I’m emailing this column in from a trip to Alaska, the last frontier of the United States and one of the most beautiful places on earth. Rising mountains, oceans tendriling around bays, inlets, spits, moose, caribou, and bears (oh my), horseback riding, airplane flying, and more hiking than a Patagonia advertisement. It’s beautiful, I’m happy here, and I never want to leave.
At least that’s what I tell everybody when I’m insta-ing all my pics. But in truth—I’m kind of bored. And I realize: I’ve gone full expat.
Like many work tourists, I always considered Hong Kong a pit stop for a few years after which my life would really begin. The reason has to do with the ease of the city. It’s not real life. Real life isn’t a helper who will clean a 20-something-year-old’s house for peanuts and do the dry cleaning. Real life isn’t cheap taxis. Real life isn’t walking into a bar and a girl comes up to you, asks if you’ll dance and gives you her number.
These are all things that happen in the first half of a horror film when we realize that Pleasantville is hiding a terrible secret underneath. But there are no terrible secrets here in Hong Kong. Or rather, the terrible secret is the expat life. The parties and hedonism and convenience have all blended together to create my eight years—and counting—Asian spring break (2K14, Baby!) and real life has been continually and casually relegated to one to two years from now, whenever now is. But I always assumed that when the time came I could easily drop everything, head to the States or Europe and take on a life full of responsibilities, a loving family and simple pleasures: like gazing on picturesque landscapes and touring glaciers.
Nope.
I’m wondering when I can get a table at Play because B.o.B is coming back. I’m looking at dirty clothes on the floor of my friend’s place and thinking, Man, he really needs somebody to take care of this. I’m going to the worst dive bar in Soldotna, Alaska (population: nine people or so) and asking for an earl gray martini. The life of luxury and decadence I’ve been living with a self-justifying-ironic twist is now earnest: “models and bottles” has changed from a joke to an identity.