Faces

A journey is best measured in friends, rather than miles. – Tim Cahill

"A hand towel?!" Augusta's cute little nose wrinkles as she throws her head back, dissolving into laughter at the thought of my drying off every morning with a towel I can barely wrap around my hair.  It's true — our apartment was short a bath towel when I moved in, which did raise a peculiar dilemma when I stepped out of the shower— but the world has bigger problems, especially when housekeeping comes twice a week.  It wasn't that funny.

Nevertheless, she pushes the curly blond hair away from her face, returning to her bowl of ice cream, and I can't help but giggle at the little girl I see inside her.  Augusta, from whom I am somewhat inseparable now, has an effortless femininity that makes me feel perfectly barbaric in comparison.  We share a profound desire to tackle every shopping district in Hong Kong; the unquestionable preference of a single, pricey glass of wine over getting wasted free of charge; insatiable appetites and a radar for sugar; and and a carefree disposition that allows us to find joy in curiosities like sushi earrings (and I quote: "Sushi belongs on my ears, not in my tummy").  We do everything together, like a couple of middle-school sweethearts.

• • •

Half an hour before studio today, I followed Erin out into midday Hong Kong traffic as we scurried to an Indian restaurant, home of her favorite three-dollar meal.  She had just brought me to a brilliant little paper store near school, where they sell every paper imaginable and hardly speak English.  Purchases in tow, we popped into a pet shop to look at the puppies before picking up lunch.  I kept checking my watch, wondering how we would make it to class on time; but Erin is from New York and has lived in Hong Kong for a year, so I trusted her ability to conquer the city in twenty-seven minutes.  We made it to class with time to spare.

With thick winged eyeliner, turquoise nails and slightly disheveled blond hair, she told me of her unfulfilled desire to own a cat, her Italian-bodybuilder-with-a-British-accent boyfriend who really ought to get a bigger bed, and her uncertainty over whether the stick-shift itself would be backwards in a car in Hong Kong.  She extended an invitation to join her and a friend for the Ching Ming festival — a celebration in which the Chinese respect the dead by cleaning their graves and presenting gifts, while Westerners stand around and drink in approval — as school will be canceled next Wednesday; before I could decline, the subject had changed again.

• • •

Monday night, I stumbled across the Facebook page of an old music connection, Jerry Junkin.  Professor Junkin is the Artistic Director and conductor of the Dallas Wind Symphony and the Director of Bands at the University of Texas, where my brother played in his ensemble in college and I at a high school music camp.  Not having seen or heard news of him in ages, I looked to see if his work had taken him elsewhere — and was astonished to find that he now also conducts the Hong Kong Wind Philharmonia.  Incredulous, I sent him a message, and he replied that he is flying here Saturday with a concert the following Friday.  I have since bought two tickets to the concert at City Hall and look forward to seeing Professor Junkin for the first time in four years.  Augusta is coming with me.

Here's to friends in foreign places.

eb