The Horror Continues
After fighting my way through the cement dust to my room and slamming my door shut, I threw a damp towel on the ground to block the gap between the floor and the bottom of my door. Sighing, I deep cleaned my house get rid of all the cement dust. Cement dust is no joke. You know how dry your hands get when handling that icky gray stuff? No? I hope you never do.
Renovations continued somewhat uneventfully, although occasionally I was forced to scale piles of cement chunks in the hall. Most of my neighbors had donned face masks and swaddled their doors in giant sheets of plastic wrap. I didn’t bother, since I was around a corner in a tiny offshoot hall. And anyway, even if I wanted to, where would one acquire giant sheets of plastic wrap? Easier to pray that the construction finishes soon.
I rejoiced when the bamboo scaffolding started coming down, one pole at a time. I even rejoiced over the carpet of black scaffolding ties on the sidewalk in front of the building. The last step was for them to paint the stairwells. Why they decided to paint the stairwells but not the halls is beyond me, but then again, I’m no professional.
That was when our lift broke down. With the floor numbers painted over, the residents of the building were left wandering up and down the stairs looking for our homes and choking on paint fumes. I wonder if the management planned it as a way to bring us together, since Hong Kongers are notorious for pretending their neighbors don’t exist. Instead of a block party, we were bonded by trauma. We certainly got to know the other floors better. Some of them have very nice doors.
I thought I would have some reprieve after our building was completed, but alas, it was not to be. Almost as soon as the bamboo was taken down from my building, more bamboo appeared at my work building. Probably was the same set.
If you think dealing with cement dust and rubble is bad, try teaching when construction crews are tearing the the building down around you. At least that's what it sounded like they were doing. Even in the “inner” classrooms, the tea in my students’ cups would ripple with the construction rumble. It was almost like a shouting competition with the renovators, but their equipment always won. My throat got hoarse from yelling.
One time, as I started another lesson, someone started drilling into the wall of the room from the outside. I knocked on the wall, but for some reason he ignored me. Have you ever tried explaining past perfect when your brain is rattling?
Thankfully, that too passed. The bamboo disappeared, and we were back to being distracted by more mundane things like our growling stomachs and the ringing of a student’s phone.
I went on to live for another year of renovation-free life until I made the bad decision to move. Well, I guess it wasn’t really my decision. It’s more accurate to say we were kicked out (not our fault!). Our new neighborhood in Jordan seemed relatively quiet compared to the hustle and bustle of Wan Chai. Peace at last.
Until one morning. I was lying in bed, trying to convince my eyes to open, when I heard the sound of men’s voices. They sounded near. That was strange, because except for our upstairs neighbors who seemed to always be dropping marbles on the floor (or something), we never really heard any of our neighbors. So where was the sound coming from?
I cracked open my eyes, gazing up in between the curtain and the wall to glance out the window. A pair of brown boots stood before my eyes. What in the world? What were boots doing standing so brazenly outside my window? And on the 8th floor, no less. Looking upward, I saw that a man in work clothes was attached to the boots. He and another guy were perched on scaffolding that had appeared outside my window unannounced. How had I missed it? Groaning, I rolled over and yanked the curtains closed even more tightly.
I can move, but I cannot hide. Renovation will find me. In Hong Kong, the idiom has to be “as sure as death and renovation.”
Renovations continued somewhat uneventfully, although occasionally I was forced to scale piles of cement chunks in the hall. Most of my neighbors had donned face masks and swaddled their doors in giant sheets of plastic wrap. I didn’t bother, since I was around a corner in a tiny offshoot hall. And anyway, even if I wanted to, where would one acquire giant sheets of plastic wrap? Easier to pray that the construction finishes soon.
I rejoiced when the bamboo scaffolding started coming down, one pole at a time. I even rejoiced over the carpet of black scaffolding ties on the sidewalk in front of the building. The last step was for them to paint the stairwells. Why they decided to paint the stairwells but not the halls is beyond me, but then again, I’m no professional.
That was when our lift broke down. With the floor numbers painted over, the residents of the building were left wandering up and down the stairs looking for our homes and choking on paint fumes. I wonder if the management planned it as a way to bring us together, since Hong Kongers are notorious for pretending their neighbors don’t exist. Instead of a block party, we were bonded by trauma. We certainly got to know the other floors better. Some of them have very nice doors.
I thought I would have some reprieve after our building was completed, but alas, it was not to be. Almost as soon as the bamboo was taken down from my building, more bamboo appeared at my work building. Probably was the same set.
If you think dealing with cement dust and rubble is bad, try teaching when construction crews are tearing the the building down around you. At least that's what it sounded like they were doing. Even in the “inner” classrooms, the tea in my students’ cups would ripple with the construction rumble. It was almost like a shouting competition with the renovators, but their equipment always won. My throat got hoarse from yelling.
One time, as I started another lesson, someone started drilling into the wall of the room from the outside. I knocked on the wall, but for some reason he ignored me. Have you ever tried explaining past perfect when your brain is rattling?
Thankfully, that too passed. The bamboo disappeared, and we were back to being distracted by more mundane things like our growling stomachs and the ringing of a student’s phone.
I went on to live for another year of renovation-free life until I made the bad decision to move. Well, I guess it wasn’t really my decision. It’s more accurate to say we were kicked out (not our fault!). Our new neighborhood in Jordan seemed relatively quiet compared to the hustle and bustle of Wan Chai. Peace at last.
Until one morning. I was lying in bed, trying to convince my eyes to open, when I heard the sound of men’s voices. They sounded near. That was strange, because except for our upstairs neighbors who seemed to always be dropping marbles on the floor (or something), we never really heard any of our neighbors. So where was the sound coming from?
I cracked open my eyes, gazing up in between the curtain and the wall to glance out the window. A pair of brown boots stood before my eyes. What in the world? What were boots doing standing so brazenly outside my window? And on the 8th floor, no less. Looking upward, I saw that a man in work clothes was attached to the boots. He and another guy were perched on scaffolding that had appeared outside my window unannounced. How had I missed it? Groaning, I rolled over and yanked the curtains closed even more tightly.
I can move, but I cannot hide. Renovation will find me. In Hong Kong, the idiom has to be “as sure as death and renovation.”
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