每到節假日，J 都是在家待不住的。他買了到香港的來回機票，打算途經香港在那裡申辦我的泰國旅遊簽證，去泰國看看。
1989年2月20日星期一上午10點15分，飛機從成田機場起飛，下午2點37分到達香港。在九龍旺角的一家 STB hostel 學聯旅舍登記入住後，我們就近轉了轉。
也許是因為剛從一塵不染的日本飛過來，九龍給我的第一印象是髒、亂、擠，到處是廣告牌，有點兒扎眼。在我看來，這裡似乎還沒上海的南京路、淮海路、外灘來得乾淨整潔，1980年代上海南京路上還沒有巨幅廣告牌。J 卻跟我相反，他認為這裡新鮮有趣、生機勃勃、充滿活力，不像日本那樣，雖然潔淨但拘謹、古板、千篇一律、消沉無趣。
夜晚，閃爍的霓虹燈將白天的滿目凌亂變得有點兒溫馨迷人。
2月21日，在九龍尖沙咀彌敦道上的 Sam's tailor 山姆裁縫店，J 訂做了一套西裝，也給我訂做了一件淺駝色 cashmere 羊絨西式上裝。後來才聽說好多達官顯貴像美國前總統、英國王子、歌王影星等都來這裡訂做過服裝。當時聽 J 提起過這個裁縫店很 famous（有名），可我只是聽了並沒怎麼在意。過去受的教育是不能追求物質享受，那是資產階級的東西，所以我根本沒有品牌意識，只知道服裝面料要好，做工要講究，看上去端莊大方就行。那也是過去聽我小哥哥阿六說的：「不要趕時髦，更不要穿奇裝異服，那些都會很快過時。沒錢也不買便宜的東西，把錢攢夠了，要么不買，要買就買高質量的東西，做衣服要買全棉、全毛、全麻的面料。」
從尖沙咀乘坐渡船到中環，去了泰國領事館，卻吃了閉門羹，泰國的萬佛節放假期間不辦公。好在辦成了從香港回東京的簽證。都說到香港一定要買點黃金，在琳瑯滿目的周大福黃金首飾店裡，J 給我買了一條 999.9 金項鏈，當時1錢黃金是 388 元港幣。
2月22日，總算把申請材料遞上去了。23日，去了長洲島和大嶼山島的梅窩，景色很美。忘記了是在哪個島上，沿海灘一路排開的海鮮市場很有趣，無遮無蓬，沒桌沒台，大盆小罐都攤在地上。剛從海裡打撈上來的魚、蝦、蟹、龜、鱉、螺、蚌、貝類在大盆子裡歡蹦亂跳、伸縮遊弋，等待著被消費者的眼光選中。魚市路對面的小戶人家則在門前放置了招牌，代客做菜，加工費2塊5港幣。就是說遊客們在自由市場上買了海鮮、蔬菜等，拿到那裡請他們加工了吃。
我們也花了 49 塊港幣買了活螃蟹和螺，找了街面上比較僻靜的一家，請女主人做給我們吃。吃完一算，兩個菜他們要收我們加工費 25 + 18.5 = 43.5 港幣。豈有此理！明明門口的招牌上寫著加工費2塊5港幣的。J 很生氣，明碼標價地被人宰是願者上鉤的無奈，但是如此這般地暗渡陳倉是不講商業信譽的可恥。跟他們理論，但語言不通，最後他們把 18.5 的那筆加工費降到了 2.5 港幣，才結帳走人。
2月24日，在長洲島一家小客棧過的夜。轉了一個上午，到了下午兩點，肚子很餓。找到水邊一家有漁家風情、質樸無華、竹子搭起的水榭餐館。雖然老闆娘正準備午間休息，但是還熱情地招待了我們。端上來兩大盤子熱氣騰騰、色香味俱全、有多種海鮮的星洲炒米粉和一碗湯。我是第一次吃星洲炒粉，味道好極了！
穿過一個不知名小村鎮的擁擠繁忙集市，來到了一大片看上去黑乎乎、灰兮兮的海邊。走近了才發現，岸邊礁石上密密麻麻、層層疊疊地長著牡蠣，有的海邊住家圍牆上也砌著錯落有致的牡蠣殼，不但美觀又經濟實用。
手抓牆上的牡蠣殼，用力啃蘋果的這一瞬間被 J 拍了下來。
2月26日，在交易廣場噴水池邊驚喜地遇到了讀夜大的同學 F。她溫文爾雅，美貌恬靜，而我慣於獨處、不善交際，所以在校期間我們沒能說上兩句話，但在香港偶遇還是有他鄉遇故知的感覺。
她與丈夫去美國留學後定居香港。我們去了他們的公寓，在鯉景灣太康街上的一棟大樓裡，在香港寸土寸金的地方，他們小兩口住得相當寬敞。他們在香港的一家華麗大酒家請我們吃飯，四個人吃了許多那家店裡有名的水煮蝦，遺憾沒記住店名。
說好我們從泰國回來路過香港時候回請他們的，可是事不由人，美好的許諾沒能兌現。雖然事後我從日本寄了在泰國特意給他們買的禮物，一個栩栩如生的大象群石雕，一頭大象膝下圍了一群小象，但始終沒有得到他們的回音。他們一定以為我不是個守信用的人。
2月27日，上午去泰領館取到了一個限在5月22日出境的 transit visa（過境簽證），簽證章上除了英文和扭扭曲曲的泰文外，還加了四個中文字：不准工作。
過境簽證要求出境時過客必須繞道從第三國走。也就是說，我們從香港進入泰國，就不能再由香港回東京了。為什麼不給個旅遊簽證呢？儘管我們出示了來回途徑香港的飛機票、在日本的合法居留證、以及在大學讀書、任教的證件。泰國使館人員一副公事公辦的態度，拉長了臉，看了看我那棕色封面面上燙有金色莊嚴國徽的護照，帶有些許的鄙夷之色聳了聳肩……
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Neon Vitality and the Brown Passport: Singapore Noodles on Cheung Chau, and the Cold Eyes of the Consulate
Whenever holidays came around, J could never bear to just stay at home. He bought round-trip tickets to Hong Kong, planning to apply for my Thai tourist visa during a layover there so we could explore Thailand.
On Monday morning, February 20, 1989, at 10:15 AM, our flight departed from Narita Airport, landing in Hong Kong at 2:37 PM. After checking into the STB Hostel (Hong Kong Federation of Students Hostel) in Mong Kok, Kowloon, we went out to explore the immediate neighborhood.
