The Art of Getting Your Shit Together

It’s well past noon on a Saturday afternoon.

You could be anywhere right now. A patio with friends, or a brisk walk in the forest with your lifelong partner, your well-groomed dog, and a day full of instagrammable memories (except the only thing you own which even remotely resembles a smartphone is an iPod touch with an embarrassing 3 hours of battery life).

Instead, you’re at Ikea. You’re at Ikea on a Saturday. You’re at Ikea on a Saturday and you just got side-swiped by a plastic blue and yellow bag awkwardly stuffed with a neon green cheese grater and halogen light bulbs. Why, why are you here?

Well, simply put, your Dad assumed that with a promise of a Swedish-inspired cinnamon bun, you would help him transport boxes of JÄLLVIK or KLÖVSTA or really, anything else with those adorable double dots used phonetically above any and all vowels. Well played, Däd.

Just as you trace your fingers along the geometrical shapes of a rainbow of duvet covers, you admire a girl your age. Her jacket matches her boots, which also coordinates with everything in her cart and no doubt, it all fits perfectly into her well-maintained car which she flawlessly parallel-parked outside.

As you lose yourself in imagining what your own life would look like if your jacket and boots matched, let alone looked like they belong in the same era, you overhear her say, “I’m going to wait to buy that couch…just until I get my shit together.”

Just until I get my shit together.

Those words. That phrase. It all just echoed throughout the windowless arena of meatballs and BÖJAS.

This girl, with her matching boots and jackets, and a home to refurnish, and a mantle to decorate, and a desk to build independently thanks to Ikea’s easy instructions which almost always include that androgynous character’s simplistic ideology of furniture construction. All this girl wants is to have her shit together. Yet she doesn’t perceive it so.

One day she’ll look back on that day. That day in Ikea when she sighed too loudly and judged herself too harshly against an arbitrary idea of organized adulthood. And you will hear her sighs and the fill-in-the-blanks on her self-judgments and you’ll wish you said just this:

The secret to getting your shit together is a dangerous one. It most definitely includes a roundabout route to self-disappointment and a dump truck disaster of ill-defined phrases (such as, “getting shit together”) used out of context because of one’s relaxed vocabulary.  You’ll warn her about the dangers of phrases such as this. Words so vague, so unclear, that even though they are used at such feverish frequency, still remain so undefined. You’ll bring up examples like the 2002 surge of the word random, when we really just meant unpredictable. You’ll review the real definition of disinterested just to prove your point. You’ll want to talk about moronic descriptors like vegan cheese but you know that might lose her. You’ll tell her there is no act, no definition, no art to getting your shit together. You’ll tell her it’s harmful to use unqualified standards- standards like shit, and whether or not it is together- on her own accomplishments or those which she perceives she lacks.

You’ll encourage her to define her own shit. Whatever it is, in whatever context she’d like, her shit is hers. And not even Webster can prove her wrong. You’ll talk about how those leaps into being an adult are sometimes accompanied by an inner bully which makes us feel inadequate because we don’t have the same ________ as someone else. And we use such silly terms as “not having our shit together” to coerce ourselves into feeling lower than those who most likely feel/think/ act exactly the same. You’ll feel like Tom Cruise, substituting Oprah’s couch for a SVELVIK bed frame as you excitedly discuss the idea of eliminating the phrase altogether. And just as you feel like maybe you said something of value, your Däd gives you that look. That look which almost says, “You’ve taken this too far. It’s time to let go of the LJUSÅS UVÅS because you may not see it from way up there on that king-sized bed frame, but an employee in a banana-yellow polo is about two seconds away from kicking us both out and I don’t know about you, but I was really looking forward to that cinnamon bun.”

The girl will smirk at you and nod. She’ll know the secret, the act, the art of getting your shit together. And one day, she’ll go to Ikea. Probably not because her dad promised her a pastry. But she’ll be there. She’ll be there tracing her own hands along the new line of VANADINS. And she’ll see another. And she will tell them this:

Define your own shit.

Do it when you’re ready, and don’t worry if you never feel like you will be. But try. Try whatever you want with your shit. It’s yours for the taking.

