hardhat not required

I am not a construction expert. My skills and training lie in the field of fine arts rather than bulldozing and dump-trucking. Nevertheless. I can quickly spot a few potential problems with the above scenario:

1. The guy is smoking a cigarette while operating heavy gasoline-powered machinery. A little sketchy.
2. He’s not wearing a hardhat or protective equipment of any kind. Risky, in my opinion.
3. This heavy machinery is perched precariously on top of the very pile of rubble that is being transferred; the guy is literally digging a hole underneath himself. Downright foolish.
4. It’s not obvious from the angle of this photo, but the pedestrian walkway is situated inches from the backhoe. I know this because I paused next to the rubble mound and raised my eyebrows at the backhoe driver’s co-worker—who stood by, bare-chested and smoking, observing the work—silently asking if it was safe to pass by. The co-worker whistled at the driver, who swung the backhoe a few feet over and waited for me to move along the sidewalk. I resisted the urge to stretch out my arm and touch the heavy machinery, simply to demonstrate its close proximity; I feared that a minor poke from my index finger might topple the backhoe from the shifting pile of concrete and dirt. And none of us were wearing hardhats.

I walk through this passageway to work each day.

I have closely observed a number of construction sites in Hong Kong, particularly throughout the past year as I walk—daily—past the site of three separate building/renovation projects on my five-minute journey to work. Some general observations:

Bamboo scaffolding. This is a marvelous feat of engineering, ancient wisdom and guts. One brave soul leans out a 17^th-floor window and affixes a metal bracket to the side of the building. With one leg on that bracket and one arm grasping the windowsill, another bracket is drilled into place. The safety harness that is loosely draped across his waist may or may not be attached to something on the other end. Next, two or three bamboo poles are laid across the brackets and another guy climbs out and begins to lash more poles together. Eventually several workers are hanging off of various windows and brackets as more bamboo are handed up and fastened together. After hours (or days), the result is a geometrical network of stout wicker stretching across buildings or entire blocks, stronger (supposedly) than modern-day metal scaffolding.

Large-scale bamboo scaffolding.

Covered buildings. To cut down on dust and debris from construction work, giant net-like tarps are arranged over buildings. Usually green or white in color, this drapery gives the appearance of a mysterious shroud or veil. I watched several workers drop a giant, white tulle-like net over a building in my neighborhood, and as it gracefully unfurled from ten stories above, I felt as if grand wedding preparations were underway.

The veiling.

Primitive tools. A beat-up wheelbarrow driven by a shirtless man. Two women shoveling heaps of broken concrete by hand. Workers carrying buckets of construction materials here and there. The process looks more like a do-it-yourself Saturday morning project in the backyard, rather than the assembly of a multi-billion dollar housing estate in a modern world city. But why change methodologies when, clearly, this approach is working just fine? (By mentioning women, I’m not simply attempting to be politically correct; there are large numbers of females working on most construction sites, according to my casual observation.)

This is only nine stories up... quite safe, really.

Lack of safety mechanisms in place. I know nothing of the laws or safety requirements at construction sites or workplaces in Hong Kong. Yet there are times when I believe I should be wearing a hardhat, simply because I’m walking so close to manual laborers and heavy machinery, or underneath rickety-looking scaffolding. I’ve watched a welder who wasn’t wearing safety goggles. A guy running a jackhammer while wearing canvas sneakers, sweatpants and a t-shirt. The safety harnesses dangling from a waistline, dragging on the ground behind the worker. I know men in the United States who won’t mow the lawn without sturdy work boots and protective eyewear. If OSHA came to Hong Kong, they would have to hire an army of employees to keep up with the inspections and violations.

And these are the evidences of progress. Of modernity, development and growth. Newer offices and workplaces. Additional schools and community centers. More spacious flats and nicer homes. A better life, for ourselves and our posterity.

Or so they say.

I prefer the undeveloped, construction-free areas of Hong Kong.

the walls are crying

We are entering the most humid time of year in Hong Kong. This means we are emerging from the “dry” months, in which relative humidity falls to 70-75% (average), and entering the “wet” months. At 85-95%, I start thinking it might as well rain because I’m already soaked anyway.