Perhaps because we had just flown in from a spotlessly clean Japan, my very first impression of Kowloon was that it was dirty, chaotic, and cramped, cluttered with an overwhelming array of billboards that felt rather jarring to the eyes. To me, it didn't even seem as clean and orderly as Shanghai's Nanjing Road, Huaihai Road, or the Bund; back in the 1980s, Shanghai's Nanjing Road did not yet have giant commercial billboards. J, however, held the exact opposite view. He found the place fresh, fascinating, and bursting with vitality—a sharp contrast to Japan, which, though pristine, felt constrained, rigid, cookie-cutter, and thoroughly dull.
At night, however, the glittering neon lights transformed the daytime clutter into something rather warm and enchanting.
On February 21, at Sam's Tailor on Nathan Road in Tsim Sha Tsui, Kowloon, J ordered a custom suit for himself and had a light camel-colored cashmere Western jacket tailored for me. It was only later that I heard many high-ranking officials and celebrities—including former US presidents, British princes, and legendary pop stars—had their garments crafted there. At the time, I heard J mention that this tailor shop was highly famous, but I simply listened without paying much heed. The education I had received in the past taught me not to pursue material luxuries, viewing them as bourgeois indulgences. Consequently, I lacked any brand consciousness whatsoever; I only knew that clothing fabric had to be of good quality and the craftsmanship meticulous, ensuring a dignified and graceful appearance. That also echoed what my older brother, Ah Liu, used to tell me back in the day: "Don't chase fads, and absolutely never wear bizarre clothes—those things go out of style overnight. Even if you are short on money, never buy cheap goods. Save up your funds; either don't buy at all, or buy something of high quality. When making clothes, always choose one hundred percent cotton, pure wool, or pure linen fabrics."
Taking the ferry from Tsim Sha Tsui to Central, we made our way to the Thai Consulate, only to be turned away at the door; they were closed for the Thai holiday of Magha Puja Day. Fortunately, we did manage to secure our visas to return to Tokyo from Hong Kong. Everyone said that one must purchase gold when visiting Hong Kong, so amidst the dazzling displays of the Chow Tai Fook jewelry shop, J bought a 999.9 gold necklace for me. At the time, one qian of gold was priced at 388 Hong Kong dollars.
On February 22, we finally succeeded in submitting our application materials. On the 23rd, we traveled to Cheung Chau Island and Mui Wo on Lantau Island; the scenery was beautiful. I forget which island it was, but the seafood market stretched along the beach was thoroughly fascinating—open-air with no canopies, no tables, and no stands, with large basins and tiny crocks spread directly upon the ground. Fish, shrimp, crabs, turtles, soft-shell turtles, whelks, clams, and various bivalves freshly hauled from the sea hopped, leaped, contracted, and glided inside the massive basins, waiting to catch the eye of a consumer.
