#nanowrimo Day 18, 14952 words written, 15054 words behind.
08:00, you're excited to be going ashore on your own. In the water taxi, Holloway, a Radioman striker asks what you are going to do. "No schedule" you say "just take a look at the city, see what I can find".
"I'd go with you" he says "but Morgan here needs to get a tailor made suit" gesturing to a skinny red-haired Seaman you've seen around, "I'm going to take him to the place where I ordered mine yesterday." You like Holloway, his Maine backwoods friendliness is comforting, but you're relieved to not be caught in his constant conversation all day. You want to be away from the Navy. Crossing the harbor, you're seeing more of the surroundings than you had before. You now see the makeshift, shanty town on the hills behind the east end of the city. From the taxi dock, you walk towards the city center, Victoria, where the oldest and tallest buildings are. The streets you walk have a lot of car traffic, not many pedestrians, the stores are opening up. You don't see busses or streetcars, so you walk, wondering if you can cover all the streets in Hong Kong in the four days remaining. Some of the store fronts you pass are inviting, with enough English signage to make their business clear to you. Some storefronts are more Chinese and appear opaque to you. As you approach the blocks with larger buildings, the sidewalks become filled with fast walking, well-dressed people. Most are Chinese, but many are European, possibly American looking, a few are Indian and African, some men with turbans on their heads, some in long colorful robes dotting a sea of dark coats.
You pause at a corner tea shop with a mixture of Chinese and Europeans sitting at small tables inside. You have your Hong Kong money, you feel flush with the exchange rate of five HK dollars for one US dollar. You enter the shop, ask for coffee and you point to a pastry that looks familiar. "Please, sit down, I'll bring it to you" the Chinese counter waiter says in clear English. You find an empty table with two chairs, You put your heavy Pea Coat on one and sit in the other. The air in the small cafe is full of tobacco smoke and there's a glass ashtray on the table, so you light a cigarette. Your coffee and pastry arrives. You sip, and smoke, peering out the window at the passing pedestrian parade. You think of San Francisco, from your one trip there when you were fifteen, how you sat in a similar corner cafe there with your sister and parents, how excited you were to be in the urban downtown. You think of sitting with Mr. Miles and your Drama Department buddies at a table inside at the drive-in. You think of Hemingway writing at a cafe table in Paris, you remember the paintings you've made of imaginary Parisan Cafe scenes. Forgetting that you're in Navy uniform, you picture yourself a bohemian artist. You should be sketching. You should have a notebook. You decide to take on the mission, to find a notebook and a pen, so you can sketch and take notes of your observations. Walking the streets of the central  city, you find a pocket-sized notebook in  a stationary store.  You try a few ink cartridge fountain pens, settle for a ballpoint pen. Consulting a map, you see you're not far from the Peak Tram. Taking it to the top of the mountain behind the city will give you an overview, so you can better plan your exploration. The tram is well built, the incline steep, the ride smooth, the view instructive, Hong Kong is a grown up city, solid construction, good roads, careful landscaping with mature trees, trimmed bushes and gardens.  It's November, overcast and cold with mist around the buildings. From the top, the dense city below looks stable and quiet. You are drawn to the more erratic patterns of the shanty town you had seen earlier on the hills at, what you now see is the far east end of the city. You make a note to explore that area. "The Western Pacific covers all but the peaks of this mountain range on the east coast of China" you write in your new notebook. You turn it sideways and sketch an outline drawing of the harbor and the mountains behind Kowloon. Returning on the tram downhill to the central city you find a British style restaurant, buy yourself a big meal with your cheap dollars and linger at the comfortable table sketching your left hand with your right. You're walking busy streets in an international crowd, evening is coming, the car traffic is snarled and you notice that many of the cars are Mercedes with uniformed drivers and tinted rear side windows. Many of the women are in fur coats, there is an formal glamour to the most of the pedestrians. You go in a movie theater playing Fellini's 8 1/2. You are ushered to a side seat in the rear of a full house. The movie is in progress, Claudia Cardinale's luminous face is drifting across a darkened screen. You don't need the English and Cantonese subtitles, you seen it before, you know the power of this film is not in the meaning of the spoken words. You move to a seat down front as the audience clears out during the end credits, you stay for the next showing, proud to be able to see 8 1/2 for two and a half times. You're walking out of the central city following a crowded avenue lined with big and brightly lit retail stores full of furniture, clothing, Chinese antiques, kitchen appliances, cameras, small radios and big television sets. You've walked many blocks, you find a noodle shop, you sit at a counter and are served a hot bowl. You think of Kaseko slurping as you struggle with getting noodles in your mouth with the chopsticks. Encouraged by watching the other patrons, you pick up the bowl and drink the soup. Quite satisfied with your day and evening, you find your way back to the water taxi and to the ship,  planning your next day, planning to go straight to the hillside shanty town.
