World Tour in the time of Covid-19

It was all perfectly planned — my very own “take a break and discover yourself” moment that was due to be just the right mix of visiting friends and having solo time to happily melt in Southeast Asia sunsets. Designed to decompress, reassess, and chill the hell out before repatriating in the US, I arranged a 100-day itinerary that was primarily tropical and had only four destinations. I had been plotting and saving up for this move for more than a year. And after an exceptionally high-stress year in Hong Kong with the protests and lots of changes and travel with my job, I “needed a minute” — and gave myself permission to do so with this ‘round the world trip.

Then the coronavirus happened, or COVID-19, which will be called “Covid” in this piece to ditch some of the Sci-fi vibes of the all caps official term. Since the end of January,  Covid and I have been playing a little game of “tag — you’re it!” Around the globe.

(Before I go any further, I want to add a necessary disclaimer: all of the travel I did was voluntary. The story I’m about to share is simply a result of managing risk and dodging quarantines in foreign places without having to have just bowed out and head to the bone-chilling North Dakota winter).

The Flight Path

The itinerary started out in Australia in January, as planned. After a brilliant, mostly smoke-free stay in Melbourne and Byron Bay, my friends in Hong Kong advised I should pick up some masks before flying back as the virus was spreading and there was a lot unknown about who / how / where one could catch it. After a few attempts of searching around, I found a couple of N95 masks and a small pack of surgical masks in Melbourne before flying back to Hong Kong.

When I landed in Hong Kong January 28, the city was palpably bracing itself for a possible outbreak. My old door guard sprayed my hands with aerosol antiseptic when I walked into my building, and antibacterial wipes and gel were all sold out. Toilet paper and rice, however, were still lining shelves and companies hadn’t yet asked employees to work from home. 

As February started, the cases and hysteria started spreading throughout Asia. I had gone off to Sri Lanka with some friends, and a day or two into the trip I started to question whether I should cancel my upcoming next stop of Siargao in the Philippines. After all, the island is remote (also, paradise) and there wasn’t much known about the virus at the time other than it was starting to spread outside of China — it wasn’t a place I wanted to fall ill. 

Cue the emptying grocery store shelves in Hong Kong, school closures, and mandatory working from home, just a few days into February: Covid was not to be fooled around with. Sound familiar now, US and Europe?

I decided to cancel my stay in Siargao and two days later, the Philippines announced Hong Kong as one of the places which required a 14-day quarantine upon arrival, and flights were significantly cut back or canceled outright. I had made the right call and dodged quarantine. 

Time for a new plan.

I messaged my best friend in London and asked if I could arrive a month earlier than planned (!) in early February. She was about to leave for a work trip, which meant I could stay in her apartment while she was gone. London it was!

Bear with me here as I indulge in a little bit of a planet hopscotch. My plan was to return to Hong Kong from Sri Lanka, attend a friend’s farewell party on February 9, pick up my winter clothes I had left there, and then fly to London on February 11.

Not so fast, said Covid. 

The virus was spreading and Hong Kong was continuing to shut down to minimize the potential impact. With companies, schools and the government extending closures and work from home requirements, I didn’t want to risk a quarantine.

So I canceled the leg to Hong Kong and decided to fly directly to London on February 9. I was  poorly outfitted for the winter weather and relieved that I wasn’t going back into the sufficiently-panicked Hong Kong, where there was no rice or toilet paper to be found on shelves. 

On the flight from Colombo to London, I became very sick and somewhere too close to Tehran, I was heaving (thankfully I knew that wasn’t a Covid symptom). At the time I was worried I had caught the flu, and even more worried that I would develop a fever on the seven-hour flight. I put on a mask, antibac’d the shit out of my surroundings, and did my best to curl up into a ball in economy class, gingerly sipping on ginger ale for the remaining hours on the flight. 

I was preparing myself for an awkward immigration session upon arrival to the UK with a temperature gun and a confession of my complicated two-week travel history that included five countries on three continents. 

