustling the trees, there was a silence that was as relaxing as the pool. I could see why the Japanese invented zazen.
As it turned out, he was never going to take the ferry and had no intention of spending the night. He took a private boat back to Hiroshima. He had a big meeting in Tokyo the next morning and wanted to sleep at home rather than commute across the country. That sounded reasonable to me.
My night was more relaxing. After Hisoka left, I spent the evening at the hotel. There would have been no point in going back to the village. Even the bars were closed by then. I thought about reading a book and going to sleep early, but my mind kept wandering back to the mineral water. We have heated swimming pools, hot tubs and all kinds of spas in Hong Kong, but no natural hot springs.
The women's shower/locker room was empty and I wondered if anyone would be in the pools. Showering off all the minerals from last time, it crossed my mind that the hot springs might not be open all night. This was an island where everything closed early. Had I been in the United States, it might have suddenly occurred to me that I was naked and alone in a part of the building that was deserted and might be closed. In my country, that is either a red flag or the beginning of a horror movie. But this was Japan. Getting Marion Craned in the shower is not the Japanese way.
When I walked out of the locker room, none of the doors were locked. Nothing prevented me from going to any of the hot springs. Had it all been closed, the shower most likely would have also been closed. The springs themselves were natural. Turning them off was never an option. Instead of a handful of senior citizens relaxing in the water, there was a single young man. He was in the hottest pool, far enough away from where I wanted to be, but he was probably my age. This might not have been a red flag, but it definitely looked like the beginning of a pornographic movie. And we were in Japan. Japanese porn can get pretty weird.
Fortunately, he was not a half man/half octopus and he did not even acknowledge my presence. He was busy cooking in his pot and might not have even seen me through the steam. After I dropped my towel and sat on my rock, I forgot he was even there.
The hot springs were always nice, but at night when there was almost no one there, it was more peaceful. Other than the simmering water and a light breeze rustling the trees, there was a silence that was as relaxing as the pool. I could see why the Japanese invented zazen.
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