It’s so humid that…

• bath towels are perpetually damp, laden with a sour smell
• bread, left sitting out on the counter in its original wrapping, molds in two days or less
• concrete walls wrinkle and bubble around the windows, thanks to moisture seeping in around the sills
• books, papers and photos are often damp and/or molded, sometimes ruined
• stores devote entire aisles to moisture-collecting items: electric dehumidifiers, containers of dehumidifying material meant to be placed in closets or cabinets to pull water from the air (large versions of those little non-edible desiccant packets we find inside bottles of medication)
• new envelopes that have been sitting in a drawer are already sealed shut; same problem with postage stamps
• mold grows on walls behind furniture (I’ve helped several friends move, and we were all shocked at what was growing behind wardrobes and bookshelves)
• an acoustic piano or guitar should be purchased locally (not shipped from abroad), as the wood has been specifically treated to withstand damp conditions
• I gave up on hand washing sweaters; if it takes over a week to dry, I’d rather pay a bit more and send it to the cleaners
• some of the electric circuits in our church shut themselves off every few days or so, and I’m told this is because the breaker box is located in a humid hallway; (I’m not an electrician and, therefore, cannot verify this; also, the building and electric wiring is quite old)
• when the weather suddenly warms up after a cool spell, moisture forms on concrete floors, walls and ceilings. It looks like someone has just come through with a mop or spray bottle; hence Chinese idioms such as, “the walls are crying”
• preparation for baking includes hacking away at the sugar canister with a knife
• a friend of mine purchased several pieces of high-quality wood furniture here and shipped them to a dry climate; the wood shrunk so much that doors and drawers were non-functional—seams between the legs and sides of a dresser came apart completely
• my double-walled, "sweat-proof" plastic drinking cups have moisture trapped between the layers
• it takes a herculean effort to keep on top of the mold growth in already-damp places such as bathroom tile, bathtubs, sinks, and the dish drainer
• people say, “don’t take a deep breath outside or you’ll drown”
• I recently ran an old pair of slippers through the washing machine; they took two weeks to dry
• mold grows under the lid of my toilet seat (because I refuse to leave the lid up)
• for most of the year, I walk around dripping with sweat, clothes drenched, hair wet and stringy, mopping my face with tissues; I probably look like a drowned rat.

They say that long-term exposure to humidity is good for the complexion. I say a drowned rat with nice skin is still a drowned rat.

music in the air

I am sitting in the living room of my flat, windows open, enjoying a quiet evening at home. Correction: enjoying an evening at home. Crowded living conditions, crammed neighborhoods, countless high-rise buildings, and seven million people squeezed onto 426 square miles of terra firma don’t contribute to a quiet existence. Add in the fact that many Asians prefer “fresh air” (open windows) to air conditioning or heating, and noise abounds.

Tonight, I hear a woman singing some kind of opera-type music—Western opera, I’m grateful to report. It’s actually quite lovely. An ethereal melody, almost haunting as it echoes among buildings, occasionally punctuated by a tenor voice with full vibrato. I am transported to starlit Venice, serenaded down the Grand Canal in a gondola.

Last Friday night, I spent an excruciating three hours suffering through a beginning trumpeter’s rudimentary exercises. Considering the length of practice, and the repetitive, yet extremely basic nature of his playing, I suspect the student was cramming for a lesson or class. (Note to beginning musicians: cramming doesn’t work for instrumental practice, as it may for a written exam.) Poor kid probably had seriously busted chops after the long evening.

Piano students thrive in Hong Kong, and it’s not uncommon to hear scales practiced late into the night, along with drifts of Bach, Chopin or Beethoven. At times, a specific measure or phrase is played over and over: an annoying prospect for some, but a comfort to the piano teacher—it’s a sign of quality practicing.

Brass instruments and piano music are always preferable over the beginner woodwind. Pity the neighborhood where a Grade 1 clarinetist or oboist resides. The squeaks and squawks of a reed instrument can make one cringe.

Stringed instruments—equally popular to the piano in this city—can also create the sensation of fingernails on the chalkboard when a student is learning fundamentals. I haven’t heard this in my building lately, so perhaps parents have the good sense to make the violin kid play behind closed doors and windows.

A few weeks ago, I thought I heard a woman humming in my kitchen. It turned out to be a domestic helper, quietly singing in her kitchen, whose windows open near mine. Two nights ago, I sat on my couch trying to determine what instrument I was hearing; I believe it was a plastic recorder played by a non-musician.

