You Pick My Pocket, You Lose An Arm
The past three weeks have been unseasonably hot.
For a guy who doesn't handle heat well, it's been a study in perspiration. At times I feel as though someone poured a bucket of water down my back. Between perspiring and the dirty air, I have to shower twice a day to keep clean.
I saw another rat in the subway leading to our building. It was about eight inches long plus tail, but it wasn't fat; the pickings must be slimmer than downtown. When it saw me coming, it squeezed under a utility door. The place isn't rat-infested, but the rodents are a novelty; they're a Hell of a lot bigger than field mice.
For the second time in two weeks, I saw an albino Chinese person; this time a woman. Before moving to Hong Kong, I'd never seen an albino, other than in the movies. Chinese albinos have pale skin and yellow-white hair; their eyes are a bright pale-blue. Statistically, I would have encountered one sooner or later, but I hadn't expected another so soon.
Movie theatres are neat. They play most major films, along with Hong Kong-made, Japanese and Korean. Movies are often released later than in North America, which is frustrating. They also have subtitles, which are distracting at first, but after a while become easy to ignore.
The best part is I can choose specific seats online and book them up to three days in advance. When I arrive at the cinema, I swipe my credit card through a machine which verifies the purchase and spits out the tickets. I'm guaranteed to get the best seats if I book early.
The cinemas serve two kinds of popcorn: regular and 'sweet', rather like caramel-coated but not quite the same. I admit curiosity got the better of me and I tried some. It made me feel ill.
Software, DVD, VCD (video cd) and CD piracy is rampant. Some shops sell nothing but pirated stuff. They sell it cheap and they sell a lot. Computer stores are concentrated in several areas, with 40 or 50 shops crammed together, selling everything from parts to peripherals, books to software, and just about everything else one might need. Some stores sell legitimate stuff, some don't. Customs is responsible for controlling piracy, not police.
Speaking of police, in summer they wear olive green uniforms and Sam-Browne belts, and they hardly ever smile. They're everywhere; I feel safe. That's not to say I shouldn't be on my guard. If I'm not careful, I'll become a target for pickpockets. They look for the easy mark; as I'm alert and aware of my surroundings, they leave me alone.
They can see the attitude in my eyes: you pick my pocket, you lose an arm.
November, 1998
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