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Thu, Sep. 22nd, 2005 12:38 amI had a green tea frappucino today (not all that extraordinary) and was suddenly struck by memories of Hong Kong (a bit more extraordinary) -- having green tea frappucinos for the first time there, treating myself to them on the weekends in icy-cold air-conditioned buildings of glass and metal, lonely rides on the subway and taxi back to my apartment, trying desperately to make myself feel better.
I wish I had more happy memories of Hong Kong. I loved the city itself, with its spindly sharp buildings jutting out into the sky, all crammed on a tiny island, the architecture in Central HK -- the famous Bank of China building, the somewhat less famous HSBC building and the Lippo Center, which wasn't so much famous as odd (it looked like it had metal koalas climbing on it). I loved the winding roads and the tropical lushness of it, how the balmy, humid air and the occasional patches of bright green contrasted with the slivers of steel and reflective glass.
But most of my memories are of wandering in those cold buildings by myself, always feeling a little less than real, a little too removed from myself. I was always in air conditioning, turned on at full blast to counter the summer humidity, and because I was interning as an investment banker, I worked from 9 till 2 in the morning, and I never felt the heat of the sun on my skin. By the end of that summer, I would welcome trips to other floors on the building, because that meant taking the non-air-conditioned stairways. And even so, even missing the sun that much, I would still sleep in till 5 in the afternoon on weekends, half out of exhaustion, half because I was so depressed that I couldn't think of anything else to do with myself, and so I would see even less sun.
After I transferred to private client in Taiwan for my last week as an intern, I danced around in the living room of my apartment my first day, jumping up and down and flailing about with my hands, out of the sheer joy that I was home before sunset for the first time in nine weeks.
I wish I had more memories of laughter and of the city proper, as cities should be, living and vibrant and bustling. Instead, I feel I only had the shell of the city, the hard glittering carapace that was more isolating than enlivening.
I thought about this as I walked from Starbucks to my car, on the way back to the office from a dentist's appointment. And despite being stressed out from work, despite knowing that I'd probably have to stay a little late, it was so good to have the sun on my face, to know that I'd be coming back to an apartment that was messy with activity, and fuzzy rats and![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fannishly for company.
I hope that all the green tea frappucinos I've been getting this summer make it so that they remind me of bright summer days in the downtown of my dinky city, walking back from the local farmers' market, arms laden with fresh fruits and vegetables. Or of nightly strolls to the used bookstore and the cool air against my skin, with sprinklers going in the park and feeling so very alive. The Bay Area isn't Hong Kong by any stretch of the imagination, but it very well could have been in my head during those first two years here; the loneliness, the sense that the city or suburbs were crushing me with unfamiliarity and unconcern, all of it made it so that even hot California summers were never warm enough. But now, I feel so drenched in sunshine and greenery and living things that my icy cool blended consumer-ist Starbucks drinks still can't make me shiver.
I wish I had more happy memories of Hong Kong. I loved the city itself, with its spindly sharp buildings jutting out into the sky, all crammed on a tiny island, the architecture in Central HK -- the famous Bank of China building, the somewhat less famous HSBC building and the Lippo Center, which wasn't so much famous as odd (it looked like it had metal koalas climbing on it). I loved the winding roads and the tropical lushness of it, how the balmy, humid air and the occasional patches of bright green contrasted with the slivers of steel and reflective glass.
But most of my memories are of wandering in those cold buildings by myself, always feeling a little less than real, a little too removed from myself. I was always in air conditioning, turned on at full blast to counter the summer humidity, and because I was interning as an investment banker, I worked from 9 till 2 in the morning, and I never felt the heat of the sun on my skin. By the end of that summer, I would welcome trips to other floors on the building, because that meant taking the non-air-conditioned stairways. And even so, even missing the sun that much, I would still sleep in till 5 in the afternoon on weekends, half out of exhaustion, half because I was so depressed that I couldn't think of anything else to do with myself, and so I would see even less sun.
After I transferred to private client in Taiwan for my last week as an intern, I danced around in the living room of my apartment my first day, jumping up and down and flailing about with my hands, out of the sheer joy that I was home before sunset for the first time in nine weeks.
I wish I had more memories of laughter and of the city proper, as cities should be, living and vibrant and bustling. Instead, I feel I only had the shell of the city, the hard glittering carapace that was more isolating than enlivening.
I thought about this as I walked from Starbucks to my car, on the way back to the office from a dentist's appointment. And despite being stressed out from work, despite knowing that I'd probably have to stay a little late, it was so good to have the sun on my face, to know that I'd be coming back to an apartment that was messy with activity, and fuzzy rats and
fannishly for company. I hope that all the green tea frappucinos I've been getting this summer make it so that they remind me of bright summer days in the downtown of my dinky city, walking back from the local farmers' market, arms laden with fresh fruits and vegetables. Or of nightly strolls to the used bookstore and the cool air against my skin, with sprinklers going in the park and feeling so very alive. The Bay Area isn't Hong Kong by any stretch of the imagination, but it very well could have been in my head during those first two years here; the loneliness, the sense that the city or suburbs were crushing me with unfamiliarity and unconcern, all of it made it so that even hot California summers were never warm enough. But now, I feel so drenched in sunshine and greenery and living things that my icy cool blended consumer-ist Starbucks drinks still can't make me shiver.
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