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The Office Needn’t Hear of This...

Following on: from my earlier post about my first University of Waterloo work term day in Hong Kong – which is described here:  http://www.cpieroway.blogspot.ca/2012/10/i-dont-like-black-people-i-am-mister.html

I had my New Business Objective; 

Forget the Chinese, Christy. 

You’re in Hong Kong to Befriend the Europeans and sell them electronics!

Goal #1 – Meet the Europeans of Hong Kong!

So, I signed up for every non-Chinese social group there was available.  It was 1992, before Google, so it’s not like I could research where the Europeans were and track the herds with a pocket GPS.  I had to improvise old school – using bulletins boards, word-of-mouth, posters, etc. 

I joined groups like the Cornell University Alumni, the French Business Association, the Dutch Business Association, Columbia University, and the Taiwanese European Business Association. 

Obviously, some of these groups weren’t even European, and I was not Alumni - I had not even stepped foot on campus at these Universities.  I hadn't graduated from my own university.  The point was - I had to meet new people. 

I planned to proudly play my Caucasian card and get in wherever I could.  It’s not like the bouncer is going to check diplomas or accents at the door, is he?

I learned about a Cornell Alumni mixer being held in the Lan Kwai Fong club/bar/hotspot area of Central District, Hong Kong.  So I headed off alone to see what fabulous European contacts Cornell University had to offer.

Cornell is the one in Upstate New York, right? 

Town starts with an Ittthhhh…  Oh shit, I hope that comes to me. 

What else, do I know about Cornell?  Uhm, nothing. 

When I arrived, I found myself a bit lost as the mixer wasn’t located on the main streets.  I eventually found it in a back alley, tucked in behind the clubs.  The bar consisted of a take-out window and the awning that covered it.  Nothing more.

There were very short stools and cocktail tables scattered in the actual alley.  There was no ‘going inside’ this was alfresco drinking.  And,it was not the ideal setting for me – a tall, short-skirt-wearing, frizzy-haired, anti-humidity-crank-the-air-conditioning-kind-of-girl.

I spied the crowd, seeking any friendly face making even accidental eye contact.  My plan was simple.  Find a preferably European friend, with a craving for Shanghai’s finest electronics, control the conversation and steer away from all topics Cornell.  Impress the hell out of the office tomorrow with an international sale.

No worries, I got this in my sleep.  Fake it until you make it!

A tall guy looked up at me.  He seemed alone so I headed in his direction.  I quickly confirmed he was there for the event and seated myself without his permission.  I think he was initially a bit taken back at my 20 year old boldness, so that made it very easy to control the conversation - as he was speechless and all.

I chatted enthusiastically and plunked my stuff down to mark my territory.  I was staying.  Within minutes, I had him smiling.  Eventually, I felt confident enough, that he would still be there on my return, if I snuck over and ordered us another round of drinks at the window. 

By the time I returned with the beers, his male friends had arrived and now I was part of a small group.  I joined in like I naturally belonged.  I couldn’t possibly be intruding.   I started to chime in the conversation.

Shit-damn, they’re all Americans. 

And, I missed their names – Chuck?  Dicky?  Bill?  Bob?  Or was that Billy-Bob? 

How stereotypical.

Oh well, this is good practice for my preferred demographic targets – Hans, Lars, Dimitrios, Giuseppe and Antoine.

The one on the left is kind of cute.  If only my right eye wouldn’t twitch when he speaks...

I had them all engaged.  This was going well.

But then I felt it…

A run in my pantyhose.  How annoying.

All women have felt this. You ladies all know that particular tickle - that starts at your ankle and moves its way up if you move or tug in any direction.   Well, I felt that.

Shit. I hope it is a small discreet run, not one of those she’s-had-sex-like-a-drunken-hooker pantyhose shreddings.

Now, the last thing I wanted to do, especially when things were going so swimmingly, was to break eye-contact, stop my incredibly charming story, and publically address a run in my nylons. 

I mean, how ridiculous would I look? 

So, I tried to stay as still as possible and just ignore it.

Only something wasn’t quite right. 

I was sitting perfectly still, but the run was travelling up my leg.

What the hell?  This run is getting faster.

Christy, you’re not moving?  How can the run be getting faster?

Holy hell.  It isn’t a run? 

What if it is some Asian-venom-spitting-assassin insect that National Geographic has yet to photograph?

Oh gawd.  Don’t go there.  Think ladybug.  It’s surely just a ladybug. 

A pretty, cute, red, little ladybug with long eyelashes and a worried family back in Canada.

Stay calm.  Rise slowly.  Just brush it off.

It is more scared of you, than you are of it.  Don’t let it smell your fear.

Wait, does that contradict?  No time to debate.

I rose slowly and didn’t miss a beat in my charming story. 

I contained my tropical Chinese bug imagination and calmly tried to brush whatever was on my calf back to the sidewalk from whence it came.