How Long Does it Take to Travel around the World?


Time is immeasurable.

Now, without compartmentalizing the entire human population (or at the very least, a demographic of readers comprised mostly of friends slacking off at work), you are probably reacting to the above bolded sentence in either one of two ways.

For the detail-oriented bunch, you may be second guessing the spelling of “immeasurable.” But relax. I’ve spell-checked that puppy twice and yes, I’m just as surprised as you are.

Or maybe, you are part of the second crowd. The crowd thinking something along the lines of, “Sarah, you have just spent the better part of 7 out of the last 9 months travelling around the world, not once but TWICE, and really, THAT’S THE BEST THAT YOU CAN COME UP WITH?!”

Now before I encourage you to take your finger off the Caps Lock key and ease up a bit, I’d like to address a few things:

  1. That whole 7 out of 9 thing makes you sound like a dentist in a Sensodyne commercial. And although there is plenty of time to discuss toothpaste recommendations, I’d like to stay focused on the task at hand.
  2.  “Travelling around the world” is an overused action term with incredibly unclear verb usage. Now if we were to use say, “Unaware of exact coordinates at sea while enduring such Shakespearean literary devices like pathetic fallacy and indirect characterization” then that would be a lot more accurate.
  3. Finally, why must you throw even the most basic of sentence structure rules out the high-storey window and do something so bold as to use exclamation points and question marks simultaneously? It’s confusing. And concerning.

Alright so maybe listing my digs in numerical form was a bit too passive aggressive. I’m sorry. Can we start over?

So time. You can’t measure it. You just can’t.

Yes, I am aware that Usain Bolt, a mother in her third trimester during the dead of summer, and most likely the entire 1996 cast of RENT during those opening chords of Seasons of Love would probably disagree with me, but since we’re talking about time and travel (yet strangely leaving out important things like time-travel), I strongly believe that it cannot be measured.

Time is time. Yes, I’ll give you that. There are noons, and o’clocks, and half-pasts, and quarter to’s. There are weeks, and months, and seasons, and years. But crossing international date lines, celebrating time changes more often than an Iowan farmer (zing?), and lapsing in the summer sun for the better part of 2013, meant that time can no longer be measured in the typical sense of the word.

Also, I don’t wear a watch.

So there’s that.

If you’re still not convinced, perhaps pulling out some sweeping generalizations about human behavior may further sway you?

Time involves numbers. And numbers are quantitative. And quantities can be compared. And oh my word, human beings are alarmingly comparative by nature and these comparison are made with such appalling frequency and without much thought to bigger picture sort of things so in fact, they are ALWAYS flawed, unappealing, and downright dangerous. Phew.

So let’s play it safe here, kids.

But without time as a unit of measurement, how do you talk about the length of a trip around the world?

Well, that’s easy.


And just like that, I Secret-World-of-Alex-Mack morphed into a writer of inspirational quotes which are likely mass-printed on art canvases and later sold at Pottery Barn.

But really, this is what I have learned.

The length of things, any little thing, can only be considered by the relevancy of experiences.

(Imagine that sentence in Book Antiqua typeface. It’s practically begging to be hung up  in any college room dorm.)

So let’s revisit the primary question: How long does it take to travel around the world?

When can we talk about “travelling around the world” without using air quotations and worrying about the difference between experience and exaggeration?

It will take a few examples to understand. It will take window seats and aisle stretches, and always feeling like you’re in the way. It will take a really good tan, a really regrettable sunburn, and an overpriced bottle of it-is-never-too-late sunscreen. It will take a couple hundred sunsets (maybe those kids from RENT were actually on to something…), a couple of unintentional sunrises, and a couple holding hands while blocking your view of both to remind you that there are only a few humans in your life as dependable as any given sun cycle (woah, things just got HEAVY in here). It will take “Cheers,” “Who’s in for another?” “Let’s drink every single liquid in this ridiculous dive of a bar” and “Sorry, I broke all those glasses, sir…” to feign nostalgia on the haziest of memories. It will take an emptied wallet of foreign currencies, replaced with stubs, receipts, directions on the back of soiled napkins, business cards, and silly little inside jokes, which even if recyclable, you’ll never have the guts to discard. It will take a perfectly executed rotational schedule of asking your watch-wearing friends for the time…and even better executed retorted jokes when they plead for you to be more self-sufficient.

