"Hello Missie-ah," comes the welcome call from the Saint Honore bakery as I stop off on my way to, from or in between work. Since I left and, then, returned they've moved shops, from near our old office to now near to our new one. Were they following us? Perhaps. Well, lucky for me, as their raisin buns are about the only food to be had in the vacinity that an English speaking vegetarian can trust. Otherwise its a plate of green vegetables (big enough for a whole family to share), and that is rather hard to eat on the run.
I am an English teacher, or rather, tutor. And our office is a small school in a tall thin office building in, what is just about, Sheung Wan. Hong Kong. You could pretend that we were in Central, as the street name suggests, but really - by proximity to the MTR station and the presence of street hawkers, infrequency of coffee shops and number of minibus stops (whose destinations are only fathomable to those patrons of the city) - we are Sheung Wan. For that, however, I am glad. No longer are we located above McDonalds under the shadow of IFC; no longer do I have to bear with my students bringing burgers, fries and milkshakes to their lessons - or rather, having them brought up to them by their helpers. No. The only food consumed in lessons these days is the occasional piece of seaweed obligingly handed out by my sycophantic boss, Sir Don. Or Don Quixote, as I like to think of him.
So, I frequent these streets regularly, passing by the alleyways that harbour food, clothes and antique market vendors; I buy freshly squeezed juice on the street for $10, and pay $50 to get my heels fixed from frequently getting caught in the cracks in the paving. Yet I get approached by the same guys trying to sell women's tailoring, copy handbags and fake watches, and (as the other day) I get bumped by surprising hard shouldered, aged Chinese men starring accusingly at you for being in their way. Their street. Their city. And of course, they are right, so I apologise - in English, and thus do nothing to lessen their disdain.
But up in my hallogenous booth - a tiny desk in an open-sided white cube - I discourse (on a good day) on Montaigne, Orwell, Atwood and Heaney with fresh faced, open-eyed youngsters who seem more Western than I am (their accents being somewhat geographically left of UK, but where in the US it would be hard to pin down: somewhere between CSI and Hannah Montana one supposes) - and, for a short while at least, I am at home.
