The Entrance to Dripping Wet.

[* In a life before children, my husband and I lived in Hong Kong for two years. Thought I'd share a bit about the people and places that have added to who I am as a writer. Now I just battle sticky words and humid sentences... we love it anyway. Right?]

A huddled throng of frustrated humanity takes cover just inside the concrete block entrance to Hong Kong’s MTR (Mass Transit Railway) station. Pouring rain is not an unexpected phenomenon, but the milling sea of domestic helpers, round bellied executives, school children and bent over ladies with toddlers strapped to their backs seem to have left home today quite unprepared. Though perhaps with good reason.

Millions of humid, sticky people go about life hemmed in by high-rise and hampered by two feet of walkway. This coupled with low hanging signage and the taxi invested roads make umbrellas a useless burden. So we stand waiting for… what? The skies to close? Hong Kong to float to the Bahamas?

Shoving, slipping and general unhappiness results. Dripping concrete cracks above form puddles beneath our feet. Moss grows on our toes. Desperate souls push to the front and thrust folded newspapers or Gucci purses above their heads. The pouring wall of wet mocks futile attempts at dryness and, eventually, we accept our fates. The sticky line of people push through the blockage and cross the road. A line of humanity snakes up and down the stairs behind wealthy Tai Tai’s wielding umbrellas, but still, for some reason know only to the Chinese, seeking shelter at the entrance. People enter. People leave. Others wait. A workable mayhem ensues, and summer living in Hong Kong continues.

~

What about you? What people or places have added to you as a writer? Tell me, where have ya been? Let those travel tails/tales hang out.