"I'd go with you" he says "but Morgan here needs to get a tailor made suit" gesturing to a skinny red-haired Seaman you've seen around, "I'm going to take him to the place where I ordered mine yesterday." You like Holloway, his Maine backwoods friendliness is comforting, but you're relieved to not be caught in his constant conversation all day. You want to be away from the Navy. Crossing the harbor, you're seeing more of the surroundings than you had before. You now see the makeshift, shanty town on the hills behind the east end of the city. From the taxi dock, you walk towards the city center, Victoria, where the oldest and tallest buildings are. The streets you walk have a lot of car traffic, not many pedestrians, the stores are opening up. You don't see busses or streetcars, so you walk, wondering if you can cover all the streets in Hong Kong in the four days remaining. Some of the store fronts you pass are inviting, with enough English signage to make their business clear to you. Some storefronts are more Chinese and appear opaque to you. As you approach the blocks with larger buildings, the sidewalks become filled with fast walking, well-dressed people. Most are Chinese, but many are European, possibly American looking, a few are Indian and African, some men with turbans on their heads, some in long colorful robes dotting a sea of dark coats.
You pause at a corner tea shop with a mixture of Chinese and Europeans sitting at small tables inside. You have your Hong Kong money, you feel flush with the exchange rate of five HK dollars for one US dollar. You enter the shop, ask for coffee and you point to a pastry that looks familiar. "Please, sit down, I'll bring it to you" the Chinese counter waiter says in clear English. You find an empty table with two chairs, You put your heavy Pea Coat on one and sit in the other. The air in the small cafe is full of tobacco smoke and there's a glass ashtray on the table, so you light a cigarette. Your coffee and pastry arrives. You sip, and smoke, peering out the window at the passing pedestrian parade. You think of San Francisco, from your one trip there when you were fifteen, how you sat in a similar corner cafe there with your sister and parents, how excited you were to be in the urban downtown. You think of sitting with Mr. Miles and your Drama Department buddies at a table inside at the drive-in. You think of Hemingway writing at a cafe table in Paris, you remember the paintings you've made of imaginary Parisan Cafe scenes. Forgetting that you're in Navy uniform, you picture yourself a bohemian artist. You should be sketching. You should have a notebook. You decide to take on the mission, to find a notebook and a pen, so you can sketch and take notes of your observations. Walking the streets of the central  city, you find a pocket-sized notebook in  a stationary store.  You try a few ink cartridge fountain pens, settle for a ballpoint pen. Consulting a map, you see you're not far from the Peak Tram. Taking it to the top of the mountain behind the city will give you an overview, so you can better plan your exploration. The tram is well built, the incline steep, the ride smooth, the view instructive, Hong Kong is a grown up city, solid construction, good roads, careful landscaping with mature trees, trimmed bushes and gardens.  It's November, overcast and cold with mist around the buildings. From the top, the dense city below looks stable and quiet. You are drawn to the more erratic patterns of the shanty town you had seen earlier on the hills at, what you now see is the far east end of the city. You make a note to explore that area. "The Western Pacific covers all but the peaks of this mountain range on the east coast of China" you write in your new notebook. You turn it sideways and sketch an outline drawing of the harbor and the mountains behind Kowloon. Returning on the tram downhill to the central city you find a British style restaurant, buy yourself a big meal with your cheap dollars and linger at the comfortable table sketching your left hand with your right. You're walking busy streets in an international crowd, evening is coming, the car traffic is snarled and you notice that many of the cars are Mercedes with uniformed drivers and tinted rear side windows. Many of the women are in fur coats, there is an formal glamour to the most of the pedestrians. You go in a movie theater playing Fellini's 8 1/2. You are ushered to a side seat in the rear of a full house. The movie is in progress, Claudia Cardinale's luminous face is drifting across a darkened screen. You don't need the English and Cantonese subtitles, you seen it before, you know the power of this film is not in the meaning of the spoken words. You move to a seat down front as the audience clears out during the end credits, you stay for the next showing, proud to be able to see 8 1/2 for two and a half times. You're walking out of the central city following a crowded avenue lined with big and brightly lit retail stores full of furniture, clothing, Chinese antiques, kitchen appliances, cameras, small radios and big television sets. You've walked many blocks, you find a noodle shop, you sit at a counter and are served a hot bowl. You think of Kaseko slurping as you struggle with getting noodles in your mouth with the chopsticks. Encouraged by watching the other patrons, you pick up the bowl and drink the soup. Quite satisfied with your day and evening, you find your way back to the water taxi and to the ship,  planning your next day, planning to go straight to the hillside shanty town.