You’ll know that you have traveled around the world when you have enough experiences to overflow your pint glass, your wallet, your carry-on baggage, and your heart. 

But it certainly has nothing to do with time.

A Country of Parentheses: Visiting Myanmar (Burma)


In front of you is a stranger. Well, not exactly a stranger. It’s someone you briefly met through a friend of a friend two weekends prior. Recent enough to not be erased from your short-term memory. But just drunk enough to let his actual name slip from your mind faster than the grip of that shared introductory handshake.

Pulling up your scarf, you hope he doesn’t notice you. But he does. And COME ON, now he is engaging in conversation. He remembers everything about you. And although you can’t decide if he’s actually being genuine or just acting like a jerk (sometimes they are one in the same), he continues to use your name, at least once, in EVERY SINGLE SENTENCE.

You avoid the paralysis of awkwardness by steering clear of any conversational topics which might involve monikers, surnames, or even my beloved Twitter handles. Fortunately, this is actually quite easy. The English language empathizes with forgetful losers and utilizes pronouns like “he” and “she” in such a casual way.

With the ending of a half-decent conversation, you’re out of there before you have to reprogram his number into your phonebook as something other than “ddude.” And yes, of course a similar incident has happened before. This explains why the correctly spelt ‘dude’ is already occupied in your phone.

You exit the conversation with a sigh of relief.

But you will still never know what to call him.

A situation not at all comparable to this occurs in Myanmar (Burma). 


A country of mixed curries, currencies, and colloquialism, Myanmar (Burma) is a toughie.

It gets internationally criticized by humanitarian officials. It gets geologically hit by massive earthquakes. It was once the richest country in Southeast Asia. It now has a massive number of people living below the poverty line. And the country’s most famous politician is endearingly referred to as “The Lady.”

But what do we call it?

What do we call a country still searching for its own name?



“Myanmar” (exaggerated by making those absolutely awful air quotation marks with your fingers)?

To be fair, you can’t really toss out any of these names without a little background.


In 1989, the country officially changed its English name to “Myanmar.” (Probably banning the official use of air quotes, too.)

Good, done. Official is official. Myanmar, it is.

Well, not so fast, Le Monde Sans Italics.

There’s more to these parentheses than a late 80’s name change.

Much like other regions in the area, the Burmese language has clear differences between the spoken and written word. When speaking, the country is pronounced Bama. When written, it is Myanma.

Want to make things even more confusing? The word Bama actually refers to one of the largest ethnic group in the country. Regardless of size, it is really not all that inclusive.


And let’s just add to the mess.

Phonetically, Bama actually originated from Myanma. But of course, this only really considers nasal sounds and speech pathology. We haven’t even got to the part yet when the military regime changed the English name of the country without really considering the views of the citizens.


Unlike the hide-and-seek behind my scarf with “ddude,” I seized opportunities to talk to locals in Myanmar (Burma). My impression was this:

People wanted to talk about their country.

Maybe they didn’t want to get into the historical (and political) intricacies of Myanmar (Burma). But they definitely wanted to converse. However they referred to the country, it was almost as if they were also addressing their own political views. It was Morse code…with words.

In press, Aung San Suu Kyi (“The Lady”) calls it Burma. So do the locals. But without any actual attachment to either, would I be a poseur for doing the same?

My passport states, “Republic of the Union of Myanmar.” This, along with the local currency of kyat, was my only way to identify with the country. So does that mean I should be calling it Myanmar? As a visitor, do I even know otherwise?


Repeatedly, the country was referred to as Burma. It sounded cool. It sounded ancient. It sounded secretive and inviting. It sounded like it was supporting the people, rather than the parliament. It sounded exactly like my experience there.

But in the end, talking about the actual name of the country was actually rather difficult.

So naturally, I avoided it altogether.

Language (and more specifically, labels), can be both encouraging and restrictive. But sometimes, that’s all there really is. You take away the label, and it is like it no longer exists. Burma may be all that is left.

