These Black Garments

Spent a Saturday with my old friend Hong Kong.  I woke in Lama at a friend’s house.  There was a very old lady sharing the first-floor area with me.  A slow-moving she-dog of one hundred or more human years sat watch on the stoop.  We hadn’t exactly established a rapport last night before bed.  I wasn’t sure if she would be barking aloud again at five in the morning when I made my way to the bathroom, but she remained quiet, seemingly convinced that if I’d been allowed to spend the night, I must be of minimal concern. 

Lama reminded me of the many trips I took out here twelve years ago when I was just forty and had daughters who were in strollers rather than in college.  That must have been the restaurant we dined in.  That must have been the path we took to climb up and over the hill.  I’d asked my chum who I was staying with and he confirmed that there was a scheduled and indeed a pre-sanctioned protest today to be held in Victoria Park, over in Causeway Bay.   Sporting the last clean tee-shirt and short sleeve button down I had in my bag, I was told immediately that these black garments would inadvertently associate me with the protestors and I should be careful about getting sprayed with incriminating blue water from the cannons. 

Unexpectedly uncomfortable with a rash down in the groin I wasn’t enjoying the long walk from Pier 4 in Central over to the MTR.  Down underneath the Alexander House I noticed a first group of young protestors dressed in black.  Each young face I thought about as a potential agitator, a potential victim of those thugs in white from Yuen Long.  And I suppose I thought back to all the times Hong Kong seemed fairly trite and safe and commercial and not especially concerned with anything save commerce, and continued to mediate on what a manufactured, surface level façade that had been.    I texted my stepson to say I was on my way to try to find a protest.  He reminded me that it wasn’t such a wise thing to type in wechat.

Causeway Bay is where I used to have an office and it is also home to some of the most remarkable sushi one can have outside of Japan.  The saba, kohada and aji all taste like they do in Tokyo.  I’ve never tasted that taste anywhere else in the world, save perhaps, South Korea.  Sushi Hiro is still there up on the tenth floor of the Henry House and I took a seat at the counter, ignored the menu and just asked the tall gent in the white hat if he had the dishes I was looking for, one after the other.   No buri but he suggested, and I greatly enjoyed the sama.

On then to Victoria Park.  There, is where the kids in black will be gathering.  Perhaps some men in white as well.  I walk along and remember what it was like to live here and visit a computer gear store in this mall and Ikea over in that building.   The park itself is only sparely populated.  No one is mingling about.  I imagine one guy is looking at me.  A spook from the mainland perhaps here to photo me and my black shirt in the park?  But no, he’s not interested in me.  There is nothing of any real interest here.  I may as well, head over to my afternoon meeting at Mong Kok.  If anything will happen here it will be later on this evening and I'll be on my way home. 

Saturday 9/28/19