At that point in February, the UK didn’t have any special announcements related to the outbreak. Covid was, at that time, still confined mostly to Asia. I made it through immigration without so much as having to look anyone in the eye. And it turned out that I only had food poisoning.

That little 8-hr time frame was (and remains) the only time I felt sick with anything on this whole journey. 

So I camped out in Europe for more than a month: getting to know London, driving around the UK and playing in castles and pastures, and one magical week in Portugal.

On March 11 the US announced travel restrictions with the EU, with the UK being exempt. Well-practiced at swapping tickets and highly skeptical that the UK would remain an exception, I acted fast and got a ticket from London to North Dakota, via Minneapolis, on Saturday, March 14. 

Per usual habits by that point, I was careful to frequently wash or sanitize my hands all throughout the airport check in and security process. The gate agent interviewed me about my travel history and I had been back in the UK from Portugal for 18 days — just over the 14-day requirement that would have limited which airports I could fly into the US. 

My plane was spotless, but I wiped down the seat anyway. A few people were wearing masks, but not many. It was such a different scene to the flights I took in Asia in late January in which you got a glare if you weren’t masked up. Aside from some very rough air by Greenland, I had a smooth journey home, relative to a lot of other travelers.

On arrival to North Dakota, I didn’t give my dad a hug, which was very weird. We got home pretty late, but still took the time to thoroughly clean things down as we started our quarantine. 

Evolving Cleaning Habits

Prior to Covid, my antibac habits were very (and I mean, very) relaxed, and were honed, ironically, during my year in mainland China in 2010 out of sheer laziness and an unsubstantiated internal claim that, “it’ll be good for my immune system.” Time has thankfully given that claim some muscle throughout lots of healthy traveling. 

After a month of practice and several dozen crowded public toilets, I have perfected a new habit of singing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” at the sink and have found a modicum of sensuality whilst mindfully washing up. 

As I’ve worked on my own habits, I started observing others and noticed that universally people are terrible at washing their hands. Terrible: soap on the palm washed off as the automatic sink roars to life, a quick little self handshake, and done. Usually it’s all over within five seconds. Maximum 10.

I did notice hand-washing marginally improving in public bathrooms during the first couple of weeks of March. And I’m sure this has improved tremendously as March has gone ahead.

Now at home, my parents and I are hand-washing all the time. We’re disinfecting any communal areas where I’ve been and keeping my “spot” open on one of our sofas. It’s very strange to be distanced under the same roof, but we’re keeping one another safe until we know for certain that I’m not a carrier. 

The Spread to the West

The game of tag continues with Covid and I’m writing this from day 8 of a quarantine with my parents. I’ve been writing this since the end of January, and like my travel itinerary, I’ve changed the ending each time I come into edit it. 

Having the distinction of “what’s happening” versus “what I thought I had wanted to happen” has been a beautiful surrender to discovering things I didn’t know I should discover while on this trip. And now during this quarantine, I’m going to assert that much of the planet is coming to terms with that for themselves.

I have changed my mind and changed my “big plans” every single week of 2020 thus far, and it feels really empowering. This trip has reinforced that anything is possible: A global outbreak is possible. New hygiene habits are possible. New adventures are most definitely possible. And when we emerge from this current cloud, new ways of taking care of one another and doing business will be possible.

Watching the US and Europe right now is like watching Asia from six weeks ago. Today grocery stores are bare in the US and parts of Europe, with household basics hard to find. Meanwhile in Asia, stores are reopening, shelves are well-stocked, and people have been working at their new normal and getting out and about for a few weeks now, albeit bracing for [and ready] to handle freshly imported cases. The panic will pass and the shelves will be restocked, but we have to be responsible and act collectively to limit the length of the storm. 

I’ll be sharing more light-hearted, non-Covid related stories over the coming days in the hopes of brining a little levity to the world. Take care, xx. 

xo, HK Outdoor Yoga

The forecast promised scattered thunderstorms, gusty winds, and steadily dropping temperatures. Yet still, 30 people traveled up to an hour to the beach for a yoga class this March.

