Will Marry for Sunsets

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.

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That Broken Arm

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.

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Kim’s Girls

(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.

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My Slightly Crazy Landlords

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

I Like Big Bahts

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.

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My Landlord the Ghost

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.

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