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That was the worst flight I’ve ever been on in my miserable life. I’m  shocked, because Cathay Pacific has a very good reputation and were directly responsible for my introduction to business class last trip – but a twelve-hour flight in economy on CP was far worse than the 16-hour flight in economy on United.

I thought it was just me, but as we deplaned and I began pulling the party together, Amanda was giving me the thousand-yard stare and Nitin looked more like death than I’ve ever seen. The whole group was intensely miserable until we left the airport.

The drive from Frankfurt to Neu-Isenburg was beautiful, a drive through deep forest denuded of leaves by winter and thick mist roiling at waist-level. Pete handed me the fear and loathing line: “This is werewolf country,” which becomes a watchword throughout the day.

Once at the Mercure Hotel, our spirits lift higher. We can shower, we can eat, we have German coffee, and the young lady at the front desk doesn’t stop smiling once. Her spirit’s infectious and her English is impeccable, and over cold cuts and coffee the group turns to me for directions.

I’ve loved, loved, loved being in charge of the decisions. Everyone trusts me to know where I’m going and what I’m doing, and when a turnaround is necessary we’ve all got a sense of humor about it. They want me to lead them on this mission, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anyone down. Heidelburg it is, for castles, cathedrals and shopping.

I’ll tell you this: Exhausted and demoralized men who are suddenly given German engineered cars and a speed limit above 100 mph make for a videogame experience as developed by tweakers. I fell asleep out of terror for my life as Norb and Pete raced each other through the mountainous countryside, waking only at the moment we enter Heidelburg along the river.

The city’s modern, of course; most of Germany is out of necessity. The era they rebuilt in is one of clean lines and curves, of bright lights and form following function. To go from that the the altstadt (old town), where we drive over cobblestones and peer at buildings older than our homeland but in impeccable shape, is a special visual experience for anyone who enjoys architecture.

The castle awaits. Heidelburg Castle is a beast of two eras and two minds: We enter up a cobbled slope rimed with ice and slush, knowing how difficult this trip would have been on foot, in armor, under fire and racing to storm the gates. Into the original fortress, built in the 12^th century and made of thick slabs of rust-red stones, looking out over the valley and town to survey what once was some Lord’s domain.

From there we enter the barogue portion of the castle, rebuilt and expanded in the 16^th-17^th century. It’s brilliant, high arches and statuary in every nook, carved poems extolling the geneology of kings, emperors and palatines, wide avenues lined with trees and lit now with lanterns designed to resemble gaslamps. The courtyard area is immense and still lovely: a single tree twisting around the deep temple of the well, a working clock bigger than the sun from our vantage point, stonework that can’t be estimated or extolled highly enough. Nitin nods to me: we’ve left two of his partners in Hong Kong for two extra days which he was aslo supposed to enjoy, with a wink he tells me “This is better than the casinos in Macao would be.”

We descend the steep medieval stairs, past chalets on the hillside in which people clearly live. It must be like being in a fairytale, to come home after a day’s work to cling to the skirts of history, the beloved earth looming above you, protected by the memories of your ancestors and their generations which lie behind you.

In the altsadt we find ourselves in the old Corn Market and church squares, thick with university students and tourists like ourselves. The shops are souvenier quality stuff but the beerhall we duck into for lunch is comfortable and warm, with thick curtains across the door acting as an airlock against the chill. It’s still warmer than it is back home, so none of us are complaining, especially after a pilsner toast to our new travels and new successes.

Returning home, we break for a nap; after which members of the smarter gender admit they’re too exhausted to go anywhere for dinner. The men set out on a twenty-minute hike along the main street to the Frankfurter Haus and are rewarded for it well – the platonic ideal of a weinerschnitzel, breaded to perfection with the mint sauce created at a consistency I’ve never known. We share more beer, of course; as we try to sample the local offerings and color.

After that, it’s O’Ryans and our first law of travel: Wherever you are in the world, some idiot will slap an Irish name across a board and turn it into a bar. Soccer’s on the television and Guinness is in our hands for a good hour or so before a short political … discussion … ensues between myself and my manager.

This leads to our first addendum to the first law: Wherever you are in the world, drunken Americans will argue loudly in your local Irish bar.

In the end, we drop it and head back home, which means an apology nightcap to ensure no hard feelings in the hotel bar before drifting off to my best sleep of the entire trip. I’m writing this at 6:45 AM local time, and though I’m already showered and ready to go it’s still the longest I’ve slept consecutively since leaving Illinois, a full six hours of peaceful, dreamless slumber.

Now all I need to do is plan the day’s itinerary.

Bear with me a minute. I’m misting up.

I’ve escaped my handlers and am sitting in a one-man side booth at the Taiwan Beef Noodle Restaurant in Lantau Airport. The kid who sat me keeps calling me “boss” and the Tsingtao comes in a pull-top can poured into plastic cups. Every booth includes a built-in TV showing a modern Hong Kong soap opera, subtitled in what I’m guessing is Traditional rather than Simplified Chinese.

When I say I’ve escaped my handlers, I’m not exaggerating. The rest of my party is god knows where in Lantau, presumably wondering where the hell I’ve got off to. A bathroom trip wound up separating us about half an hour ago and since then I’ve been making my way to within five feet of Gate 67, right where I belong.

