The Moon on a Stick. Part 2

The Promised Land.

We walked from our Teddington flat in the pouring rain – wet luggage trundlers on the hoof, to Teddington lock bus stop. Waited for the Heathrow-bound 285 and resumed all the usual travel-fidgets: passport? Wallet? Paper documents? Money? Phone? Oyster card? All present and correct. Our bus arrived and delivered us to the giant airport town of Heathrow with plenty of time. All was running to plan. The only real concern for us was whether we would get into one of Terminal 5′s capacious lounges, and then if we did, whether we would be upgraded on our flight to the sacred realm of club or even first class. 11 hours is a long time to spend cooped up in economy class, battery hen style…no not for us! Surely honeymooners deserve the free-range, corn-fed, organic treatment? Siobhan’s dad (my father-in-law, no less) had done his part – using his considerable influence to try to get us on the all important list – the promised land. All that stood between it and us was numbers on the flight and a moustachioed man named Felipe. We tried to look like a respectable, affluent couple for Felipe, the check-in clerk at the Galleries Club Lounge in T5 South. With our new rings glimmering and our hair washed and combed, we approached the desk, and announced ourselves, handing over our boarding passes. I stood with a casual but authoritative air of someone who might say – ‘yes of course, I’m about to enter the club lounge, no big deal, I do this all the bloody time – I’m wealthy’. Felipe barely looked up, while his finger searched a piece of paper for our names (this must be the list). He found us, and with that we were instantly elevated above our lowly station. We strolled in calmly and breathed in the cool sanitised air. This was expensive air, and we, two mere peasants in disguise, were sharing it with BA’s wealthy clientele. Time for some free crustless sandwiches and nibblesnacks.

An Airport lounge is a peculiar place to find oneself. It’s like a large and very comfortable drinks reception, where all the invitees are strangers and have absolutely no reason to make conversation. The only item on the agenda is to load your tiny plate with an assortment of hot and cold buffet items, then walk slowly to an armchair, picking up a paper and a G&T on the way. Nibble. Sip. Nibble. Sip. Dip into a few columns of the Independent. Cross legs. Send an email or two. Nibble. Sip. Top up your tipple. We did all of the above, before drifting leisurely to our gate, where we were greeted with the welcome news of an upgrade to business class. Free-range, corn-fed, organic style. We had flat beds on the upper deck of the jumbo. We were a pair of super-smug newlyweds, and I’m pretty sure our constant grins and misty-eyed kisses across the flat bed partition was a fairly sickening sight for the other passengers. We reclined, ate yet more food, and attempted to sleep for the next 8 hours.

Honkers.

Hong Kong is a fantastic place. We felt immediately at home there as we drove in on the transfer. Last time we stayed, we were roughing it in a shoebox-sized room in a grubby hostel in mainland Monkok. This time we had a 23rd floor room in a good, clean hotel down in Causeway Bay, on the more affluent Hong Kong island. Our room had great views of the city, including half of the famous Happy Valley Racecourse. Another, possibly less picturesque view from the bedroom was of the toilet. Being an en-suite with a glass partition, my wife could, should she so wished, watch her husband whilst he sat on the loo. For better, for worse.

We spent a few days doing Hong Kongy things: gawping at the skyline from the star ferry, eating Chinese food, buying and bartering at the markets, seeking refuge from the intense heat in the huge air conditioned shopping malls, debating whether we could live in such a place, and concluding – maybe. We found a good curry house in the English sector, as well as a frighteningly quick-fingered blind jazz bass guitarist in a nearby jazz club. Everything is very easy in Hong Kong. The people are friendly, it’s safe, the tube runs perfectly, there is every type of food and shop you could ever need. It has abundant Chinese and pan-Asian culture, as well as plenty of home comforts (we even re-visited an amazing curry kebab house we found on our last visit). You think to yourself “this would be a great place to live”, then you step outside and start to sweat. 35 degrees C in June, and apparently it gets unbearably hot by August. Not so sure.

Four days passed and it was time to head north into rural China, where we were to spend the bulk of our time. After some exhaustive research, it seemed that the only easy/cheap way to get up to Yangshuo direct was an overnight bus from Shenzhen, a huge city on the HK/Chinese border. Tickets bought, we took the long tube ride up, wondering what awaited us. We’ve done overnight buses before, “how bad can it be?”…

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