Some weeks, folks willingly climb 200 steps and a giant hill. Other times, it's outrageously hot and sunny and still, people show up to practice. 

Two years ago, I taught my first yoga class in Hong Kong. It was made up of nearly every person I knew in Hong Kong. Looking at the photo now, these same people are now some of my closest friends here.

The first class!

I started the classes initially as a way to keep the teaching muscle fresh. It was a rocky start, I was nervous and didn't know if people would show up. It was easier to just cancel class than dedicate half of my Sunday to jitters in the park.

Luckily I had encouragement by a few friends and kept at it. Soon friends of friends started showing up. And then eventually folks I had never met started coming.

It's been equal parts exciting and uncomfortable as the group has grown into itself. The first time more than 100 people RSVP'd to a class, I anxiously checked the growing "yes" and "maybe's" each day and with every new "yes" came a grain of self doubt. Thankfully that anxiety was smacked upside its head by the excitement and encouragement of my loved ones.

Once the number of RSVP's exceeded 150, I panicked and went to the electronics market to buy a microphone and a sky blue hip-pack speaker that cost $60US -- a lot of cash for what I thought would be a one-time use.

 By the time class started, nearly 400 people had responded with some indication they might show up. Incredibly -- and I mean that without an ounce of sarcasm -- approximately 50 people turned up.

I had never been more thankful for flakiness. Or more humbled by the turnout. Never ever had I ever guided more than two dozen people through a class.

After that, "I" became "we" by welcoming more instructors who offered more classes. Today, the group has more than 2,000 members on Facebook and we have a team of volunteer teachers who generously offer classes when their schedules allow.  Over time, the RSVP's got less intimidating and more predictable.

It became easier to estimate class size:

• Good weather, central location, accessible time and more than 150 "yes" RSVPs? Call for backup, 100 people will probably show.
• So-so weather, and ~100 RSVPs? Likely 30-40 people will turn up.
• Tricky class location? Early in the morning? Safe bet that the class size will be smaller.

And that hip-pack mic set? Worth its weight in gold, despite its dodgy sound quality. Also, it makes me feel like Tony from P90X.

Mic pack in action

This "yoga thing" has become a passion project, a side hustle, that "thing I do outside of my job" that feels like I have a point and a purpose here beyond my corporate gig.

We're all craving that space where we feel like we matter and belong, and this group is something I never anticipated would be my unlock here.

This community was a happy accident and has become a big contributor to my well-being in Hong Kong. The group is wonderfully diverse, spanning all ages and races. Each class has at least one brand-new-to-yoga student, some of whom have blossomed into the can't-miss-a-class regulars. Sunday classes feel a whole lot like the atmosphere of the pot lucks after church that I haven't experienced since leaving the Midwest. Everyone brings something wonderful to the table.

The driving philosophy of the group is to be friendly and welcoming. It's such a simple thing that has carried the group--and me--to place I couldn't have possibly dreamed up.

Find us on Facebook or Insta at HK Outdoor Yoga. (Big thanks to pal Stu for the high-quality professional shots in this post).

Meeting Farlang

When I wrote my last post, I had been in Hong Kong shy of one yeare. An now, it's been 19 months since I last posted.

It's not that I've forgotten, I've thought often of this blog; nor is it for lack of content to write about. I think it's more of a general settling in, a lack of newness, and a slight clinging to the mediocrity I've now found.

Since the last post, I discovered the origins of "farlang" and have had the opportunity to visit many places, including all but one of the cities that have inspired the blog. Rome is the one holdout, but I'll be back on her streets in a month. (The DC blog is a regrettable one that ranks right up there with my  dismal twitter feed. I can only hope the internet has forgotten).

The return to meaningful places is what has inspired me to get back to this blog and to get comfy with sharing stories, beyond well-filtered vignettes of my life on Instagram.

The day I started this blog was oddly familiar to the setting in which I'm now writing: parked on a beige sofa next to a window in my apartment, catching late afternoon sun and dreaming about the summer. Only then, I was a senior in college in Fargo, very much ready to graduate and live out my hopelessly idealistic dream of a life, while trying not to reply too quickly to my crush on BBM (that's blackberry messenger for those folks over 40 and younger than 25).

