Death on a plane

Flying Cathay Pacific is a wonderful experience (not withstanding my little tiff regarding luggage issues), and they did not disappoint in my non-stop journey from Hong Kong to Los Angeles. The movies were fun, legroom plentiful, and the food quite pleasing. My experience in flying from LA to Chicago, however, was a little different.

There was a death on our plane.

We had boarded our Southwest flight without much trouble. As a matter of fact the flight was relatively empty, and passengers were spaced nicely apart. It was just as the doors to the plane were shut that the flight attendant came on the PA system, and asked if everyone had their teeth with them.

As an airline known for its quirkiness, I waited for the Southwest employee to deliver the punchline, but none was forthcoming. Apparently someone had left their dentures in the bathroom, and wasn't claiming them. With suppressed snickers, the passengers settled back into their seats, thinking that the embarrassed owner of the teeth would probably just discreetly approach the flight attendant at a later time. It was ten minutes or so later that there was a commotion three two rows behind me.

The plane had begun taxiing to the runway, and the attendants were checking everyone's seatbelts. A gentleman sitting in an aisle seat two rows behind me was asleep, and not responding to the attendants. Upon progressively rougher shaking, the gentleman promptly keeled to a side. Within a span of a few minutes, the plane was rerouted back to the gate and cordoned off by police squad cars, while the flight attendant lay the unconscious man out in the aisle, ripped off his shirt, and began applying CPR. A doctor from among the passengers began to help, and when even this did not help, the flight crew applied shocks from the plane defribrillator. EMT personnel arrived soon thereafter and took over, but it was clear to everyone on that small plane that this gentleman had passed away.

The dead body was carried away, and as it passed by I thought how the man did not look old at all. Dressed in a contemporary suit, wearing a crimson shirt without a tie, the man was probably in his early sixties. He had obviously boarded the flight fine, had used the bathroom (forgetting his dentures), and returned to his seat, where he had just ... died.

The reaction from people on the plane wasn't what I had expected. Perhaps I've seen too many movies, and I was waiting for hysterical women and crying children to raise a ruckus, while belligerent men argued for the best steps to be taken. There was none of that. Instead, there was just shock and silence - the mothers on the plane hugged their children closer, and the poor kid that shared the dead man's row huddled by his window seat.

The police came and went, and most interestingly, ground staff came to completely dismantle the seat cushions of the deceased man and replace them with new ones. Once all procedures were complete, the plane took off again, two hours late. No one cared. After all, as the captain said, our inconvenience was minor compared to the gentleman who had been carried off the plane. It was sad, to think that people waiting for this man in Chicago would be met with devastating news. Sadder still was thinking the lonely way this man had died, surrounded by strangers who knew nothing about him. Still, as I glanced up halfway through the flight I saw mothers rocking their babies to sleep, children sharing jokes, men watching movies on their laptops, and women reading while listening to music on their iPods. No one could have said that anything out of the ordinary had happened a little while ago.

Life carried on, as it always does.

The dream comes to an end

It's almost 4:30am, and I've just finished packing. I don't want to go to bed, because that would mean sleeping away the precious few hours that I have left in Hong Kong. But really there is little else to do, except perhaps indulge myself by looking back at the time I've spent here.

These last two months have flown by in a blur. Cliche, yes, but true nonetheless. The speed with which things have moved is explained perhaps by the amount of action that has been packed into each week - the travel, the dining, the classes, and the cultural immersion. I arrived at this exchange program with a healthy dose of skepticism, and leave convinced that this was one of the best decisions I have ever made. I won't soon forget the travel stories I've amassed, the people I've met, the crowds I've braved, the classes I've taken, and of course, the incessant partying I've been part of.

The Far East has blown my mind. I never came here thinking that this would be a place I'd want to be long term. It was more of an adventure - an opportunity to experience something completely different. But now that I've been here, should life ever bring me back this way, I will be one happy camper.