If you remove the name, the people of the country may have nothing to identify with. Myanmar is not where they grew up. Myanmar is not what their passport reads. Myanmar is no longer theirs.


When I started writing this post, I wasn’t expecting it to end with such uncertainty. I figured by writing out my back-and-forths about Myanmar (Burma), the conclusion on what to call it would become a little more clear. And silly me, I actually thought that after writing this, I would become super motivated to finally ask “ddude” his real name when I inevitably ran into him again without the shield of my scarf.

But that’s actually not the point.


As I said before, Myanmar (Burma) operates on two different currencies. It offers like, ten different cuisines. It probably has hundreds of communities which even the government, unable to complete a nation-wide Census, doesn’t really know about.

It’s a country still navigating itself as a whole. And as individuals.

In the end, does it really matter what we call it in our phone book?

Twitter, Dreamboats, and the Sport I Used to Love

Oh, another yawn-inducing year-end reflective post from a self-righteous blogger foolishly believing that the internet world actually cares about their resolution to drink more water in 2013?

Not quite.

As everyone on WordPress, Blogger, and those poor souls still hanging on to their outdated Angelfire account review their year in writing (and due to their consistent scheduling of posts, can rightfully brag about their increase in readership), I regale my plateauing stats and shameful admittance that I could barely (just barely) conjure up a single post approximately every other month.

Relishing in the fact that my mother and perhaps even a second cousin or two still read this site, it becomes all too tempting to ruminate over the last 365 days. And as a matter of consequence, I then search through my catalogue of long-term memories and pinpoint exactly what I was doing for a good 315 of them.


The answer to which I am certain, includes absolutely nothing about the sport of hockey.

Way back in September 2012, the National Hockey League declared its fourth lockout in 20 years. This was due to financial buzz-words like revenue, salary caps, and peculation. (Yes, I realize this is a generous oversimplification to a rather complex blur of sports and business. But I’m pretty sure both my mom and cousin aren’t much of hockey fans. And it’s all about keeping the audience engaged, right?)

Now even if you don’t really care about the likes of Gary Bettman and Bill Daly (and the reasons to which I believe they’re both selfish jerks), I’m still willing to waste the word count.


Well, through a stretching analogy which really just involved the discovery of hockey players’ Twitter accounts, the NHL lockout sort of paralleled my last year as an expat.


Here are a few highlights from the 2012 season:

For starters, way back in the summer, hockey players sort of expected to play hockey. And I, through complete fault of my own, sort of expected to be productive. Writing for Vagabundo Magazine, contributing to a couple of Seoul publications, volunteering with an organization based on the human rights of North Korean defectors. One would assume my output efforts would soar into the realm of implausible.

Instead, a concrete wall inevitably constructed itself. A proverbial partition of repetitive lesson plans, similar bars, and the constant disappointment in myself for failing (yet again) to properly communicate “I don’t eat meat” in Korean. Sure, at times I was industrious (or maybe I mean industrial?), but it hardly felt prolific.


Disjointedly, this leads into the next topic of management, and the difficulties both myself and the big guns within the NHL experience in this field. A gleaming example of both follows.

At the end of 2011, almost fearless did something pretty ridiculous and spoke nonsense about this site being one of the best new travel blogs on the web. (Reiterating the idea that undeserved recognition is awesome because it acknowledges something you didn’t even think existed in the first place.) The point is, on top of search terms like ‘decisions not to make while hungover’, that mention drove a lot of traffic to this site.


I could have taken that increase in readership seriously and wrote the most obvious of points about say, that beach in El Nido, Philippines being an all-out stunner. Instead, I talked about what makes a shitty travel partner. (Evidently, I’m extremely qualified for this position.) I didn’t manage this opportunity properly. It became a toothbrush miss.

It’s not so lonely in this realm of mismanagement, though. Gary Bettman, the NHL commissioner, has all kinds of difficulties managing his own personal interests and that of the league, often believing that they are one in the same. His financial irrationality means a continuous stream of missed opportunities for both the league and the players.

