Central

The busy intersection (D'Aguilar Street and Queen's Road Central)

 leading towards Lan Kwai Fong. 

Central

I step out of the Maritime Museum as if emerging from the heart of the sea. Actually, just jet blue carpet, dim lighting and my vivid imagination, but the effect was nonetheless enjoyable. The boat replicas and informative videos were all absorbing, but my mind is stuck on one thing.

A world map painted by an Italian Jesuit priest in China for Chinese elite. The map itself wasn’t that impressive, although I did like the blobby red bits and the squiggly continents. It was the information plaque, placed there for extra curious museum patrons like myself.

“These maps allowed Chinese intellectuals to have a first glimpse of the concept of the world being round...Some of the Chinese educated elite were shocked since the map did not depict the Ming Empire at its centre….the map’s orientation did not alter the Emperor’s belief that China was the centre of the universe.”

I smile and shake my head slightly, rolling the words around in my mind again. Center of the universe. How many people thought that, back in the day, that their country was the middle of the world, that the earth was the center of the universe, that their people group should be called “The People.” Everyone else was just “Other”, I guess.

My feet fly down the windy metal stairs to get to the bottom, the entrance, or maybe exit, of ferry number eight. I shiver and pull my coat more firmly about me. There was coffee somewhere. I think down at pier three.

I pause at the bottom of the paint-chipped step. Wave after wave of endless faces roll in front of me. Work is over, the tide comes in. I swallow and dive in, fighting my way across the current to reach the far side of the walkway, the flow going the direction I need.

Quite a few people push past me, clutching bags, coats flapping. They pay no mind to whose faces get slapped by errant scarves. A short, spiky-haired woman jostles her way around me. Her mouth is a grim line, and she has a death-grip on her suitcase-sized handbag. She flits this way and that, skooting past the few meandering pedestrians who in turn pretend she is invisible.

To my left, a young couple cuddles up on the cement seat in front of some scraggly bushes. The boy’s skinny arms slung around the girl’s waist, passing under her blue backpack that is adorned with miniature animals. The girl’s hands are also full, holding a white styrofoam container. Steam seeps over the brim. What is it? As if hearing my question, the girl lifts a large wooden toothpick, skewers a siu mai, shakes a few drops of brown sauce off of it, and smiles as she deposits it in her boyfriend’s gaping mouth. He smiles at her, his cheeks bulging. She smiles back and fishes for another siu mai. Down the bench, old woman’s eyes dart over to them. The corners of her mouth turn down, and her right eye twitches. The message fails though, as the young couple don’t even glance in her direction. The feeding continues.

In front of me, three Western men, three pairs of brown shoes, three blue suit coats, three plastic cups. They walk abreast, chatting and admiring the gray sea over the wall. Behind them three young Chinese guys, three pairs of running shoes, three barely-there shorts. They pause their run, bouncing in place behind the impassible wall of suits, and finally find the margin between elbows and the metal rail. They shoot ahead, their shoes chastising the slow-movers behind them.

“M goi, m goi!” A trash uncle bellows, his voice echoing under the pier 4 archway. He clutches a glowing cigarette in one hand. His lined face says it all: His pushcart heaped with reeking black bags is a clear right of way. But the way does not clear. Two mothers, strollers and babes in tow, try to stare down the interloper. Obviously their precious cargo deserves priority. When the trash uncle shows no sign of slowing, the mums shuffle over to the pier 4 ferry schedule, slowly, though, in protest. The trash uncle takes a long drag on his cigarette, and the corners of his mouth give the slightest upward jerk. He would have been a champ at chicken.

I walk up to pier 3, dodging the little boy dashing between pillars. My dodging continues unabated as I’m surrounded by waves of running adults. I glance at the sign to see that it has changed to “boarding.” Of course. Some excuse would be needed for suited bankers and executives to race each other down the pier, occasionally slamming into another runner as they misread the lane changes. Muffled cursing and the sound of scuffling of feet echo off the concrete ceiling. It’s every banker for himself.

I shuffle inside to the coffee shop and bump into a fleeing customer, coffee in hand and panic in her eyes. I jump back, letting her charge past and lumber towards the ferry entrance. The plaque from the museum pops into my head. The center of the universe. A bark of laughter escapes my lips. I guess it’s believable after all.

Why We Are Following the Lines

It all started one day when I was telling Jackie that I'd like to visit every MTR station in Hong Kong.

For those of you who don't call the Fragrant Harbour your home, the MTR is Hong Kong's fairly well-connected and efficient metro system. While I actually dislike it for commuting purposes (who really likes to be crammed into a tin box next to hundreds of groggy strangers every morning), I have to admit that it makes exploring the far reaches much easier.

Anyway, I had been telling Jackie that I really wanted to get to know Hong Kong better. Of course, I have lived here for years and I like exploring, but there are still places my feet have never trod. That is how I decided I wanted to visit every MTR station. And not just the station, because how interesting is an MTR station anyway? No, I wanted to walk around the district of each station, to taste the atmosphere, sample the milk tea, dodge the traffic.

I don't really remember the evolution of that conversation except that, by the end of it, Jackie was on board, and my idea had morphed into this new, more creatively-driven project.

Instead of just exploration, this project will push us to develop our artistic skills. Practice makes better, right? Right? At least I hope so.

The idea is that we will visit the area of every MTR station, walk around, and soak it in. Jackie will sketch something, and I will write something. While we may use the same subjects, most pieces will probably be on different things, especially since we won't be able to work together most of the time (let's hear it for busy city life). When we find the time, we'll just wander the streets and choose whatever snags our imagination.

We're starting with the Blue Line, spine of Hong Kong Island. Since I live here, and both of us spend extensive amounts of time here, it seems natural to start by chasing the blue.

So if you feel like seeing Hong Kong through our eyes (and pens), join us as we Follow the Lines.