I’ll miss the way you comfort me with crowds. I’ll miss the smells of your streets. I’ll miss your alleys and their stories. I’ll miss your mix of classical and contemporary. I’ll miss the diversity of your food.
You made me feel comfortable, like I belonged somewhere, and with all your rich and somewhat mysterious culture, renewed my pride in being Chinese.
It’ll be a long time before I see you again.
Goodbye, you beautiful city. I miss you already.
Grandma’s kids are lined up to visit over the next few months, each staying with her a few weeks at a time. An uncle flew in a few days before my dad and I left, and another aunt has arrived since.
Grandma says the house will be empty when my uncle leaves, completely forgetting that my aunt who’s already there has given up her life to be with her indefinitely. We joke that she’s just another maid to grandma now. Her memory remains patchy; sometimes she’s lucid, sometimes she’s lost.
I wonder if she’ll even remember if I was here.
Leaving was hard. My aunt hugged me long, told me she’d miss me through the lump in her throat, and promptly went to the bedroom to compose herself. Knowing it was the last time I was going to see her, I hugged and kissed my grandma as much as I could. It was an effort not to cry. Even the maid wiped a tear from her eye with the back of her hand, but none of the other men did, and I wonder if they would have, had they not been in the presence of other men.
As we were leaving, she handed me a red envelope, and told us to visit her again soon. It was a relief to know that she’s still unconscious of her terminal condition, but the reminder that I would never see her again broke my heart.
What a strange feeling it is to know that she’s still alive on the other side of the world, while I’m here, unable to be with her. For now, I’m happy and relieved that I had the chance to express myself to her, and film her, and capture her image.
Upper Lascar Row, also known as Cat Street, is a narrow alleyway market that sells decorations, trinkets, and antiques. It’s not quite like other Hong Kong markets because it’s less commercialized (i.e. doesn’t sell as many touristy things), even though the most common buyers there seem to be foreign.
The name comes from a joke in Chinese: it’s said that if you have something stolen, you’re likely to find it for sale on Cat Street. Thieves are known as “rats” in Cantonese slang, and people who purchase goods from rats are called “cats”.
The final week of my Hong Kong food diary. It’s safe to say that I gained a few pounds, as I would continue eating even after full. The weight is mostly in my face (good) and midsection (bad). Yes, my cheeks have filled out, but now I have a muffin top. It was totally worth it though, as I don’t know when I’ll have a chance to eat many of these dishes again.
Few people in my family seem to understand my art.
When they look at my pictures, they make comments about the quality, or whether or not they’re smiling, or ask how much money I make. It’s never about the meaning, or my intent, or what I’m trying to express. Only one of them saw what I was going for in composing this photo of my grandma and aunt with the poster in the background.
They also talk through my videos when watching them, when every bit of pacing is important, missing significant establishing shots.
Maybe it’s the culture. Very few Chinese kids are allowed to be artists, as it’s seen as too risky or impractical. My generation of family seems to be full of accountants, and engineers, programmers, or anything else with security. Even though piano or violin lessons are common (I can’t think of a single Chinese friend who didn’t take piano lessons at one point), it’s more of a status symbol to be able say that you can afford the private lessons and instrument.
This is probably why I feel like I don’t relate or can’t speak to most of my family. When they don’t understand my art, they don’t understand me.