Only, the minute I stood up, the beastie gained speed and was using evasive running tactics to skirt a simple brush off.  It was now circling my calf.

I smiled at the group, paused slightly in my story, and looked down to brush this thing off.  I didn’t want to break much eye contact, so I was taking quick glances down to see where it had gone.

That’s when I saw a large black square.  

It was like seeing spots after some jerk passes you with his high beams still on, only it was a black square. 

Kinda like a zippo lighter with 80 legs.  An evil chill ran up my spine.

HOLY HELL.

WHAT IS THAT??  NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC??

The square dug in.

The damn thing was now focused on its purpose, and galloping, like a thoroughbred, full speed up my thigh.

It was headed right under the edge of my short skirt - like that was the Promised Land.

I jumped up and was brushing at it wildly. 

I started screaming “GET IT OFF!!!  GET IT OFF!!!”

But, I’d played it too cool, for too long, and my American mates were bewildered.  They had no idea what was transpiring.

There were millimeters left before this unidentified thing would be under my hem line and up my ass.  Sheer panic set in.

CHRISTY!!!  DON’T LET IT GET UNDER YOUR SKIRT!!!

WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T LET IT GET UNDER YOUR SKIRT!!!!

DON’T LET IT GET UNDER YOUR SKIRT!!!

And it is at that moment that I did what every logical woman in the world would do…

I screeched wildly like a banshee in heat,

I swung my hips round & round like I had an imaginary hula hoop,

and then,

I pulled my skirt right up under my armpits,

in front of the whole bar.

Dicky-Bill-Chuck-Bob, whatever his name, was caught completely off guard. 

On his short stool,

my ya-ya,

clad in the hot pink pair of practical undies from the Hanes 3-pack,

and sucked in by the finest of control-top technology the 90s had to offer,

was flailing around at his eye level.

I was swinging my arms up and down my legs trying to get this thing off when I heard someone scream -

          “IT’S A COCKROACH!!  SHE HAS A COCKROACH ON HER!!”

Well that was it. 

If I wasn’t freaking out before, I had now hit my maximum freak out potential. 

I was shrieking and thrashing – knocking over stools, drinks, tables, scrawny Americans…

The entire alley was staring, the women were screaming, the babies were crying, I think I heard sirens.

I’ve never felt such terror.

I took a large random whack at it and actually hit it.

The cockroach flew off me, across the lane, and accidentally hit some poor woman squarely in the middle of her back.

She was wearing a tank top. 

It was cockroach-to-female-skin direct contact.

She picked up where my freak out had left off.

She immediately stood up, knocking over her table, and was flapping her arms back and forth like a frightened squawking condor taking flight.

The cockroach wasn’t even moving.  It was riding it out like nothing was going on.

I was frozen.  Gob smacked.

I couldn’t take my eyes off this thing.  I had never seen anything like it.

And, the poor woman - how awful!!

I should help her, but I was too stunned to walk.

She flailed about until finally her friend knocked it to the ground with a menu or something.

The cockroach took off and the bar started to settle down.

I tried to mouth my apologies and condolences to the woman across the lane. 

She gave me the stink eye & hissed at me. 

She must be really mad at that cockroach.

Mentally, I was moving out of shock and horror and back into reality.  It was then I realized, I was standing in the middle of the crowd, with the waistband of my skirt somewhere up over one padded cup of my bra. 

It was time to pull my skirt down and slink the hell out of there.

Double damn.  I hadn’t moved quickly enough.  Strangers were surrounding me and telling me to sit, have a drink.  Voices were spewing facts like:

“You’ll get used to them.  At least, the cockroaches here don’t fly like in Brazil”.

“They don’t bite, but it will take a can of illegal DDT to kill one”.

“Cockroaches can live up to 9 days without their heads”.

“Do you need another beer?”

Finally a sentence I actually wanted to hear.  I took the opportunity to say ‘yes’, leap up, and go get it myself.  I got to the counter and the bartender said to me –

“Don’t worry ‘bout the roach.  Last week, it was raining, and a rat slipped and fell off the ridgepole of this awning.  On the way down, it hit a woman in the shoulder.”

Oh my gawd.  What is this place? 

Hell’s drinking hole??

I thought the people from Cornell were supposed to be smart?!

I returned to my table and tried to forget all that had transpired, but honestly, I was looking up, looking down, looking up, looking down, looking up, looking down…I was giving myself whiplash.  I felt violated. 

Who could relax when rats could fall from the sky and cockroaches could rise from the street grates? 

It was time to call it a night. 

The office needn’t hear of this.

A true story.

Links to a couple YouTube accounts of Hong Kong Cockroaches:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9RWGX3QQHUg

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a9eijW-1g7c

© Christy Pieroway and "Am I Blogging Nuts? Don't Answer That." cpieroway.blogspot.ca, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Christy Pieroway and "Am I Blogging Nuts?  Don't Answer That." cpieroway.blogspot.ca with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.