Bed of Wishes

Happiness is an Egg Tart

So long have philosophers been philosophizing on the meaning of happiness. Yesterday, I stumbled upon it. Some things in life can only be understood through the senses. Words fall short of description, yet I need to put the experience in type. 

In an attempt to appease my craving for anything coconut, I wandered into Tai Cheong, off Lyndhurst Terrace. After choosing my coconut macaroons et tart, I arbitrarily pointed to an egg tart. 

Walking out, I decided to save my macaroons for later and broke off a piece of my egg tart, noticing how delightfully the little pie jiggled in my hand as I walked. Stuck it in my mouth, experienced Nirvana. It wasn't the kind of mind-exploding, orgasmic feeling of jubilee. It was something more subtle, a Buddha-happiness. 

More acute than contention, more subdued than elation. 

Like having "wonderful" explode in your mouth and travel outwards from there, until it tickles your fingers. 

It's what I imagine Harry Potter felt like when eating chocolate after his run-in(s) with the dementors. 

Tastefully delightful. Texturally perfect. Mind-numbingly, finger-ticklingly delicious. 

Homesick

My second night in Hong Kong and I'm speechless. Not impressed-speechless, nor surprised-speechless, I simply have nothing to say. 

I live on Graham Street, on the top of a hill full of little fruit and vegetable markets. It's amazingly convenient and fresh; I haven't had need of the refrigerator yet. 

Today, I bought 5 apples, a pile of bananas, and a papaya for breakfast. It was only $25. 

For dinner, I picked up an avocado and 3 eggs, all for $11. 

Still hungry, I wandered and wound up at Lan Kwai Fong. Eavesdropped on drunken conversations, watched drunken couples sneaking gropes on the street, marveled at the funniness of drunken people. 

Standing outside my building, I realized my bedroom is only half of an actual room.  The landlord has cleverly split an already miniscule room into rather cruel proportions. 

My room is literally a shoebox. As soon as I come into it, I have to crawl onto the bed. 

Hong Kong is what I expected. It's different and everywhere I go leaves me staring around, mouth slightly agape. I'm eating things I don't know, getting lost in my own neighborhood, and it's great fun. But the thought of being here for another 8 months is one that I find sobering, not liberating. I feel homesick. But for what or where, I don't know. Do I miss Korea? New York? Chicago? How do you miss home when there isn't anyplace in particular you think of as home.