When it comes to blunders over mismanagement, Bettman and I have a lot in common. The only difference being a faint Filipino flip-flop tan.


As the lockout closed in on month three, players started to realize that what they expected to be doing this year, was in fact far different from their actual daily activities. So the boys left town. They went back to their roots in the juniors, declared semi-permanent residency in places like Russia and Switzerland, or participated in small-town charity matches (inert games basically comparable to that of a scrimmage with your Dad’s Sunday afternoon beer league).

Without declaring permanency anywhere, I too left Seoul when results were less than straightforward. I visited six countries in 2012; one of which was new to me. Although still in its newness, I now have a gut-wrenching crush on Burma. I’m only assuming Rick Nash can say the same about Switzerland.


And just recently, future plans changed for both myself and the NHL. In less than a week, the hockey season will start. In less than two months, the Peace Boat will start.

The Peace Boat is exactly what it sounds like…but better. Travelling to over 20 countries, a massive boat full of participants, volunteers, interpreters, and English teachers (me!) will promote positive social and political change on a worldwide scale. (I’m not exaggerating with the worldwide scale thing. The route literally circles the Earth.)

From Japan to Venezuela, I’ll have the opportunity to learn, teach, change, develop, and take part in a boatload (ha!) of other positive verbs.


As is often the case in hockey, the NHL could not have written a better story, even if they tried.

And I, could not have dreamed of a better opportunity for curious (and contributing) travel, even if I wrote on a more consistent bi-monthly schedule in 2012.

And the players, now returning to hockey rinks across North America within the limitations of 140 characters, could not have tweeted a better ending.


The Non-Local’s Guide to Drinking Like a Local

(If you’re here after reading that interview with WordPress, then I apologize. You were mislead. Although being complimented for a witty writing style is  uh, a compliment, it’s also an absolute falsehood. If anything, I inconsistently post about camels, and brunches, and make references to bands I hope only a select few with understand. You’ve been warned.) 

It might be Monday. No wait, it’s definitely Thursday. There’s probably no sense in trying to remember. You’re drinking to forget it, anyways.

The area doesn’t matter. Downtown bars, an overworked financial district, that shady alleyway between your favourite barbeque place and your wife’s most recent hair dresser. You’re not going to a “bar district” or really, a place with any sort of atmosphere at all for that matter. You’re choosing a bar based on its proximity between work and home. Halfway is ideal but being particular is not of this time. By now, the only decision you’ll be making is choosing between the blue and red plastic picnic sets which can comfortably seat about four but will inevitably be crowded with the entire accounting department before the night’s end.

You loosen your tie. It has small rhinestones sewn into its diagonal pattern. It was a present from your wife’s mother. The baby pink is a little much but you wear it anyways. You still don’t know if it was a thoughtful gift from the in-laws or a malicious attempt to make you look more feminine in your buddies’ iPhone pictures. Soon, you’ll be too drunk to care.

Given it’s a weeknight/ weekend/ any day at all, drinking is not something that is eased into. But it’s not a race either. It’s a matter of fact activity. And it has to be done.

You’re comfortable with your position at the table. Not nearly the oldest but middle-rung enough that others still (falsely) believe you to have seniority. This works wonders in the office but becomes truly beneficial during these post-work gatherings. Strategically, you have placed yourself next to the company’s newest hire. You know for a fact you’re 5 years his senior. He is a recent microbiology engineering graduate. This is his first benefits included, I’m-already-regretting-this, full-time gig. What this basically means is he’s attentive, goal-driven, and eager to please. He’ll do anything to secure his spot among the thrones of the picnic table seat of state. He foolishly believes that he has a future in middle management. You don’t have to fill your glass once because of this.

Grilled pieces of meat are ordered and cooked. Garlic cloves, red pepper paste, a couple sides of kimchi. Wrapped together in sesame leaves, you pop golf ball-sized portions into your mouth two at a time. Hmm, golf. That doesn’t sound like such a bad idea. You present the option of a round of simulation golf once the meal is finished. With Korea having the largest population of indoor golf centers in the world, you know there has got to be a joint around here somewhere.

