In Kowloon Tong station, cross-road between the HK subway and KCR, four-hundred Chinese plus one nervous Californian--crushed together like canned asparagus--strain toward the three working turnstiles. Small children are protectively perched on shoulders. All grin, sharing the humor of inglorious dilemma--how to shuffle feet in such tightlyknitthrong. Past the turnstiles, we are like oxygen atoms escaped from lungs, ecstatic random motion in a boundless void--yet faintly mourning the warm press of brotherhood.
The KCR commuter glides north past mist-shrouded islets piercing sun-reflecting Tolo Bay. Tai Wai and Fo Tan flit by like marathon runners near the finish. Stepping into Tai Po is like departing a time ship. Authentic Chinese, Tai Po triples wealth at the price of trash strewn streets, toilets crude holes in concrete floors, and reliance on guide-book phrases sung off key.
Steps from the train station, a squatting street-vendor chops meat. Feet swirl on the sidewalk. A shop window displays dried lizards stretched between twigs, and dragon innards. Inside a clerk patiently explains, in Cantonese, the merits of his products. Made giddy by a swarm of odors, I listen in English. We smile and nod bravely, like foolish puppets in a children's play--both noble ambassadors_____of fictitious nations.
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