I'm not quite certain, but in my last two nights in Beijing, I went to every single bar and club in that town. No joke. Packed ones, empty ones, crazy ones, mellow ones, big ones, small ones, apple-flavored ones, unctuous ones. And when I woke up I found myself on a plane to Hong Kong.
Now instead of the cold, filthy air that stung my eyes, I find myself enveloped by a familiar nemesis, humidity. Temperature-wise, at least it's under 90 degrees. So I've been gleefully walking around in my flip-flops and ragged shorts, pretending it's summer again.
Besides the change in weather, the lar lar lar of Mandarin has been replaced by the loud, chain-smoking chatter of Cantonese. The Hong Kong Dollar doesn't buy you as many vodka-based beverages or cab rides as the RMB. And unlike Beijing, all the disputes here are settled with slapfights. You should've seen T argue with the waitress over the check. Dude smacked the old lady's fake teeth right outta her mouth. If that sounds bad, the court system is based entirely on bald Shaolin monks headbutting you in the genitals.
Time to go find me a Starbucks.
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