The sounds of music—mismatched timbres, wrong notes and poor intonation aside—are oddly soothing to me, perhaps because of years of studying music. Standing in a crowded High School band hall, surrounded by sixty other instrumentalists, each playing their own melodies and rhythms at once, create a unique atmosphere. Tonalities mix and pitches clash as one walks down the practice room hallway of the college music building. A pianist here, a vocalist there. Familiar tunes and new refrains conflict. Together, an entirely different kind of music is created.

That’s what I hear in my neighborhood. Sure, there are times I’d like to open my window and hear the silence of the night, punctuated gently by the song of crickets and the croaking of frogs (sounds of my childhood home backyard). But as a professional musician, who believes strongly in teaching music—both instrumental and vocal—to children and adults of all ages, I am grateful to know that my neighbors are hard at work, improving their musical skills. Making music should be an everyday part of our lives, which is, sadly, becoming an increasingly less common phenomenon as our cultures are overtaken by other forms of entertainment.

So when I open my bedroom window and hear “Three Blind Mice” breathily played on the penny whistle (or maybe it’s that plastic recorder), I smile to myself. Music is in the air.

brrrrrrr....

At the present, we are experiencing mild late-winter temperatures: 60s and 70s Fahrenheit, with medium humidity and occasional rain intermingled with sunny days. During Chinese New Year, however—in late January this year—Hong Kong experienced a bit of cold weather that took us all by surprise.

In an average winter, rarely does the temperature drop below 50° F (10° C), though with the damp air and strong winds off the ocean, it feels much colder. In fact, I’ve been more miserable from the cold weather in Hong Kong than I ever was in the occasional snowy, sleet-filled winter days of Texas. I attribute it to a lack of indoor heating systems and the thick concrete walls of our flats—if the temperatures are roughly the same inside as outside, it’s difficult to ever warm up.

I’m not exaggerating much when I say it’s equally cold indoors as it is outdoors. During the New Year holidays, the temperature dipped below 7° C (44° F)—breaking a 16-year HK record. A new record was also set for my flat: 52° F in my bedroom. Since this occurred during the holidays, I settled down in the living room, bundled up on the couch, where a mini-space heater kept it a toasty 55° F. Layered in four pairs of socks, two pairs of pants, five shirts, a hat and scarf, I waddled back and forth between the kitchen and bathroom for the necessities, otherwise staying huddled under four blankets with a hot-water bottle at my feet.

When the holidays ended and I returned to the land of the living, I heard tales of peoples’ flats that maintained 68° or 70° F temperatures with the use of powerful heaters. Remembering I had a stash of ancient, rusting heaters in a storage shed on my roof, I retrieved them, cleaned them up and put them to use. A bit of burning dust and a few puffs of smoke were disconcerting, but I didn’t feel it was unwise to use them… until a fuse blew and I was sitting in cold darkness.

The next day, I went shopping for a proper full-sized heater. The day after that, the wind stopped blowing, the sun came out, and winter was over. I’m prepared for next year though.

language/music mashup

I joined a particular community choir for the primary reason that its rehearsals are conducted in English. For the most part.

From time to time, different conductors step in to lead rehearsals for a few months, in preparation for a specific concert. At the present, a diminutive, energetic Chinese woman directs us—a musician so passionate about her work that she bounces around the front of the room, talking ninety miles an hour, as if she’s packed with firecrackers and caffeine. Her English-speaking skills are superb, but when she gets excited or frustrated, her language descends into rapid Chinglish and Cantonese and lots of frantic arm waving.

Within the context of rehearsing a specific passage of a musical work—assuming I’m paying attention—I can usually ascertain what she’s asking of us, regardless of the language employed. Often, she demonstrates the incorrect vs. correct way of singing a phrase, making it obvious what she wants. Exclamations such as, “Ready…go!” and “Sing it again” are spoken in Cantonese, amidst instruction on vocal intonation given in English. The count-off to begin singing a particular measure frequently comes out in Cantonese: yat, yih, saam, sei…

But let’s add a layer of complication to this English/Cantonese mix: we are rehearsing the Brahms Requiem, a work composed in German (the learning of which is so frustrating that the performers wish they were dead). In Chinglish, our conductor trains us on the proper pronunciation of German. She’ll get so deeply involved in the articulation and translation of the German that she begins counting off, eins, zwei, drei… I’ve even heard her say, eins, yih, saam…

However, music itself traditionally employs Italian terminology when instructing the musician how to sing or play a passage. Our director’s Chinglish-German is suddenly interrupted with cries of “Tutti!” or “From the allegro section” or “More legato!”