I had been reading a travel magazine that day and there was an article about a couple who had been backpacking in SE Asia. The article described a sushi restaurant that served up a "farlang roll"  with peanut butter, honey and bananas to foreigners in the area. Thus, the farlang lady was born.

It's funny now, nearly every time I go to the Hong Kong airport, I feel as though I meet that couple who wrote the story: they're slightly sunburned, wearing baggy elephant pants, a backpack and likely carrying a rattan bag. I've totally been that couple, as have most expats in Asia. I just haven't been in a magazine.

Since 2010, I've been a laowai, gaijin, and my current status gweilo -- all meaning a foreigner. Last June was the first time I became farlang. It was in Chiang Mai, Thailand, my good friend invited me to her hometown and I was privileged to experience homestyle Thai hospitality. It was in the fruit market, where I dared to toss watermelons and bought exotic rambutan and Thai mangoes, that I heard that word "farang" tap me on the shoulder.

The locals in northern Thailand say it "farang" -- without an "l" -- which seems legit enough. I've learned over time that English spelling of non-English words is a subjective thing. It could even be that the magazine, and therefore I, have been spelling it wrong the whole time.

When I was on the plane to Hangzhou last weekend, I thought about whether we have developed too much of a blase attitude about traversing the planet. In the last three weeks, I've covered 25,000 miles (more or less), seen cherry blossoms on two continents, shoveled snow off of the driveway, and been burned from a sun-drenched beach.

It's no wonder why my digestion is out of whack and I'm sleeping as though it's going out of style this weekend.

Being comfortable as a foreigner in a new place is a great privilege and takes practice. While standing outside of my old apartment building in Hangzhou, I was overcome with a feeling of wanting to give 2010-me a big, comforting hug. Seeing my old building  brought on visceral pangs of loneliness, of which I didn't feel elsewhere in the city.

In 2010 I was far from comfortable with owning my foreigner status -- I was downright terrified. But things get easier with practice, as they have in Hong Kong. I'm no longer fussed with the daily grind, but I have a great appreciation for the effort it took to figure out groceries, bills, transportation and medical care. Let alone build meaningful relationships.

At this point, I've been farlang so long that I'm never really a foreigner in spirit anywhere, but yet I'm also a little bit foreigner everywhere. Stay tuned for more stories of that ever-evolving journey.

The Fortuneteller, Careful Dragon and Big Boss

Reading horoscopes is about as close as I've tinkered with learning what lies ahead in my future, but given my recent birthday, I wanted to give Hong Kong's famous fortunetelling scene a shot. With my  local pals as guides, we went to Wong Tai Sin Temple in Kowloon, which is renowned for its accurate fortunetelling.

My Hong Kong experience has been either really hot or cold over the past few months and I'm eager to be done with my adjustment phase. So having a fortuneteller either a) reassure me or b) tell me I will live a brief and lonely life seemed appealing. (Spoiler alert: I'm not necessarily destined to Option B).

Chinese temples are beautiful but confusing.  I am not familiar with the prayers and practices within the Taoist temples and don't know any of the stories behind the symbols and shrines. It was key to have my friends with me to guide through the temple. 

I started by practicing kau cim. Kneeling down on the ground, facing the temple, I held a cup full of small, bamboo popsicle sticks  and silently introduced myself to the gods. Then I started to ask a question in my mind as I gently shook the cup. Somehow within a few seconds, a stick rose to the top and fell out of the can. 

Each stick has a number on it and can only be associated with one question. I asked a second question and a different stick rose up and fell from the cup. We wrote down the numbers and went to find a master who spoke English and who could tell me my fate.

There were two levels of fortunetellers, each with a small stall reminiscent of a farmers market. Unsurprisingly, there were some aggressive English-speaking soothsayers at the entrance promising a great price and extra discount. But suddenly I got really anxious about choosing one--I was about to open up my soul to a stranger and wanted that person to be wise and kind.

