Last week, I received a parcel from my family in Hong Kong. It is the fourth they have sent me; and it is the biggest by far. The contents were nothing extravagant: some snacks, Chinese noodles, dresses, stockings, letters, pencils. Really, it was just an assortment of items my family could easily afford to lose in the post. But I would have been devastated if they had been lost. I was overjoyed for days after the box arrived. They have not forgotten me, I thought.
This brings me back to Todd Swift's lines "My country has become a stamp, weather, / And what my mother says, over the phone." However, there were no actual stamps on the parcels and I do not talk to my mom over the phone (we use MSN messenger). But there is weather, drastically different from that of London. I love to hear news of Hong Kong's sticky summer. Has this all become "some other life", as Swift says in his poem?
When I first arrived several years ago, I thought I would never get used to Hong Kong, with all those pushy elbows and shoulders in the MTR. And what kind of abbreviation is "MTR" anyway? I kept thinking that the "R" had been misplaced. In Singapore, the subway is called the MRT.
I needed a pilgrimage. On a sultry July morning, I trekked across this city to the National Library of China where I found, miraculously, an English copy of Flannery O'Connor's Mystery and Manners. Here was a quirky, "grotesque" American author who never strayed far from her mother and the peacocks of her rural Georgia home. A writer's country, she said, is "the region that most immediately surrounds him…with its body of manners, that he knows well enough to employ."