and Words
Mmm, hmm, hmm, hmm
Oh, oh, oh, oho
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
One way ticket, one way ticket
One way ticket, one way ticket
One way ticket, one way ticket to the blues
Choo, choo, train a-trackin’ down the track
Gotta travel on, ain’t never comin’ back
Ooh, ooh, got a one way ticket to the blues
Lyric excerpts from Musixmatch.
On a particularly hot night in the summer of 1979, my mom, sisters, and I arrive in Hong Kong. My mom returns after being away for over a decade. At the age of eleven, it’s my first time in Hong Kong. We pile into a cab and make our way into the residence of my mom’s long-time friend, yet another friend who we’ll end up calling ‘aunt’. We’re all collectively jetlagged, exhausted, and cranky. Upon our arrival, the only thing I ask for before going to sleep is a glass of water. They pour me a cup of hot water from a thermos; it still emits steam. It wasn’t the refreshing beverage that I expected. This should have been my first clue.
In 1979, the British still ran Hong Kong and would continue to do so until 1997. In many respects, the British westernized Hong Kong compared to the rest of China. As such, many places understood English. However, at this stage in my life, my ability to speak English was comparable to Cantonese. They composed many signs in English as well as Chinese, at least I may recognize words.
Culture shock erupted on the day that followed. Hong Kong differed substantially from our home in Florida. My mom’s omission of the wide gap of cultural differences perplexed me, but it may have simply never occurred to her.
We stayed in a neighborhood called Wong Tai Sin in Kowloon. They erected large residential sequentially numbered buildings; we stayed in number 29. I can only speculate that the government built and ran these buildings. Each building resembled the next, distinguished only by the large number on its side. Shops and small businesses lined the ground floor around their perimeter. The residential units sat on the floors above the first. Our unit was on the third floor, by the staircase.
Each residential unit housed a modest space, comparable to the size of a dorm room; entire families lived in spaces this cramped. Our home in Florida was modest, but it was palatial compared to this unit. This unit barely contained my aunt, her daughter, and an infant, and now it would also accommodate four more of us. We made it work. The unit itself hosted storage and sleep space. Modest burners sat immediately outside the unit on the ‘hallway’, used for cooking as other residents walked by. All ‘hallways’ opened into the environment, much like you’d expect shops at a plaza. Nothing was air conditioned, since it was all external.
Our particular unit sat adjacent to the staircase. This allowed us to place a couple of cots along the unit; I slept on one of these for the following weeks. Each floor had one designated location for water, the only source. The water needed to be boiled before drinking; a fact that everyone implicitly understood. This explained the hot water from that first night. Although, it didn’t explain why they wouldn’t simply allow it to cool.
I can barely describe the community bathrooms as such. They simply housed rows of troughs with enough space on each side for footing while you squatted, eliminated waste, and left it behind. Water ran through occasionally but never enough to fully clear its contents. This room was dimly lit and smelled precisely how you’d expect. And there were puddles as you walked to the troughs; I wouldn’t dare to walk in without shoes. They didn’t have any toilet paper, so you needed to bring your own.
It took several days for my sisters and I to acclimate to our new surroundings. We simply gave up luxuries like drinkable tap water, indoor plumbing, and refrigeration for a few weeks.
As we spent more time in the city, we also visited other friends. We passed the time listening to music. My sister played the radio constantly, and this song, One Way Ticket dominated the airwaves. I remember seeing a short clip of it on television and am convinced that a Chinese artist sung it. That’s not unusual though, since Chinese artists released covers of most popular music.
Once we returned to the states, I didn’t hear this song again. This further cemented my suspicion that it was a song by a Chinese musician, though I was mistaken about that. I’m not sure why it never gained popularity in the states. It might’ve been because Eruption is a British group, or it could be that we simply developed an aversion to disco. It very quickly became a dirty word.
Mom’s friends normally had children of comparable age, so we often palled around. We got dim sum in large banquet halls. The adults sat in one table and chatted and reminisced. The kids sat together on another table, laughed and giggled while we behaved like children. At these restaurants, attendants simply pushed carts around with food, and we’d simply ask for our favorite dishes. Each item was served on a dish that designated its cost; waiters simply tallied the count of each plate and totaled the bill. We once hid a stack of those dishes under the table, but our compulsive honesty eventually caught up with us.
We spent part of that summer in China, to visit my mom’s side of the family. I met my maternal grandmother, my last surviving grandparent. Honestly, I rarely spoke with her and remember little else than meeting her. I spent days with aunts and uncles and over a dozen cousins. It was a dizzying array of remembering names and their relationship to me. It didn’t help that Chinese also use familial terms like ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle’ to refer to close friends. Many cousins spoke to my mom, the only one in the states, jockeying for position to get sponsored to come to the US. They were all polite and even chummy. They were all family, but still complete strangers. It was all a bit surreal.
As we visited some friends, my mom chatted with a friend from her youth. They spoke happily and even laughed at times. As they continued to converse over tea, a man walks in. This person clearly surprised my mom. They all continued to chat about what each had been up to since they last spoke. I’d find out later that this was an old boyfriend, before she met my dad.
I briefly got to meet my dad’s sister, the only relative from his side who wasn’t estranged. She wept and collapsed in grief as she approached. She listened intently to the details of my dad’s death. My dad lived a hard life, especially when he was young. He was beaten by his older brother, which led to the chasm between them. This aunt, his sister, was his only ally. She was the only one that protected him.
We all returned to Hong Kong as we wrapped up our trip. I believe my mom extended our trip at least once. We carried extra luggage to bring home all kinds of goods from that trip, music and boomboxes among that loot. We spent those final days back where it all started in Wong Tai Sin. The environment that shocked and even repulsed only a few weeks before now fit like an old shoe. As we left on that final day, I’ll admit that I’ll even miss it a little.
It took me years to realize that much of that familiarity was simply an extension of my mom’s happiness. Since she left Hong Kong, she lived the life of an immigrant (always an outsider) and consistently poor. Her life only got harder since my dad passed away a couple of years before. In Hong Kong, life was easy and familiar; these were her people. She was relaxed, even happy.
We returned to Florida just in time to start school. I believe that I was jetlagged those first few days of seventh grade. It was time to start yet another adventure.
I’ve yet to return to Hong Kong since that summer of 1979, though now it’d be different. China, not Britain, now runs Hong Kong and many policies have changed. I doubt that speaking Cantonese (instead of Mandarin) will be as widely accepted as it was back then. Furthermore, my Cantonese has worsened through just sheer atrophy. Many of those friends and family have moved or even passed away.
In some ways those words One Way Ticket were strangely prophetic.