After a few laps, I settled on a woman named Priscilla who had some photos with local Hong Kong celebrities hanging in her office and #2 pencil-inked eyebrows. I sat down, introduced myself and got straight to it handing her the numbers from the bamboo sticks. She went to a large cubby on her desk and pulled out a small story in Chinese associated with each number.

Each question can only be asked for the 12 months ahead and I wanted to first know if I'm supposed to stay in Hong Kong and secondly, if I'll find true love. (I've since learned every good, single Hong Kong girl who's my age goes there to plead for a husband).

"The birds are happy because it is Autumn and there are no storms, so they are flying carefree in the meadow. Then they spot a hunter. The birds were quick enough to fly away and continue to be happy in the Autumn."

"Right. Ok," I said. "What does that have to do with me staying in Hong Kong?"

"You are the bird," she said. "You are smart, you see the hunter before he sees you, so you fly away and continue to be happy. Especially in Autumn, you are happy."

"Great, glad to hear you think I'm smart... but I'm not smart enough to understand this story."

"Avoid conflict and you will be happy," she said. "Hong Kong is good, don't leave."

It felt like a bit of a leap of assumptions she was making between that story and my situation, but I credit that to the language barrier. I'm sure it makes perfect sense in Chinese.

Then came the love question and an equally obscure answer:

"There is an Officer and a King. You are the Officer and you give the King a lot of advice. You always talk. Sometimes the King is annoyed. Are you single or in a relationship?"

"I'm not sure I follow, are the Officer and the King a couple?"

"Yes; so you have a Big Boss coming. He has many ideas and many resources and is probably very wealthy. But he doesn't like how much you talk. So the King one day sends the Officer on a train to somewhere far away."

This relationship sounds terrible, I thought. 

"I still don't get it -- is Big Boss a good guy? Is this a healthy relationship or no?"

Which cubby will hold your fate?

"It is your choice. Just don't boss him around and you will be happy."

Done with the outrageous legends, I decided to invest in a birth sign reading and a palm reading.

For both readings, she touched on the same key themes: career, love, fortune, family, health, etc.

The birth sign reading is based upon your date, time and location of your birth and is influenced by your present location. There are five elements that also influence the reading: water, fire, earth, metal and wood.

"Ah! You are fire! And this year and next year are fire years. These are very good years for you. However, your fire is small. Where do you live?"

"Wan Chai."

"Where do you work?"

"Wan Chai."

"I can't help you. This is no good. Wan Chai is a water sign and you  are fire. Water kills fire. You need to live somewhere else, like Stanley. Yes, move there and your fire will grow. Or Australia, that would be good, your fire will be very strong there."

She was referencing other areas of Hong Kong where I should go in order to maximize my fire strength. She said that I have a tired fire and it could be at risk of burning out, especially if I have cold food or drink. I'm only allowed ice cream immediately after a meal, when my body is warm, she said.

After a solid 10 minutes of hearing about how terrible my neighborhood is, she finally moved on to other key areas:

Career: marketing is my sweet spot, #ChaChing

Health: I'm set for a long life but will have bad circulation. Hello, compression socks for all those long-haul trans-Pacific flights.

Family: Kiddos are in the cards... at some point. Rest easy, mom.

Love: Again, the theme of the Big Boss emerged. This time, instead of simply being from the #39 cubby slot, it was written in my star sign.

"He'll have strong opinions and you should let him fret with the small decisions. He is older than you, but not younger and not six years older. You will always have work in your life, but waste no time in the next two years to find the Big Boss. If you don't find him by then, you wait 10 years."

Good grief, Priscilla, chill out, my grandma doesn't even pressure me that much! I thought.

"Don't worry, you are a true person and you have an open mind. Yes, true person. But sometimes too proud, don't be too proud and don't try to influence every decision and you will be fine."

Noted, Priscilla.