It gets more complicated. I grew up learning the American-English terms for musical note types: eighth note, sixteenth note, quarter note, etc. Here in formerly-British Hong Kong, however, people prefer quaver, semiquaver and crotchet, respectively. My translating mind still takes several seconds to recall the meaning of the latter words.

Last week, during our ten-minute break halfway through the rehearsal, I decided to clear my head with a few games of solitaire on my phone. A fellow alto sat down beside me, asking for help with an English book she’s reading: Wuthering Heights. Happy to discuss one of my favorite novels, I agreed. She pointed to a sentence in the second chapter, spoken by a character with a heavy accent: “T’ maister’s dahn i’ t’ fowld. Goa rahnd by th’ end ut’ laith, if yah went tuh spake tull him.” Dialectical dialogue in nineteenth-century Victorian British literature.

Maybe I’m not a mono-linguist after all.

happy lunar new year

a dryerless existence

Yes, I’m a spoiled American who is accustomed to finishing the clothes-washing process by throwing the load into an electric dryer. Actually, we did hang dry our garments quite often when I was young—probably an economic decision, since, back then, no one used the term “green” to refer to anything other than a color in the rainbow. In fact, I was an expert in washing, drying and folding cloth diapers by the age of seven. But gradually, we employed the dryer more and more, and the clothesline was dismantled to make way for a garden.

Before moving to Hong Kong, I lived the life of an apartment-dwelling student, which meant hoarding quarters and embarking on late-night trips to the laundromat. I amassed a month’s worth of clothing so these treks could be as infrequent as possible.

When I arrived in my Hong Kong flat, I was pleased to discover my very own full-sized American washer and dryer. Yes, they are situated on the roof, which makes the laundry chore problematic in the rainy season. But—apart from one near-death experience in a thunderstorm—I’ve adjusted quite well to this arrangement.

Until the dryer died.

It began making a dreadful pounding noise a few months ago. I altered my washing schedule (which usually took place late at night or in the wee hours of the morning) realizing that my neighbors could be frightened by the racket from the roof. Eventually, though, the pounding stopped and the dryer quit altogether. I am in the process of obtaining a new one, but this is not a straightforward situation, as I am not the owner of my flat or the appliances therein.

In the meantime, I am attempting to join the millions of other Hong Kongers who hang-dry their clothing. In fact—though I’ve never located statistics to validate this statement—I suspect that the majority of the world does not use an electric dryer. Certainly most Hong Kong citizens live without one; they may not own a dryer at all, or they have a washer/dryer combo, which doesn’t remove moisture very effectively.

I began my journey of dryerlessness by utilizing the small portable drying rack that I’ve owned for years. Normally I use it only for a few lightweight items: one or two damp dishcloths, a wet swimsuit, or a hand-washed blouse. Now that it has become my primary place of hanging up laundry though, I’ve learned its limitations. A few wet bath towels and a pair of jeans caused the plastic connectors to break, and the entire rack collapsed in a heap on the floor.

My next foray into laundry hanging involved a search for a clothesline. I went to a nearby market filled with stalls of odds and ends: mostly home repair items and renovation supplies. My hunt was surprisingly difficult; as I walked from stall to stall, miming the act of hanging wet clothes on a line, I encountered head shakes and shrugs. Eventually, though, I located a short cable with plastic hooks on each end. I bought two. Strung together, they stretched nicely across my roof, and I successfully washed and dried a set of sheets a week ago. Freshly laundered linens, flapping in the sunshine and breeze left me with a sense of true satisfaction.

Until yesterday.

It was the first sunny day in awhile, so I decided to “run a load of darks,” to borrow my mother’s terminology. But the darks were heavy. Jeans, several t-shirts, and two pairs of slacks. As I clipped a clothespin on the seventh or eighth item, the line suddenly snapped and fell—that feeble plastic hook couldn’t handle the load. I managed to maneuver the end of the line back into place, only to have the other end jerk free and fall. The darks had fallen on the filthy, smog-laden rooftop twice and couldn’t be salvaged; they had to be sent through the washer again.

