Today I got off the MTR (metro) in Central, to see massive skyscrapers hold hands with rain clouds. On the surface, to a girl fresh off the plane from the mainland, that part of Hong Kong seemed not too different from New York; but then I noticed that everything and everyone in the mall I had exited into was Filipino. There were money wiring enterprises, hawkers with international calling cards, ethnic food. Had I stepped off into little Manila, or was I in the very center of a world city, surrounded by some of the most expensive real estate in the world? Out on the street, my bemusement grew. Armani, Gucci, Prada, and, plopped down on plastic blankets and makeshift lawn chairs, groups of Filipinos. Not only were they sitting on the ground (a no-no in China), but they were laughing, eating, selling, looking at vacation photographs (this is true) on the ground. The distinctive plastic woven totes of third world countries were everywhere, filled with clothing and fruit and belongings. My Western mind had nothing to reference but refugees, and the homeless. Yet there was something off about that assessment. Though it was raining, and they were confined to areas under walkways and shelter, and though sitting in such busy thoroughfares can’t be comfortable, the women and men I saw were plainly joyous. These underpasses held a sense of family. Later, in the air-conditioned fluorescent quiet of my dorm room in the New Territories, I read by coincidence in my guidebook: “This area is a major focus for dense crowds of the territory’s 200,000 Filipina amahs, or maids, who gather here on Sundays, their day off.” Would knowing that beforehand have made the sight less enchanting?

¶ 10:23 AM