So Big Boss, if you're out there and reading this, my main lady Priscilla has offered me some brilliant material for Tinder, whose logo is--you guessed it--a flame:

Careful dragon with an open mind and a small fire, seeking a Big Boss who is not six years older than me. I'm a fire sign living in a water neighborhood. Don't worry, my feng shui is most likely still positive because my address' cross streets are derived from fire. If I could read Chinese, I could probably even find "fire" in their respective characters. Rest assured that I'm a low risk for being extinguished. C'mon baby, light my...well, you  know the rest.

The Electric Current of Living in Asia

 Where Eating Questionable Lettuce can Lead to Remarkable Discoveries

When I was back in the US last month, one of the most glorious feelings I had was an undercurrent sense of peace because I just understood how things work. All signs and labels were in my language, my mom's cupboards were organized as I knew them at 8-years old (except for the silverware drawer), and Cafe Solstice still had (re: HAS) my favorite oatmeal chocolate chip cookies on the menu. It all just made sense.

It took me all of four days back in Asia for that feeling to completely dissipate and be replaced with its polar opposite. The ice-bucket-to-your-head jolt of constant little surprises wrapped up in packages of tiny, ancient ladies at the fruit stand or the middle-aged chain smoker with a beer belly and a rolled up tank top who gives ZERO shits about blocking the sidewalk during rush hour when it's 100 degrees. Every. Single. Weekday.

In my non-scientific opinion, I'm convinced that this current, this electricity, that I feel when I'm out of my element is a direct cousin to adrenaline. It's what drives people to travel and throw themselves into unfamiliar things, all for the buzz and rush of that elevated thought process, giving off enough endorphin's  to carry you through the stories you tell when you go home.

I have been hooked on that high since I was like 16.

Blame it on old[er] age, cynicism, or both... but last month when I was back home in the US, got hypnotized by that security, the quietness of my brain, the symphony of just  "getting it." It was freeing and fun and made even the simplest of things, like driving my dad's F-150, as refreshing as a cool glass of water.

Alas, I'm back and the electric current is strong once again.

Five days after landing in HK from the US, I jetted off again to Da Nang, Vietnam, to support some friends running a marathon in the steam-basket of SE Asia's August. It was a quick trip and my girlfriends and I had amazing accommodations, so we were feeling fancy and planned to treat ourselves to a cocktail at the "the most beautiful resort on the planet," according to someone who ought to know such things.

Carved into cliffs on what felt like a private peninsula, the resort was a 30-minute drive from where we were staying. After what felt like ages of meandering through the jungle on a curvy, deserted road, we arrived. 

The security guards promptly turned us away. Their English was poor and my friends and I could tell they were giving us some porous story about the restaurant being full. Never ones to take no for an answer, we got out of the taxi and looked at the stars while we plotted a way in. Instead of being wooed by our sweet talk, the blushing and nervous security guards shut a gate on us and we were sent back in the taxi. Clearly Taylor Swift and her new main squeeze were staying there, otherwise we would've been let in.

Just kidding. I have no idea if Taylor or one of her squad ladies were there, but thinking about it makes me feel better about being turned away.

Disgruntled and tired of being in a car, my friend persuaded us to pull over once we finally got into the city and eat in one of Da Nang's seafood halls.The restaurants are essentially huge pole barns without walls, set up side by side for more or less a mile. 

The menu & seafood bins

Every single restaurant was brimming with Vietnamese families perched on plastic stools and folding chairs. The front part of the building  had mopeds and motorcycles crammed and tangled into any spare spot. The seafood halls are the perfect opposite of the fancy resort's photos I saw on Trip Advisor, but wasn't allowed to see in real life.

Through one lens, I felt the buzz and high of the absurdity and vibrancy of the evening's events. But on the other hand, I was also feeling that heavy weight of just wanting a good, expected and understandable meal.

I swear the waiter could sense my unease and he directed me away from our table to look at a menu. We shimmied through tightly packed long rows of metal and plastic tables, dodged crab legs and beer cans on the floor and  finally made it to giant blue tubs of living sea creatures and a big  sign on the wall with a list of fish.

