“Mate, that’s wicked. I know this really good all you can eat Chinese!”

 

In Hong Kong, our 7-11s do a better job than those westernized ‘restaurants’. Meanwhile, I dig into my fourth portion of sweet and sour wings and a handful of prawn crackers. What can I say? They are enjoying the cardboard-covered-in-sauce experience so much that I don’t want to ruin it for them. And besides, what kind of man travels halfway across town so they can eat the food they ate last week? That being said, a part of me is always on the look out for the inevitable Chinatowns that are bound to show up at some point. There’s no better way to shovel food than a good ole

 

CHAR SIU FAN

 

“That will be 15 pounds, please.”

 

Are you kidding me? That was a 47 second taxi ride.

 

Enough said.

 

“So what’s it like growing up over there, must be strange, right?”

 

I honestly don’t know how to answer this question. When I ask the same thing they respond with a single word – normal – which is the exact same word I would use. I suppose I should create a list to help me explain what is normal for me:

 

• Six feet tall is tall… until I go on holiday. Then I’m short and not good at basketball any more.

• When I’m given a fork instead of chopsticks I feel insulted.

• Glares from old ladies on the subway.

• Developing a false sense of importance because the locals think I am a rich tourist.

• Learning how to barter but sucking at it all the same. “Ok, you win.” translates to “You’ve lost.”

• Calbee over Walkers. Anyday.

• Hotpot and karaoke are options – as long as there is enough alcohol.

• Speaking of alcohol – 7-11, drinking in public, parties… on a boat.

• Anything less than 10 degrees is hibernation season.

• My accent has not been given a name yet, unless mongrel has won the vote.

 

“So you’ve been here twenty years? You must speak Chinese!”

 

After learning the intricate details of becoming a pathological liar in the UK, I returned to study in HK. My experience in England acted as a small ringing sound, like a drowning alarm, to my subconscious. It told me that I was not quite as Western as I thought. My friend groups were made up of internationals. I played basketball with my Chinese brothers on the weekends and I stockpiled Vita Ice Lemon Tea cartons like it was December 2012.

University life in HK was vastly different to the one I was used to. That’s when the question changed.

 

I was and am thoroughly embarrassed whenever I needed to create an excuse as to why my only spoken, written, reading language is English. It took some time for my classmates, and especially the lecturers to come to grips with this. The professors would look around the room every start of class, a big smile on their face until they saw me. The smile vanished quicker than Mr. Miyagi could snatch a fly out of the air with chopsticks. They knew with me they had to speak English.