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a double-decker cable car. Everyone in Central must be against me. My insecurities are firmed up that evening in Lan Kwai Fong, a gentrified neighborhood of upscale restaurants and bars on the Island's northern escarpment. The steep streets are congested with young, well-to-do westpats toasting yet another successful day of money -making. I can't believe there are so many white people in China who aren't English teachers! They are all smartly dressed and have well-groomed hair; I am wearing cutoff army pants, low-top fake Converse, an eight year old t-shirt that I bought used, nor have I shaved or cut my locks in the eight months I've been on the road. I want to belong, but I don't. It's one of those moments when I regret being unemployed.

DAY 6: I give the Island another chance and take the night ferry across the harbor to the north end's older and seedier nightspot, the infamous Wan Chai. Recall it is where Richard Mason penned his 1950's tale of forbidden love, "The World Of Suzie Wong," though a lot has changed since he wrote "take a minute's stroll from the center and you won't see a European." The pick-up bars still line the road, yum-yum girls luring passersby into their neon-lit dens, but these are the illegitimate daughters of Suzie Wong, not of Chinese but Thai dissent, wearing not elegant silk cheongsams but cheap miniskirts raised to immodest heights. And unlike the kindly ladies of the Nam Kok Hotel, these modern-day working girls are vicious, mercenary, cold. When a group of obviously disappointed white boys emerge from one venue exclaiming, "In Thailand they take off ALL their clothes," the brown-skinned door girl in plastic go-go boots is quick to shout back, "Then go to Thailand!" Further down Lockhart I follow a couple of older Europeans primed with drink and flirting heavily with a lovely bouquet of girls looking for generous company. After making their arrangements, one of the men leans on me and confides, "Wy mife, I mean my wife, thinks I'm *HICCUP* at a conference." The remaining girls give this poor writer a cursory glance then quickly cross the street away from me.

DAY 7: I wake up feeling dejected and classless; the expatriates of Central don't want me, nor do the waterfront girls of Wan Chai. Take a stroll around TST, passing by friendly knots of third-world hustlers hanging out in front of the Chungking Mansions, the immigrant ghetto of Kowloon that serves as temporary living quarters for Hong Kong's financially insolvent migrs. A street corner tout from Kashmir says to me "The Mansions is where anyone not wearing pastel shorts or a suit stay." I realize this mad cauldron of multiculturalism is the only place I truly feel at home in Hong Kong. The Africans on the never-quiet front steps always high-five me, the Pakistanis all think I'm Muslim (must be the beard), and the Indians bat their eyelashes at me. The Chungking Mansions are the international haunt for anyone who is no one, and I am one of them. It is a peasant's epiphany in Hong Kong, I am the nongmin.'

Learn more about this author, Tom Carter.
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