Festival Park at Kowloon Tong was a sort of coming up for air; the bookshop had the books, the lasagna was tasty enough and, even if a trifle more al dente would have had me more likely to wander off to the Almafi coast, the American size portions were generous. Fast WiFi, no censorship, and the PRC seemed a million miles away.
Nevertheless, with them storming onto the MTR before you get off, it wasn’t and this, and a plethora of other things, have the mind drifting to the impending big bang that might usher in the end of capitalism and, perhaps, the end days, or is it to be some dystopian, or some utopian, future for mankind.
Elsewhere too it is evident that the 3% compound growth formula is totally unsustainable. The 100,000 HK$ a month crowd tell you that they cannot afford the city, and you are left wondering how those running around like chickens with their heads chopped off for a tenth of that amount manage. Then, of course, there is that seedy, sad, underbelly, of the city, which you can find even in the so-called developed world.
However, there we were this evening; the jazz was good, the portions of pasta were, once again generous and, once again, American, rather than Italian, size, and while around the tables the chatting was interrupted by the music, the bopping and jigging was in full swing and, once again, the mind drifted.
Robert Redford in ‘Havana’ came to mind and the last days of Fulgencio Batista Zaldívar’s dictatorship, but then a more appropriate image was sought and the mind drifted to the Bund and Shanghai, and to the 20s, and into the early 30s, and so to Manchuria, and storm clouds gathering, here, there, and everywhere, and it is back to the PRC for another couple of weeks and a slight variation of the three wee monkeys theme, with a population not looking up at the sky and getting angry, but preferring to gaze into a little screen and one wonders, when the shit hits the flying pan, who will be blaming who.