The idea quickly becomes fleeting as three green branded bottles are brought to the table. Soju. There’s no point in trying to describe this beverage as “something like vodka but worse.” It translates literally to burnt alcohol, and most who consume it drift into this delayed catatonic state of uselessness and incapability. It will take about 30 minutes for the effects to truly set in but until then, you feel content, rosy, and yearning for another.

There are a group of foreigners at the adjoining table. They’ve chosen this spot because the pretzels are the freshest in the neighbourhood. They haven’t eaten dinner and will probably just continue to snack on these salty twines because the waitress is so damn attentive and refuses to catch glimpse of the bottom of the bowl. The same goes with the pints.

Your English skills are still pretty admirable, considering you’re on your fourth pint. You ask where they’re from and then enthusiastically tell them all about your 2-day visit to Niagara Falls when they reply “Canada.” They nod in politeness. But suddenly they are speaking too fast. Like clockwork, the effects of soju have hit and your brain can no longer conjugate the verb “be.” Your fingers aren’t much help either as you attempt to translate simple conversational questions on your phone.

They become disinterested. You become insufferable.

Time passes and you’re stumbling into the bathroom with three of your buddies. Strength in numbers, right?

Someone has to catch the last subway home. The new hire is too heavily engaged in a fast-paced texting conversation which you believe, judging from the amount of heart emoticons being sent back-and-forth, to be his girlfriend. Your glass is empty.

You search for your own phone and fumble with the attached microchip. The occupation of key-cutter has long been phased out since the introduction of key codes and plastic chips. This serves as a key to your home and the ultimate access to your bed. It slips through your fingers once more. Why did they make these so ridiculously small? You open your Galaxy III or Universe I or whatever phone has now been marketed as the smartest. It does more than just tell the time, but that’s all you really need it for right now. 3:23 AM. Shit.

Your co-workers pile into cabs. Some pausing to release the contents of their stomachs before making the journey home. You dodge piles of red and pink as you cross the street and hail your own.

You lean your head back on the fancy pleather interior of the taxi. You mentally prepare yourself for tomorrow’s work day. You have already justified the purchase of one of those overpriced hangover-cure drinks that leave your teeth coated in sugar and your gut too rotted to remember the fact that you have just spent the last four hours filling it with burnt alcohol.

You crack your eyes open just in time to see your apartment building pass by. Shrieking loudly, the cab driver halts and demands the fare. You’re home.

Guest Post: Four Reasons to Love Hong Kong

Photo Credit:

As the perfect place to explore Asian culture, Hong Kong is the melting pot of East meets West. This duty-free port, located at the Southern tip of China, is known for so many things; from their shopping destinations, enriching culture and history, to the visually stunning views, Hong Kong will appease any type of traveler. Before you travel to Hong Kong…. First, before you worry about the language barrier the majority of residences may speak Cantonese, but because of an international presence, English is widely spoken. One of the best seasons to plan your trip is from September until February. During this season the climate is warm and sunny; flights are also cheaper during non-holidays and weekdays. For overseas travelers, a passport is required; however, certain countries are granted visa-free access or visa-on-arrival. Upon arrival from the airport, renting a car seems atypical for tourists, but plan on taking public transportation to avoid high costs, heavy traffic, and expensive parking; numerous modes of public transportation are available. For easier payment when traversing public transportation use an electronic access card, also known as the Octopus card. Major credit cards (Visa, MasterCard, etc.) are accepted, but it’s probably simpler to exchange your currency for the Hong Kong dollar (HKD. As a safety precaution, look for money exchangers authorized by the Quality Tourism Services Scheme (QTS).

1. Ngong Ping Village

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A culturally themed village and one of the top attractions of Hong Kong, Ngong Ping Village is located on Lantau Island, the largest island of Hong Kong. Despite having a commercialized atmosphere, Ngong Ping’s traditional Chinese architecture reminds visitors of the cultural roots of Ngong Ping Village. Upon arrival at this quaint village, visitors are treated to a shopping and dining expedition. After tiring of shopping, travelers can wander over to the several adjacent attractions: The Big Buddha, Po Lin Monastery, the Lantau trails, the Monkey’s Tale Theatre and the Ngong Ping Tea House.

