The air is thick and heavy, the sky, a morose grey fog. The sun’s light is barely visible through the opaque atmosphere and can only be seen as a dull glowing halo around the massive pillars of concrete, steel and glass that comprise the Hong Kong skyline. It's mid February and unseasonably warm, but, characteristically humid, as if the clouds themselves reached down to the surface of the earth to suffocate this island. The locals don’t seem to take notice of the change in weather, donning pink North Face down jackets and knee-high, glittery UGGs to make their commutes from home to work. I push the sleeves of my sweater up past my elbows and adjust my bags on my shoulder with a grunt of exasperation before shoving through the endless crowds of people and onto the escalators. My mind is blank, my stare is blank, I barely put forth enough effort to remember to step off the moving stairway and glance down the street before crossing. This time I’m lucky I looked; a red taxi with little regard for the pedestrians that he earns his money from speeds down the street that is crowded with people smoking before they have to return to their offices after lunch. The cheerless atmosphere seems to sense my resentment for its ill treatment of my body and a new layer of smog rolls in over the mountains. I’m breathing heavy and can feel my temperature rising. The moist creases of my elbows catch a breeze and I’m brought back to this reality. One more escalator. One hundred more people. Finally, after being jostled and bumped more times than I can remember, I’ve reached the top of the hill, SOHO it’s called; a string of little restaurants and even littler shops selling things that only the rich or the mildly insane might want to purchase. Gwailos make loud conversation and shriek with laughter that is only meant to draw attention. Who do they think they’re on display for? Business men walk briskly down the hill past the little old garbage ladies dragging their heavily laden trollies up to gather just a bit more rubbish before turning in their spoils for pennies. My head is pounding and the ache in my neck has returned with a vengeance. I shift my bags to my other shoulder and stroll down the little street towards my shop, my little piece of Faux-Italian respite from the streets and the noise and the people of this city. I sigh knowing that the hours are going to drag on in an infinite manner. I just want, I just want…