Although as a business student you are told repeatedly how the future lies with China, you eventually hear this enough that its importance begins to diminish. However, having visited China, and having lived here for just three months, it has become clear that the sheer gravitational pull of this side of the world is monstrous and inescapable. No economic decision that you nor I will make in this generation will be made without China and its regional economies figuring into the equation somehow. Throw India into the mix, and it's obvious that the real action is no longer in the West.

On a personal note, the cultural immersion has been eye-opening. I was arrogant enough to think that because of my world travels I would have little to learn here, but obviously I was wrong. The people and their traditions have reminded me of the importance of family, of respect, of "face", and of taking life as it comes at you. These same characteristics are present in other parts of Asia, just as they are in my cultural homeland of Pakistan, but I feel that they are lacking in the US. The cultural renewal alone has been cathartic.

I'm happy to be heading home, but I'm sad I'm leaving. For some reason I feel the same as I did when I was graduating from college, filled with emotions of sadness and regret at leaving behind close friends and a community that has imparted the greatest of gifts - knowledge. But the complementary emotions are present as well - of excitement and anticipation as to how I'm going to apply this newfound wisdom.

Thank you Hong Kong. Thank you.

Looking like James Bond

Rent "Die Another Day." Not because it's a particularly good Bond movie, nor because of the beautiful Halle Berry. No, rent it because I'd like you to forward to a scene where Bond shows up in Hong Kong, realizes he needs a new suit, and asks for "Sam."

That would be the real life Sam of "Sam's Tailors" in Hong Kong. You walk into his shop, and are inundated with pictures of rock stars, actors, celebrities, and past US Presidents, all of whom have come to Sam to get tailor made clothes. But it isn't just Sam who is famous. Hong Kong is full of great tailors, perhaps a leftover from the British occupation, perhaps due to the Asian tradition of getting clothes custom made. These master craftsmen will whip up suits, shirts, slacks, dresses, and even shoes, in a matter of days. In a true emergency, it is not hard to get a precisely fit suit ready for you the next day. Now that's what I call service.

So since I pretend to take care of my appearance, I didn't want to leave Hong Kong without having indulged myself in this regards. A few weeks ago I began looking around, occasionally visiting tailors here and there to get a better idea of what to expect. You have to learn to avoid the touts on the street - these guys walk around the main shopping thoroughfares and hunt out tourists. Aggressively, they ask if you're looking for tailor because surprise, surprise, they know of just the perfect one. No, the quality stores rely on word of mouth, and are not desperate for your business.

Based on my simple research, I selected two stores to get clothes made (diversifying my risk, just like a good MBA student.) One was Ash Samtani, a store I found by walking into several places and seeing how I was treated, and selecting a store where I felt most comfortable asking simple questions. Ash had the added advantage of being located right next to Sam's famous store. My MBA came to the rescue yet again - Ash would charge lower and work harder to keep up with the competition, which I feel turned out to be the case.

I put in an order of shirts with Ash last week, and picked things up today, and boy these babies look good. I had always been a little frustrated shopping for shirts in the US, given my height but lack of associated girth (as determined by some secret formula used by US retailers.) I usually end up with neck sizes that are too big, or shoulders that droop to my elbows. But sliding into the shirt that I had made at Ash's was pure joy - everything fit just right, and I was amazed at how flattering things can be when made to measure. Duh!

The other store I found was via a recommendation by Hong Kong lawyer friend of mine who gets all his suits made there. The proprietor is known simply as Uncle Paul, and is an old Chinese man who will fuss over you and claim to know what will look the best on you. The cool thing is that Uncle Paul doesn't write things down, and will memorize the numbers as he measures you. I had a simple black suit made here, because that was the one item missing from my wardrobe.

The results? Ecstasy. For HK $1300 (roughly US$160), I'm walking away with a US$1200+ suit from Uncle Paul's, and for HK $400 (roughly US$50), I'm walking away with the equivalent of $120 shirts. What's more, these tailors will pack their bags every six months and fly over to the US to visit various major cities, where they remeasure their clients, and bring along swatches of fabric for selection. You pick the fabric, discuss the latest styles, get the tailor to send the measurements back to Hong Kong, and within a week you receive an exquisitely tailored garment by mail.

