Before the Storm
Typically, typhoons are not a big worry in Hong Kong. Wait, that's an understatement. Most people long for a T8 (the typhoon signal that sends everyone home from work) so that they can rest from their never-ending work. Not just relax, either. Some (cough cough Old Roommate cough cough), like to head to the hills to feel the wind and rain on their faces while they hike. Others high-tail it to the nearest hotpot joint. And others...
"Want to do overnight karaoke?" My friends, a generally subdued couple, were nearly jumping in excitement. "We used to do it all the time! Start as soon as the T8 goes up and sing through the storm."
"At least karaoke rooms don't have any windows."
"Exactly! Want to do it?"
I hated to burst their bubbles and rain on their parades and turn their smiles upside down, but....I didn't really want to be across the harbor from my home when a T10 was barreling down on us. According to most new outlets, it was going to be the worst typhoon to ever hit Hong Kong. However much I love karaoke, I don't think I love it enough to do it during the worst typhoon ever.
But I still could make pancakes. I have a tradition of making pancakes every time there is a T8. I like to switch it up a bit: banana pancakes, buttermilk, crepes. In honor of fall (oh, my persevering delusion), I made pumpkin pancakes. And pumpkin spice lattes. Because the temperature dipped below 30C (86F) and because I can.
Saturday, before the typhoon struck, I headed to the "closest" international store to see if I could score some pumpkin before the storm. That was my first mistake.
Everyone and their mother had the same idea. Just trying to peer into the refrigerator to size up the yogurts was a test of luck and skill. Sometimes I wondered if we were really in a supermarket or at the county fair in a bumper carts test course.
Finding the pumpkin was another task. I combed through the canned vegetables, canned fruit, canned soup. Anything in a can, I examined it. And came up empty. After asking the friendly staff (surprisingly friendly, considering the madhouse they were working in), a box of pumpkin was shoved into my hands. I thanked the gray-haired staff lady, somewhat dumbfounded. Pumpkin comes in boxes?
After filling my rolly basket with a few other typhoon essentials (like tortilla chips), I fought my way to the back of the line. The line was so long it stretched all the way to the freezer section. Of course I took a picture and texted it to my roommates.
But that wasn't all. Little did I know that after making it out of the freezer section, the line-waiters had to veer off to the right, twisting back and forth in another line just as long as the one snaking by the frozen dumplings.
This was a mistake.
I did consider dumping my pumpkin into the nearest cart and breaking away, but visions of pumpkin pancakes and PSLs helped me remain strong. I had about made it to my golden years by the time it was my turn at the till.
The checkers were doing the best they could to face the mob of shoppers before them. So amazed at their efficiency, I couldn't fault them for slamming my purchases into the bag like a pro-wrestler slamming his nemesis onto the mat.
I slung the bags over my shoulder and trot-walked out of there. As I pushed open the glass doors that led onto the raised bridge home, I was hit by a sticky wave of heat. I could feel the pre-typhoon prickles on my skin.
Time to get home and batten down the hatches. Mangkhut was on its way.
"Want to do overnight karaoke?" My friends, a generally subdued couple, were nearly jumping in excitement. "We used to do it all the time! Start as soon as the T8 goes up and sing through the storm."
"At least karaoke rooms don't have any windows."
"Exactly! Want to do it?"
I hated to burst their bubbles and rain on their parades and turn their smiles upside down, but....I didn't really want to be across the harbor from my home when a T10 was barreling down on us. According to most new outlets, it was going to be the worst typhoon to ever hit Hong Kong. However much I love karaoke, I don't think I love it enough to do it during the worst typhoon ever.
But I still could make pancakes. I have a tradition of making pancakes every time there is a T8. I like to switch it up a bit: banana pancakes, buttermilk, crepes. In honor of fall (oh, my persevering delusion), I made pumpkin pancakes. And pumpkin spice lattes. Because the temperature dipped below 30C (86F) and because I can.
Saturday, before the typhoon struck, I headed to the "closest" international store to see if I could score some pumpkin before the storm. That was my first mistake.
Everyone and their mother had the same idea. Just trying to peer into the refrigerator to size up the yogurts was a test of luck and skill. Sometimes I wondered if we were really in a supermarket or at the county fair in a bumper carts test course.
Finding the pumpkin was another task. I combed through the canned vegetables, canned fruit, canned soup. Anything in a can, I examined it. And came up empty. After asking the friendly staff (surprisingly friendly, considering the madhouse they were working in), a box of pumpkin was shoved into my hands. I thanked the gray-haired staff lady, somewhat dumbfounded. Pumpkin comes in boxes?
After filling my rolly basket with a few other typhoon essentials (like tortilla chips), I fought my way to the back of the line. The line was so long it stretched all the way to the freezer section. Of course I took a picture and texted it to my roommates.
But that wasn't all. Little did I know that after making it out of the freezer section, the line-waiters had to veer off to the right, twisting back and forth in another line just as long as the one snaking by the frozen dumplings.
This was a mistake.
I did consider dumping my pumpkin into the nearest cart and breaking away, but visions of pumpkin pancakes and PSLs helped me remain strong. I had about made it to my golden years by the time it was my turn at the till.
The checkers were doing the best they could to face the mob of shoppers before them. So amazed at their efficiency, I couldn't fault them for slamming my purchases into the bag like a pro-wrestler slamming his nemesis onto the mat.
I slung the bags over my shoulder and trot-walked out of there. As I pushed open the glass doors that led onto the raised bridge home, I was hit by a sticky wave of heat. I could feel the pre-typhoon prickles on my skin.
Time to get home and batten down the hatches. Mangkhut was on its way.
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