Taipei, which we actually managed to get to.
We arrived, sleepless and bedraggled, in Hong Kong at six a.m. Our future was yet to be determined, we hadn’t eaten, and it was already an alarming 32 degrees at this time of morning. Taipei, racked by a typhoon, was not going to let us, or anybody, in.
Though the airport troll in Bali made our fate seem rather dire, the plucky sprites at the Hong Kong airlines desk seemed more optimistic about our chances. As long as we showed up remarkably early before whatever flight to Taipei we desired, we would be put on standby. Comforted by this vague but slightly less doom-shrouded outlook, we set off into Hong Kong.
I left my swollen, reddened companions of Thailand on a sunny Sunday morning: the weather was better than it had been for days, and the hotel drove me to the rustic, island-themed airport, where everything was outdoors, because why not. Within an hour or two I was in Bangkok, preparing for the quick flight to Hong Kong, and also the incredibly long, arduous line to get through immigration. Being anal and neurotic and also still worrying that I would turn soft like a baby kitten should I ever miss a flight, my anxiety began to build as time ticked by in the obnoxiously long queues, but I eventually broke through, and was soon seated on one of those ludicrous and awesome 380s, being fed more smoked duck and dessert than ever before (you guys: fly Emirates). Suddenly, I was in Hong Kong.
As posts continue to percolate in my swollen, post-vacation glob of a brain, I bring you more purty pictures from abroad. After Thailand I flew on a ludicrously nice plane to Hong Kong and stayed (for freesies!) with a friend in his family’s apartment. We explored the islands, and my shoes got wet, and also it was Lunar New Year, so there were craptons of rabbits and dragons all over the place. We didn’t eat stinky tofu, but we smelled it. Cadbury’s chocolate was widely, gloriously available. I will expand upon these in my later posts, but those are the (only) important aspects. For now, bask a hobbyists futile, masturbatory attempts to be arty.