Watered, I head to the Smoking Lounge for a cigarette. I think I can say with certainty that I am the only person in the airport, and quite possibly in the entirety of Hong Kong, smoking American Spirits. There I find, much to my delight, a vending machine dispensing beer. For a mere 20 Hong Kong dollars, I can enjoy a frothy cold one. So I go find change, and return, pump my money into the slot, grab, and pop, savoring my ice cold can of frothy Asahi. I finish one cigarette and start another, when I find that I feel like I'm starting to get high. Smoking lounges always do that. My legs start to tingle, so I chug the beer and exit quickly. Straight to the bathroom to expunge my newly conquered contents. I wonder, will I get strange looks for taking pictures in the bathroom? My airport security concerns come to light and I opt out, heading instead to the herb store to procure some yin chao and gan mao ling for my sickly self. The sales lady tells me that I have good pronunciation. I tell her that my aunt's an acupuncturist, and that I've taken enough yin chao to cure someone ailing from bird flu. My last remark is met with a grimace, as the woman places a hand over her mouth and shoos me from the store. Well, actually, that last part didn't really happen, but I considered saying it. That's the thing about me. I'm a bad liar. I'll always tell you if I'm lying. So, anyway, herbed up, I head back to the smoking lounge, fiending for more, and opt this time for a Heineken, which as Heinekens are wont to do in a jet-lag-encroaching body, goes down smoothly. Reading the contents of my pills, I learn that one of them contains buffalo horns. Buffalo horns? Wonder what else I might find in that shop? Some tusk for my tusk? Pondering this, I head for my gate, where I find that my flight is already boarding. "Final Call" flashes the screen. It's always a relief to show up at your gate and find your city destination glowing on the placard, especially if your plane is still boarding, and most especially if you've been wasting hours getting massaged, showered, pissed, smoked, and drugged up (chinese herbs, mind you), only to find upon realizing that it was nearing boarding time that you had to walk a mile and a half to get there. a double relief to dig in your pocket and find a wrinkled up boarding pass scrunched in your passport. oh, these are the small joys that herald the peaks of life, these are those experiences that should be recognized as minor victories in the battle of life. and then, and to find that you're behind two beautiful brunettes boarding the plane. oh, life is good when you're sodden in hong kong and have not a care in the world, save for the vague hope that you won't have to piss as soon as you find your seat. life is really quite superb.
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