The day I married you, I was drunk on three big shots of rum, with torn bread rolls and broccoli-soup bits swirling unsettlingly in my stomach.
I hadn’t eaten much that day and was already feeling melancholic, probably overwhelmed by the lack of sleep, the army of make-up artists, the team of photographers, the bustle of the bridesmaids and a screaming baby in the cozy resort suite, and the anticipation that a year and a half of expensive, grueling, necessary planning had come to this: a sharp clap of thunder and torrential downpour at the beach just an hour and half before we were supposed to walk down the sandy aisle.
So this is what happened to the arm. I fell.
While being assaulted by a man on a moving escalator about two blocks from my apartment in Hong Kong.
We fell down in the struggle, from a height of about six or seven feet, and I broke my left arm in the process.
(Hat tip to @Sino_NK!)
When he ascended as leader of North Korea, Kim Jong-un’s PR machine distinctly involved the woman’s touch: being the son of a “revolutionary mother” and, later, husband to a chic Chanel-wearing comrade somehow added polish to his legitimacy.
The first time Mr and Mrs Chiu, the caretakers of my apartment on Caine Road in Central, met me, I was technically squatting illegally. Indeed, I was often found crouched in a corner, trying to camouflage myself amid the hulking brown furniture.
This flat had been hastily vacated by a friend who dropped out of law school and moved to Cambodia, essentially dropping the lease — which banned subletting — on my lap.
I was all too happy to leave my subdivided room just a block away in the Mid-Levels. Lounging on my new mattress on Caine, with its stains and damaged springs and a human-shaped indent on the left side of the bed, I felt like I was in a palace. Continue reading
It’s usually a meaningless series of words, but when you get one that makes sense, it’s usually comedy gold.
Roughly half of my four-day trip to Bangkok was spent mingling with prostitutes at their neon-lit establishments – proof that either I need to rethink my friendships or that the shadow of sex trafficking can’t be escaped in The Big Mango.
Two and a half hours after landing, myself and my host, who works at the city’s premier English-language newspaper, were already at a happening bar called Tuba, sipping happy hour cocktails in margarita glasses the size of our faces.
Shortly after, I was promised we would see a Pat Pong show.
A property scam in Hong Kong (and the world) conducted via e-mail. A cross-post with Rob McGovern.
This flat had it all: a spacious living room, designer furniture, a dining table with zebra-print high-backed chairs, a beautiful wrought-iron bed aglow in mood lighting, a gleaming kitchen and a stylish foyer. There’s even a PlayStation 3. All yours for HK$10,000.
Anyone who’s gone through the rigors of finding an apartment in Hong Kong knows this is too good to be true.