Now that I'm going to be earning a salary again, I don't think I'm ever buying any business casual garment off the rack ever again. For me, it's all about looking like James Bond.

Beauty and tragedy in Macau

I'm going to go all Quentin Tarantino on you, and start at the ending first:

I ran around in a panic, looking for someone to help me. Obviously I was tired - the whole day had been one long walk with only sporadic breaks. Perhaps that is what caused the mental lapse. Or maybe it was just my poor memory (about which my wife will gladly provide you many, many, anecdotes.) All I know was that I had lost my camera, and I was distraught. Tragedy had struck.

Ok, there, I've done it and got that out of the way. I apologize in advance for the plain nature of my blog entries going forward. You'll have to use your imagination from here on out, because that beautiful, expensive, digital camera I purchased expressly for the purposes of this trip is now no more. I sometimes dream that it's been found and I have it in my possession again. But alas, I'm still waiting for that Good Samaritan to turn it in. Fat chance.

In any case, today I decided to head to Macau, that other anomaly of international politics (the first being Hong Kong.) As the British were to Hong Kong, so were the Portuguese to Macau. Upon departing, which they did not do until 1999, they left behind a crazy mix of cultures that manifested itself in the art, the architecture, and the ambiance of the island.

The ferry ride from Hong Kong to Macau took an hour, and was painless. It was immigration that was the headache. Not that anything surprises me at this point, but I can't say the same for the poor officers that are unlucky enough to have me pull up to the immigration window. It's like they see a Pakistani passport and they silently reach for the panic button hidden under their desks. Alarm bells will ring in a distant room, and reinforcements will arrive, speaking in native tongues that are incomprehensible to me, but which are no doubt saying things like, "Bravo 1 to Base, Bravo 1 to Base, we have a Code Red in progress. Over. Request immediate backup. Over."

20 minutes later (after having upset everyone in line behind me), I was asked to pay for a visa and let in to China ... again ... after just having left ... China. Such is the quirk of the Specially Administered Regions (SARs) that are Hong Kong and Macau. They belong to China in name only (for now).

Macau was cool. The ruins of St. Paul's Church are the number one tourist destination, even though they consist only of a facade of a once glorious building. But what a facade! Easily five stories high, the entry to the seventeenth century church sits atop a hill, and in its architectural detail manages to document Christianity itself. Tiny statues tell stories, and there are depictions of significant events in Macanese Catholocism.

A few steps away, not far from the old Monte Fort, is a magnificent European square with the old Senate building looking over everything. You'd be forgiven for thinking you were in Europe. Street signs are in Portuguese, churches and cathedrals are everywhere, and even the cobblestoned alleyways wind and turn in a way that they can only do in the Old Country.

Walking around was fun, as was snapping pictures of Chinese life in a Portuguese setting (which, alas, no will ever see.) I even had the opportunity to visit Chinese temples, which reminded that I was, after all, in Asia. And the food was delicious. There's a way chicken is prepared here that is simply amazing - a blend of spices that are at once Chinese and European at the same time. Best fried chicken I've ever had.

As the day turned to night, I walked back over to the ferry terminal, bought my ferry ticket, and rushed to the gate as I was running late. It was then that my eye caught a sign by a travel service desk for a hotel - "Greek Hotel Check-in," it said. "Greek Mythology Service Available." It took me a while to figure out that what they probably meant was that Greek interpretation services were available, but I stopped to capture a picture anyway. After all, where else would I be offered a chance to communicate with Greek Gods? Alas, that picture would be the last one I'd take.

Somewhere between taking that picture, and walking through immigration, the ferry check-in gate, the waiting lounge, and the ferry itself, I put my camera down and never picked it back up again. There were always lots of people around me, so it infuriates me that no one even said a thing or tried to tell me I was leaving something behind. I know they must have seen it.

Sorry. Just me trying to find excuses for a brain fart. At least Macau was fun.

Who says Chinese students are meek?