View of the 25 minute cable ride to Lantau Island Photo Credit:

To travel here, visitors hire cable cars at Tung Chung for a 25 minute cable ride, which provide a 360 panoramic view of the area. Be warned, the lines can get long during high tourist season and the cable car expense can get costly. Despite this, former visitors to Ngong Ping Village recommend when traveling on the cable cars, hire out the crystal cable car for the added experience and the gorgeous scenic view.

2. Nightly Multimedia Shows

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Cap off your night with what the Guinness Book of World Record named as the World’s Largest Permanent Light and Sound Show. To make this nightly multimedia show a phenomenon, more than 40 buildings collaborate on both sides of the harbor. If on your honeymoon, this is a perfect excuse for a romantic stroll to impress your new spouse with a delightful experience. The shows are a synchronization of both music and narration made apparent by the use of search and colored lights. Each staccato and breathtaking note moves to 5 major themes: Awakening, Energy, Heritage, Partnership, and Celebration. The best places to viewthis are along the Tsim Sha Tsui waterfront or the promenade outside the Golden Bauhinia Square.

3. Tantalizing Food

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Follow the locals to their chosen and most frequented restaurants. Here are three different types to choose from when planning your next hearty fare.

Dim-Sum: Steamed

Originating in tea houses, dim-sums are scrumptiously served steamed or fried. Most locals prefer the steamed version, especially in the morning. Translated as “touch your heart,” these snack-sized portion pairs well with delicious tea; also, known as “yum cha.” Usually steamed, these dumplings come in so many varieties and have more than 150 ways of preparation. Find everything from steamed pork spare ribs, shrimp dumplings with translucent skin, or mini spring rolls. Find the best shrimp dumplings at U-Banquet or nibble on delicious shao mai, the concoction that combines pork, shrimp, mushrooms, ginger, and seasoned with rice wine and soy sauce.

Siu Mei: Chinese barbeque

Slowly cooked, this delicious, flavorful meat is prepared either roasted on a spit over an open fire or in a wood burning rotisserie oven. The meat flavor is glazed with special made rubs: honey, spices, or fermented rice wine. Choose between beef, pork, duck, or goose. This type of dish is indicative to Chinese communities because of how they are presented in the restaurants: visibly hung to entice any passerby both by smell and sight. The perfect pairing to this succulent dish is with rice or noodles. Try goose. Thinly sliced, the crispy skin, and served with an accompanied sauce, usually plum based, make this a popular choice of Siu Mei.

Hotpot: Chinese Fondue

While the name speaks for itself and best eaten during colder months, hotpot is best enjoyed and shared amongst friends. Similar to the alternative of the European version of fondue, a hotpot is cooked inside a metal pot and heated by a portable gas stove. Contained inside the hotpot is a seasoned broth while the main ingredients are placed on dishes for diners to mix into the broth: thinly sliced meat (beef, pork, chicken, fish, lamb, or goat) and vegetables (bok choy, spinach, ginger, shiitake mushrooms, etc.). Dependent on the type of ingredients used, cooking time varies, but the main focus of this fare is to enjoy the company.  Even without a social experience and only for one person to enjoy, the ingredients of this stew showcase the local flavor and preferences: custom dipping sauces, spiciness of the broth, etc.

4. Take a Walk on the Wild Side: Shek O Country Park

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Located on the southeastern side of Hong Kong and away from the bustle of city life, this country park has three hiking routes ready to challenge even the most outdoor lover.


Honesty Minute: This was a guest post. 

Thoughts from Three Birthdays Abroad

September 24, 2010: Tokyo, Japan

“By the way, it’s my birthday.”

Unsure of how to bring it up, but knowing it was absolutely necessary to excuse the belligerency which would inevitably occur, I say it in passing as we walk into a discount sushi joint. After unloading such weighty news, I decide not to mention the fact that I don’t even eat fish. I don’t want to overwhelm him.

As I grab small plates from the revolving carousel of Japanese cuisine, I flick off pieces of raw salmon and tuna. I watch him send mass texts from his outdated cellphone.

Birthday celebrations. Shinjuku station. Get here.