Armed with zip-ties, twine and scissors, I repaired the pitiful clothesline and then switched tactics. I hung up all my socks. Footwear takes up less line space, but uses up the clothespin supply prematurely; only half of the line was filled, but I was out of pins. It’s like the eight-count bun package and the ten-count hotdog package—they just don’t match up.

For years, I’ve raised my eyebrows at those who voluntarily display their unmentionables on highly-visible clotheslines all around the city. What are people thinking as they hang their whitey-tighties over a busy highway? Now I’ve become one of them. I gave up on the sock-drying and chose the next smallest clothing item: underwear. They were perfect for my pathetic clothesline: lightweight, could be hung with only one clothespin, and took up just the right amount of line space. Forget pride. I just want dry clothing.

Everything else had to be hung indoors: across chair backs, dangling from door knobs, tossed over the arm of a couch, lined up along the shower curtain rod, draped over the ironing board…and, in one creative instance, from a low-hanging light fixture.

I can’t wait to get a new dryer.

"What is a Thanksgiving?"

Tonight I found myself at an international Thanksgiving dinner, hosted by a local family, packed with folks from a variety of countries and cultures. The eclectic feast included spring rolls, noodles and sticky rice, along with turkey, mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie.

Two women from Sri Lanka had journeyed to Hong Kong only the day before, and they were seated quietly alone in a corner, studying the food on their plates. I sat down next to them, and began to chat with the one who spoke English.

“What is a Thanksgiving?” she asked me. “It’s an American festival, yes?”

“Yes, it’s an American holiday. We always eat turkey—well, some people bake ham—and usually some potatoes and green beans. Maybe some rolls and cranberry sauce. Pie for dessert…”

“No,” she interrupted me. “What is the history of this holiday? Why do you celebrate?”

“Oh. Um…” Visions of second grade school plays in which we wore headbands with protruding construction-paper feathers filled my mind. A black cardboard hat with a yellow buckle painted on the front, and a white and black pilgrim frock. My mind crawled along. What is a pilgrim? Something about Niña, Pinta and Santa Maria. Learning how to plant corn. Are we allowed to call them Indians anymore? In 1492 Columbus sailed the ocean blue. Why am I so terrible at recalling basic history?

“Well, um, a long time ago, some people immigrated to America.” For reasons unknown, I slipped into my Special English Voice, though this woman spoke impeccable British English. “They were very hungry and were dying.”

“They came from England, yes?” she remarked politely.

“Oh, um, yeah, they were from England. Then they came to America. But they didn’t know how to grow food or survive. Then the… uh… Native … Indians came along and taught them how to plant food. And they lived. And they were happy. So they had a big meal to give thanks.”

My Chinese friend sitting nearby eloquently stepped in to my rescue. “The feast was held at the conclusion of harvest season, so there was plenty to eat and be thankful for. Americans recall this story and celebrate each year in November.”

“Yeah, harvest,” I nodded. “We celebrate harvest.”

The Sri Lankan woman asked about the date. “Is it always the 25^th?”

I know this one. “No, it’s always on a Thursday in late November. It’s always the third Thursday—no, the fourth Thursday—wait, is this the fourth week of the month already? Anyway, it’s always on a Thursday in November.” I trailed off. “Mostly we just eat. And eat, and eat.” I patted my stomach.