"For goodness' sake, waiter, I grew up on the prairie and in adult life, picked out shellfish only when offered to me on a happy hour menu with full descriptions of flavor, origin, etc. How the hell am I supposed to a) pick things out and b) explain to you how I want to eat them." I
thought.

My friend thankfully swooped in and soon we were wheelin' and dealin' ourselves quite a meal. 

The electric current was back.

The best scallops on Earth

The food was amazing. We had grilled scallops and prawns and a stingray served with rice paper wraps and fresh herbs and lettuce. We washed it all down with Tiger beers, served warm in plastic cups with chunks of ice that were from a five-gallon bucket. 

Ice, greens, and shellfish are three of the most notorious caveat emptor foods for the traveler not keen on diarrhea. We ate and drank anyway.

My friends and I broke the rules and were absolutely no worse for the wear the next morning. I'm grateful for my Iron Stomach (not invincible, but certainly sturdy). 

The evening ended up giving me enough of a high to enthusiastically relay the story to friends and one week on I still find it amusing enough to write about on here.

Everyday there is some strange little something that reminds me that electric current is inside of me. But now I find myself seeking the opposite feeling: the calming, spacious sense of understanding. I haven't quite found it yet in Hong Kong, but day by day, I'm beginning to see more glimpses.  

The aftermath

Typhoon Nida: My First Typhoon

Somehow it's been three months since I posted... There's no great reason why that's the case, other than I spent May and June grappling for inspiration in my new "normal" of a life and then in July found myself talking about funny and frustrating bits about my Hong Kong life while visiting the US and was re-inspired.

Alas, I'm back and was ushered into town with quite a wave.

Within 18 hours of landing in Hong Kong, the office was shut early to allow employees to prepare for Typhoon Nida, with a Typhoon Signal 8 (T8) expected by 6 p.m. The T8 signal is the level where the city shuts down: no buses, no restaurants, no services except for the essentials, like 7-Eleven and movie theaters.

Jet lagged and with an apartment well-stocked with dirty laundry but seriously lacking in food, I left the office determined to make myself a fine T8 dinner from the shelter of my kitchen.

Walking to the market, my brain became its own typhoon trying to adjust to day/night while missing America yet feeling really happy to be back in my little home, and panicking as to just what the hell this big, scary T8 signal means.

"Typhoon" was not a word in my vocabulary as a kid, unless it happened to be in the name of an amusement park ride or limited  edition Gusher fruit snack flavor. As an adult I see typhoon and hurricane as the same.

Also having never been in a hurricane, I assume that everyone puts plywood over windows and rushes to Walmart to stock up on bottled water and breakfast cereal. After which families hunker down, switch on the TV, and watch the poor reporters on the beach trying not to get swept away while they explain that "the storm has really picked up in the last few minutes!"

The air right before the storm was atmospheric vomit. It hung absolutely still with temps pushing into the 30s (or 90s for my Fahrenheit friends). If a humidity level greater than 100% is possible, the air achieved it.

The hot, stagnant swamp was ripe for particulates and the pollution levels were actually truly off the chart. The app I use to track air quality measures HK air based on scales from a handful of nations and agencies, such as the World Health Organization (WHO), the US, EU, and Hong Kong.

Air quality just before the typhoon arrived

Each measuring agency has varying levels of qualitative vs. quantitative data. For example, at this very moment the Australia measurement model indicates the air is good enough to "enjoy activities" and the Hong Kong tab gives a resounding endorsement that the air is clean enough such that "no response action is required." By contrast, instead of life advice like the others, the WHO doles out only metered readings on various air quality metrics.

Immediately before the typhoon set in, every agency more or less said "Go outside at your own risk. Worst case scenario, you'll die. Best case scenario, you're now signed up for throat and/or lung  cancer within the next 20 years."

That evening while two friends and I were cooking a whole fish, bought and killed in the market, along with rice and veggies, we kept a close eye on CNN. Just like in the US with hurricanes, the  news promised great destruction.

