Home Alone in Hong Kong
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We arrived at our guest house in Hong Kong after our frightening airplane decent through the jungle of skyscrappers, the struggle through our Lonely Planet Guide and local yellow pages to find a place to sleep for the night, and the taxi ride that dumped us in a puddle of fetted water created by the laundry dripping over head on some underlit alley way. We charged across the road, trying to keep up with the locals and stumbled into the guesthouse. |
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As a little Chinese man toodled about the four inch enclosure I ran through our plan of action. We had no plan of action, no money, no idea where we were, where the American Embassy was, the police, or nearest kind soul that might take pity on the two blonde orphans and offer their help. There I was, fourteen and responsible for all our worldly possesions and sister Squirt. How long was I supposed to wait for them to come back? At what point is it obvious that they aren't coming back? Half and hour, two hours, the next morning? And what was I supposed to do about the four backpacks, computer and camera? Lug them to the sidewalk below and open our own street stall in hopes to make enough money to afford the taxi to the embassy? Maybe I could sell Cassidy . . . |
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