“Here, let me clear your plate for you,” I offered. She smiled sweetly, as my Chinese friend continued to chat intelligently on another topic.

~~~

It’s the little things. The details of history and culture that are so important, yet so rarely referenced in my own culture that I often forget. Lessons learned in elementary school that sadly fade from my adult mind.

I can recount in glorious detail every dish my mother cooks for Thanksgiving. But what is the origin of the holiday? Why do we celebrate? These are the stories that stitch our culture together and make us who we are. And the stories behind the special days and celebrations are the elements I most love to learn about other cultures.

But clearly I need to brush up on my own culture, so I can explain it like a true American.

At least I know the reason behind Christmas.

refused?

English is a curious language.

Today I completed an online survey for a local Hong Kong company. (I was lured in by the promise of a chance to win a gift card to a bookstore. Books. My weakness.) In the section where personal information is gleaned, the question of marital status was asked thus:

How would you describe your marital status?

1. Married

2. Single

3. Other

4. Refused

What does this mean? One who has refused marriage? One who was refused, as in a rejected marriage proposal? Unrequited love?

Subsequent questions on other topics offered the same final choice, which led me to believe it’s an option that actually means, “I’d rather not say.”

Not sure if I’d prefer to check the box for refused or spinster.

what's going on here?

For lack of something interesting to write about, here is a sign I pass every day at a nearby construction site. It includes an interesting arrangement of English words, the meaning of which brings odd images to mind.

attack of the real estate agents

The street on which I live contains an imposing still-under-construction apartment building that promises to be the most posh edifice in the neighborhood. It will likely eclipse “The Palace,” which presently takes highest honors in this category. (I live in “Twilight Court,” aptly named in my opinion: considering all the leaks, cracks and crumbles, my 30+ year old building is presently in its twilight years.)

Though many months away from completion, this new housing complex is now apparently up for purchase, meaning that interested parties can buy a flat in tower 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, or 7. (Nope, there’s not a tower 4. Bad luck.) After years—literally, years—of passing by this construction site and seeing trucks, workmen, equipment and materials going in and out of a muddy entrance, through a sagging metal gate covered in torn vinyl, I noticed yesterday that a red carpet has been laid on the sidewalk surrounding the gate. Non-workmen are not allowed to go inside the construction area, but anyone can walk on this red carpet that leads nowhere.

Furthermore, dozens and dozens of assertive real estate agents are situated on the red carpet, on the sidewalks around the building, and on the other streets in my neighborhood as well. Saturdays and Sundays are opportune days for such business, so yesterday (Sunday) this army was out in full display.

My first realization of this matter occurred when, while riding in the car of a friend who was giving me a lift home, we encountered an eager young man who jumped out at our moving vehicle, waving a flier. Other agents turned their heads in our direction, also waving papers and fliers, but we kept driving up the street and they shifted their attention to cars behind us. This continued to happen as we drove the one-way loop around my neighborhood until we arrived at my flat.

How can any of these agents obtain business if they have to compete with forty or fifty other equally ardent agents? Moreover, any person who is seriously in the market for such a luxury flat will most likely explore the property with an agent of their choosing—not a flier-waving maniac on the street.

The complete absurdity of this situation struck me later in the day yesterday. I watched as a moving car approached the corner near the posh building and slowed down as the driver rolled down his window, ostensibly to obtain a flier. Suddenly, no fewer than eight aggressive agents descended on the car, all yelling, and each pushing an advertisement into the driver’s face. An image of a safari jeep stopping in lion territory and brandishing a slab of raw meat came to mind.

I think I’d be less fearful of a wildcat in a game preserve than a handful of real estate agents trying to sell a Hong Kong flat.

a marshmallowless barbecue

“Too close to fire. It will burn.”

I am sitting around a barbecue pit, surrounded by half a dozen elderly Chinese folk, being instructed on how to roast a hot dog over a campfire. Several hundred church members have gathered at a park, which we rented for a day-long fellowship outing; the center point of the event is the barbecue. We are divided into two large groups, and each group is sent to a particular section of the park; I am told to meet at Pit B.

Pit B consists of twenty or so small barbecue pits built of concrete, permanently affixed to the ground, surrounded by benches. I am standing alone, surveying the area, trying to decide which group I should join, when a woman grabs my arm and urges me to sit with her group—the elderly Cantonese Sunday School class. In my mind I shrug, thinking that if I must attend an authentic Hong Kong barbecue, it might as well be experienced with true locals.