The rain started before I fell asleep, and between typhoon anxiety and jet lag-fueled  nightmares, I barely slept. Although sleep should have come easy. All I could hear was the steady falling of raindrops. My building is well-protected from wind, so I didn't even experience any gusts.

Duct tape barricade

T8 was still "hoisted" and "in force" (bless the HK Observatory weather copywriters) in the morning, which meant a day to work from home. Midday I went out for a walk and the city was silent: no cars on main thoroughfares, closed up shops with "X" tape jobs on windows for storm protection, and empty sidewalks. Honestly, it was a treat.

Just before 2 p.m. the T8 signal was dropped and by 2:30, the city was in full operation and back to its unmistakable buzz.

The storm was a big deal on outlying islands and in the countryside. And it had whipped up quite a force in the Philippines before heading to Hong Kong. Today, the morning after the storm, Victoria Harbour was still churning and there were small bits of debris along the sea wall, but the city is back and the air quality is clean once again.

Brown Bag Lunch: HK Style

Hong Kong is one of the greatest food cities in the world. It's also one of the most humid cities. Together, those two factors have ganged up against me in my pursuit for packed lunches. And I haven't yet cracked the code.

Back in Seattle, I was a lunch-packing queen, making large quinoa and veggie salads or big pots of soup on Sunday nights that would last the whole week through. In Hong Kong, I haven't quite averaged one homemade lunch per week just yet. I'm trying to change that so I have healthier lunches.

In the US, packed lunches also equated to saving money. Here? Not so much since I'm not cooking for a family and am not quite as savvy with the wet market as fierce Cantonese mamas. 

This week, I decided to just go for it. Aside from grains that I bought at a small organics store, all of my groceries for the week came from produce stalls in the market. Beets, snap peas, passion fruit, baby Filipino mangoes, sweet potatoes, pomegranate, and strange green things that look like scallions but smell like sour oniony-feet all made it into my fridge. 

Determined to pull off a week-long salad worthy of a high-five from the farmers market crowd in Seattle, I started prepping ingredients. The beets went into my oven, yes the amazing gas oven that I'm fortunate to have, and I chopped up cucumbers and the strange scallion thing. My kitchen smelled awful, sour and pungent, but I opted to toss the green bits into the salad bowl.

Then I went to grab a potato to bake for dinner while the beets and quinoa were cooking. 

Stored in an closed yet breathable tin in my cupboard was a beautiful sweet potato that I bought three weeks ago. I kept it in a dark, cool spot, yet when I opened the tin I was met with a horrible metallic soil smell. The potato had blown up like a wrinkly balloon. 

Now my kitchen was really smelly.

Alright, one potato to waste, not ideal but I'll cut my losses, I thought.

The beets were done roasting soon enough and I added them in with the stinky scallions and cucumbers then stirred in quinoa and pomegranate seeds. The scallion things were overpowering, so I took my very Seattle salad and made it a little more Asia by adding citrus, fish oil, soy sauce and maggi seasoning. 

To finish it off, I went to the fridge for the feta cheese I picked up the same day that I purchased the potato. Cheese is like gold in Hong Kong. Until I strike it rich with a two-income life here, cheese is just not something that fits into my grocery budget. But a couple of weeks ago, I splurged and bought a small brick of feta that cost ~$10. 

I had the privilege of enjoying said cheese just once, as this evening when I pulled it out of its fine glass storage container, the damn thing had grown fur.

My relationship with feeding myself in Hong Kong is an analogy for me building my life here. Many things work quite well--like my job, apartment, hobbies and my mother's homemade brownie recipe. But most everything has an unexpected consequence, like a crowded pedestrian commute on my way to work, relentless swollen, itchy gnat bites I get from hiking or yoga outside, and failed root veggie storage.

This dichotomy is both the charm and misery of life abroad. Nine times out of 10 one can't help but to laugh at the situation. But that one time--those 10% of incidents where laughs just cannot be generated-- is absolutely devastating. 

One day soon, hopefully in the coming month or two, I will crack  the code on food in Hong Kong and find a happier balance of all of absurd moments.