My Feet Barely Touch The Ground

I am back in Hong Kong.

I know this because I am able to reach the jetway within 5 minutes of the seat belt sign being turned off. HKIA is not one of the world's leading airports for no reason.

I know this because the couples that are smiling are chatting have just come from a fully organized and guided gastronomic tour of Japan, and their trolleys are loaded with the newest Hello Kitty trinkets.

I know this because the girls in the airport are snow-pale and stick-thin.

I know this because the same shuffling crowd gathers at the airport transfer shuttle train, as that at Causeway Bay MTR station.

I know this because the slickly dressed young men in their designer suits and their bluetooth headsets are chatting away at rapidfire speed about the latest Premier League football match in lilting Cantonese.

It still boggles my mind how in the space of 3 and a half weeks, I go from the frog-in-well mentality of the American majority, to the polished civility of tea-drinking English, to the tentative yet professional Singaporeans, to the colorful, industrious and hopeful South Indians, to this.

The southern continent, Australia, is next on the agenda for the coming week. In the meantime I have 5 days to get reacquainted with my flat, sort my mail and clean out my fridge. My suitcase awaits, open, for the next batch of suits and a refreshed toiletry case.