Grateful that everyone is wearing nametags, I am introduced to the group, and told which individuals can speak some English. Though I worry that my presence will bother them (sometimes, in my experience, Cantonese speakers who do not know English feel intimidated by a native English speaker), they seem pleased that I’ve joined them. I soon have them rolling with laughter, as I try learning a few new Cantonese words and entertain them with the one or two Chinese idioms I already know.

Meanwhile, plastic bags of charcoal are delivered to each campfire, and the men set out to build fires. Hong Kong charcoal is not made up of uniform square bricks as seen in the States; rather each piece is a different size and shape. Cheap fabric gloves are worn by those who arrange the charcoal in the pit. When it comes to building a fire, it seems that all cultures are the same: the guys stand around and debate the best way to arrange the charcoal and kindling, each studying the situation and offering different opinions, but few actually knowing what they’re talking about. (Written with utmost apologies to my male fire-building friends.)

No lighter-fluid is used, but each campfire is given a box of nuggets of some fire-starting material. Stacks of newspaper are also distributed, and soon each pit is surrounded by paper-waving people, while bits of ash and flakes of newspaper float down from the sky. I step away from the smoke, covering my mouth with a tissue, as I note how many dark-haired Chinese have grey paper fragments on their heads. It seems like proper kindling—twigs and small sticks—would be better for the environment and for my lungs as well.

Eventually the fires get going and the remaining newspapers are spread out at our feet. I am handed one thin plastic glove, a long metal barbecue fork…and a ziplock bag filled with disparate pieces of raw meat. My stomach turns as I realize I will have to use the glove to pull out a piece of meat and place it on the fork for roasting. I’m accustomed to barbecuing already-cooked meat (i.e. hot dogs) or placing raw meat on a strip of tin foil (i.e. hamburger patties).

I gingerly pull out the only hot dog from my bloody liquid-filled bag, and place it on the skewer, while the others go for the raw chicken wings or thin slabs of pork. I am trying to get into the spirit of the moment, but my mind is waving red flags on which are written words such as salmonella, E-coli, and food poisoning. My solution is to overcook the food, which causes the Chinese grandmas to fuss at me: “Don’t hold it so close to the fire. You’re burning it!” I recall the hundreds of times my family went camping when I was growing up; I am no stranger to the campfire or hot dog roasting process, but I bite my tongue.

I actually like the crunchy blackened portions of a hot dog, but these new friends warn me that I should not eat it, lest I get cancer. Though we are each handed plastic non-disposable plates, they look old and poorly washed, so I choose the germ-free option of eating the frankfurter directly off the hot metal skewer, prompting more admonishments from the grandmas.

Next, I pick up the only already-cooked meat in my baggie, which are two very small hot dog-looking items. When I place the tiny bits on my barbecue fork, I am criticized for wasting space on the skewer—after all, several chunks of meat could have fit on there at the same time. Foregoing my desire to eat the mini hot dogs straight off the skewer, I try to place them on my plastic plate, which is quite a feat since one of my hands has a plastic glove covered in raw meat juice. Unfortunately, the tiny hot dogs roll off onto the ground before I can get them into my mouth, and I forlornly realize that there is nothing else in my meat baggie that I want to eat. I briefly consider proposing a trade with someone: I’ll take that hot dog off your hands, and I’ll give you this whole bag of carrion in exchange. No, I probably shouldn’t do that.

Instead, I try roasting a few dim sum fish balls—a favorite among the locals—but they taste so dreadful that I can hardly swallow them. Why couldn’t they have rolled onto the ground? I spy a box of apples nearby, which, along with slices of stale white bread and a few ears of corn, is the only other non-meat item we are offered. I eagerly devour the fruit, and surreptitiously offer my bag of raw meat to a teenager sitting at the next barbecue pit.

While eating, I make conversation with the woman next to me, commenting that I wish we had marshmallows to roast. She doesn’t understand what I’m talking about, so I begin to describe a marshmallow—a task I’ve never undertaken before. It’s small and white colored. Made mostly of sugar; it’s soft and squishy. When it gets hot, the inside melts. Her face finally lights up and she says the word in Cantonese. “Yes, that’s it,” I respond, as if I know what she’s saying.

I continue to fend off questions from the Chinese grandmas—Why are you not eating more? Surely you’re not full yet?—when I suddenly spy the person who drove me and a few others here. He is standing on the other side of the barbecue pit area, but I see a slight, undercover cop-like nod and wink. We are leaving. I am saved.

I abandon my bag of raw meat, toss away the apple core, and grab my backpack. “I’m so sorry I have to leave early,” I announce, “but my ride is departing and I must go.”

I must go. Home to where I can eat a satisfying fully-cooked lunchmeat sandwich, followed by a bit of chocolate.

Next time I’ll bring the marshmallows.