We follow him through the streets of Tokyo. I feel relaxed because I no longer need a map. I feel comforted because I trust his local knowledge and know he’ll take us to the grungiest of bars. I feel fortunate to be celebrating my birthday with people I have known for longer than my nine days in this country.

I spent the day record-shopping. I find the Japanese release of Forever and Counting by Hot Water Music. Without even trying to convert the yen, I know I can’t afford it.

I try not to reminisce. Having only left Canada a month earlier, it’s probably too early to be doing that sort of thing. But I’m technically a year older, so I do it anyways.

We sit drinking at the intersections of Lost in Translation. We go to a bar where they yell at me for flash photography. We go somewhere else and allegedly, I try to steal the bartender’s cat. We go to another bar and I scream Pearl Jam lyrics while simultaneously lecturing both old friends and absolute strangers on the pointlessness of relationships. Drops of Asahi hit the group as I flail my arms and sound like a lonely conspiracy theorist when I rant, “Trust no one.” None of them agree with anything I’m saying. But they listen because it’s my birthday.

We never made it back to our hostel that night. They charged us one night’s stay, anyways.

September 24, 2011: Koh Samui, Thailand

There’s a jar of Nutella and a box of granola in front of me. I grab a spoon from the hostel, dig out a scoop of hazelnut chocolate, and swirl it around the mix of raisins, cranberries, and steel-cut oats. I let the chocolate rest in the corners of my mouth for longer than is socially acceptable. I root the bits of almond out of my teeth with my un-brushed tongue.

She hands over a TESCO bag full of other completely un-Thai foods. A baguette. Brie. Another jar of Nutella. I clap my hands and then feel selfish for hoarding all that hazelnut-chocolate spread in the first place. I offer him and his sister a slab for their toast. They both prefer Vegemite. I wince. I don’t bother to offer up the brie.

We hire a long-tail boat to take us fishing and snorkeling. We exchange stories of camping with our dads and learning to hook a lure. I catch something which looks like a  rainbow trout from Southwestern Ontario. It’s obviously not. I’m the only one to even get a bite all day and am convinced that our boat driver was in on it and had set up the whole thing beforehand. But they’re fish, after all. You know how they are. The driver smiles a silver and gold grin and wades his feet in the water.

At night, we walk across the beach. Flip flops in one hand, Chang beers in the other. I plead with a group of Aussies to lend me some of their fireworks. They tell me you can’t lend someone fireworks. I tell them I don’t have time for pragmatics. I ask again nicely for a Roman candle. I let if off too close to her feet. She screams at me predictably.

We scrawl Sharpie messages onto paper lanterns and light them off over the island. We each keep our wishes a secret but when no one’s looking, I peak at what they have written.

My wish?

Travels full of fireworks and free of injuries.

There, now I don’t feel so guilty.

I had cut my ankles on the shallow reef earlier that day. I iced my scrapes with melting cubes but hoped the scars wouldn’t actually fade. They haven’t yet.

September 24, 2012: Seoul, South Korea

I’ve already spilled a beer on myself and its only 8:00pm. She claims it to be typical. Everyone else nods in agreement. Most of these people have known me for less than six months. But when your nights become routine, so does your behavior.

We eat Mexican food outside. I hate the fact that it’s Monday. I had to celebrate a fake-birthday the weekend prior. We sit on the patio of my favourite bar and write song requests on the back of chocolate candy wrappers. People kept leaving to buy chocolate. Consequently, we kept requesting songs.

She needs to catch the last subway home. The others soon follow. With only two of us left, we finish everyone’s lukewarm beer and vow to find somewhere without so many fluorescent lights, or any lights at all. Before leaving, we steal posters for beer we will never be able to afford.

We mix Soju and Powerade on a curb outside 7-11. I clench my teeth a little because it’s harsher than expected. I don’t feel any older. It’s past 4:00 am. We zip our hoodies higher and clutch our paper cups.

A young Korean guy stops to open conversation. Both of us, in the thick of things, try hard not to engage.

He comments on our drink of choice and asks a bit too seriously for this time of day, “Are you joking?”

I’m not sure how to answer.