Across the street from the fish market, small households hung signs out front offering to cook for guests, charging a processing fee of 2.50 Hong Kong dollars. Essentially, tourists could purchase seafood and vegetables at the open market and bring them there to be prepared and eaten. We spent 49 Hong Kong dollars on live crabs and whelks, found a relatively secluded spot along the street, and asked the landlady to cook them for us. Yet, when the bill arrived after our meal, they attempted to charge us a processing fee of 25 + 18.5 = 43.50 Hong Kong dollars for the two dishes. Outrageous! The sign at the door clearly stated a processing fee of 2.50 Hong Kong dollars. J was furious. To be fleeced when prices are clearly marked is a helpless frustration of the willing victim, but to pull such an underhanded trick is a shameful violation of commercial integrity. We argued with them, but faced a language barrier; in the end, they reduced the 18.50 fee down to 2.50 Hong Kong dollars before we settled the bill and walked away.
On February 24, we spent the night at a small inn on Cheung Chau Island. After wandering around for the entire morning, by two o'clock in the afternoon, we were starving. We found a quaint, unadorned pavilion-style restaurant built of bamboo by the water’s edge, radiating a rustic fishing-village charm. Though the proprietress was just preparing for her afternoon break, she welcomed us warmly. She served up two massive, steaming platters of Singapore fried rice-noodles—bursting with color, aroma, and a rich variety of seafood—along with a bowl of soup. It was my very first time eating Singapore noodles, and the flavor was absolutely heavenly!
Threading through the crowded, bustling market of an unnamed small village town, we arrived at a vast stretch of beach that looked dark and gray. Only upon drawing closer did I discover that the rocks along the shore were densely, tightly packed with layers upon layers of oysters. Some coastal homes even had their perimeter walls beautifully laid with patterned oyster shells, proving both aesthetically pleasing and economically practical. J captured the exact moment when I was holding onto the oyster shells on the wall with my hand, biting down forcefully on an apple.
On February 26, by the fountain at Exchange Square, I was delightfully surprised to run into F, a classmate from my night school days. She was refined, elegant, and possessed a quiet, tranquil beauty. Since I was accustomed to solitude and not particularly adept at socializing, we had hardly spoken two words to each other during our school days; yet, crossing paths in Hong Kong truly evoked that warm sensation of meeting an old friend in a distant land.
She had settled in Hong Kong with her husband after studying abroad in the United States. We visited their apartment, located in a building on Tai Hong Street in Lei King Wan. In a place like Hong Kong where land is as precious as gold, their home felt remarkably spacious for a young couple. They treated us to dinner at a magnificent, lavish restaurant in Hong Kong, where the four of us enjoyed an abundance of the establishment's famous poached shrimp—regrettably, I didn't catch the name of the restaurant.
We had agreed to treat them in return when passing back through Hong Kong after our trip to Thailand, but things did not go as planned, and that beautiful promise went unfulfilled. Though I later mailed them a gift from Japan that I had specially purchased in Thailand—a lifelike stone carving of an elephant herd (a large elephant surrounded by a cluster of calves at its knees)—I never received a single word of reply from them. They must have thought I was someone who failed to keep her word.
Years later, after plenty of experience shopping on Amazon, it suddenly dawned on me: back then, I knew nothing about shockproof packaging. I hadn't stuffed any crumpled newspapers around it, and the Japanese post office hadn't given me any warning. That delicate stone carving, with all those small elephants crowding around the large one, had most likely shattered into pieces during its bumpy, transcontinental journey. What they received was perhaps nothing more than a box of unrecognizable fragments, or maybe the post office had simply disposed of it along the way. And so, our connection was lost forever.
On the morning of February 27, we went to the Thai Consulate and successfully picked up a transit visa valid for departure until May 22. On the visa stamp, in addition to English and the winding script of Thai, four Chinese characters had been explicitly added: Employment Prohibited.
The transit visa mandated that upon departure, the traveler had to detour through a third country. In other words, entering Thailand from Hong Kong meant we were barred from returning to Tokyo by way of Hong Kong. Why wouldn't they grant us a standard tourist visa? This was despite the fact that we had presented our round-trip plane tickets routing through Hong Kong, our legal residency cards for Japan, and documents proving our studies and teaching posts at the university. The Thai embassy personnel maintained a cold, strictly bureaucratic demeanor. With a long, unsmiling face, the officer glanced at my brown passport—stamped with the solemn, golden national emblem—shrugged his shoulders with a trace of disdain, and sent us on our way...
特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。
Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.
第四百三十三篇
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