I’d worry more about their reactions if they hadn’t given me explicit directions that for the next week I’m to play the role I love the most. Some of you know Berek, and some of you know Jagger. I’m to waltz between the two for the benefit of our trainees, switching from the usual affable idiot mask to one of breezy confidence. You can’t expect me to put that mask on without giving a little breathing room.

I had to roll down the window on the taxi from the hotel, to feel the air in Tsim Sha Sui one more time. The thickness and warmth isn’t what the drivers are looking for but I’m the man footing the bill, so they can manage as long as I need them to. The mountains rising out of the harbor are black ice steaming in the night air, blocking the lights of the developed world. Once in a lifetime there’s a building jutting out, luxury lofts or dancehalls, I’m never sure just which, but mostly these steep declines are home to nothing more than trees and tiny beasts.

We ate at the 18^th floor above the Symphony of Lights, the world’s only 365-day light and music show. Eight to eight-eighteen every day, the harbor’s building explode in neon, mirrored by the boats which cruise the lanes, all ringing to the music being pumped through every skyline establishment. Dined on samosa and spring roll, Serrano ham and sliced figs, deep fried soft-shell crabs with the pincers on and perhaps a few more beers.

Before that we were in the arts store. I’ve picked up my first piece by Zengli, photos to follow once I’m on European soil. The artists are brothers, sons of a famed pottery artist and makers of pieces that break my heart. There are thunder gods with primitive bellies like stormclouds sweeping forth, compassionate Kwan Yins with clay skin and clay dresses, laughing Buddhas and lords of land. I’m in love with their work and I’m on to my third artist’s collection after Janet Koukol and Jurgita Mekyte. This one’s for the house, for my beloved, and for me; all in one.

She’s got another piece coming, of course; and I’ve grabbed cufflinks and a proper feng shui compass for my own wear and office along with the streetsign magnets I expect to draw me to my own true north, this place, this motion, this burning prayer wheel to which I feel bound.

Classes went well. I bid farewell and had my photo taken with the students: Kazumi, JungEun, Adonis and Laura Chan, Inez, Yani and Esther, Diviya, Kath Au, Natalie, Miu, Millicent and Tara, wonderful ladies all. I’ve eaten more dishes than I can count: Peking duck to dim sum, sukiyaki to udon, all in excess of where I should. I’ve paid my respects to Murphy’s with Guinness, Bushmill’s and Jameson’s in a business scrum with my fellow-travelers.

My waiter’s steered me away from the duck breast soup and calls the vegetables so-so. On his recommendation I’ve got a noodle and dumpling soup coming with the final can of Tsingtao, ready to sleep on the flight to the land of schloss und streusels.

I’ve slept less than four hours a night and I feel fantastic. I’m wound on time and tide and the endless spice of life in a world that doesn’t want to let me go. Hong Kong clings to me in a way no human has, brushing itself against me, pleading, teasing, begging me not to go.

If I didn’t have a home, I swear I wouldn’t leave. There’d be one less artist in Illinois and one more busboy in Sha Tin, one more pacific expatriate to fill the void the royals left. I might not last a month, but by the mountaintops I’d try.

The plane starts boarding in about an hour and I don’t know when I’ll see this world again. I’ve run the numbers: Three grand should last me a week in the style to which I’ve become accustomed, another three for tickets – call it seventy-five and make it a mint. It can’t take that long to save up that money if a bright boy puts his mind to it.

I’m a New Year’s Baby where the Chinese are concerned. Who’s up for a birthday on the nightside of the world?

Walking home later in the evening I’m poleaxed by the unexpected sound of the Ladies from Hell – skirling bagpipes, midway through Scotland the Brave. Snare drums snap time beneath the wails, the sharp commands of a sergeant-major barking out in clipped Chinese. I’m just across from Kowloon Park where the stone wall banyan trees grow thicker than man’s torso and more twisted than man’s desire, sweating from heat and humidity and listening to the unbelievable. I take the steps two at a time and see them; a full pipe and drum corps of ethnic Chinese, marching up and down through the broad square of the park.

I may just start using Hong Kong as a synonym for unbelievable.

Say it with me: Temple Street Night Market.

It’s not a name, it’s an invocation. It’s not a place, it’s a world. It’s the brightest spark of the deepest night shining out in all directions, a compass rose that calls the faithful to prayer with the true north of twelve o’clock midnight. It’s elemental, a bagua of phoenix fire and djinn-soaked air, fish-fluid and scale-slippery yet as earthbound as Prometheus.

You start at the harbor and walk up Nathan Road, running the gauntlet of bright young Indian men hawking watches, purses, hashish and hedonism; past the respectable stores with open fronts and uniformed doormen, past the neverending news stands run by mummified great-grandmothers to a thousand generations, but the moment you hit Temple Street you’ll know you’re not anywhere else.

We’re between Temple Street Spicy Crab and the San Miguel Open Tavern, with uniformed waitresses beckoning us to sit for one beer, one beer, one beer for the gentlemen. Whole families sit over open-flame woks and card tables unfolded into impromptu leaves for the unexpected guests. The smell of sterno and spices fill the air, along with plastic Chinese flags strung between the apartment buildings looming to either side. Laundry hangs out of every habitable window alongside the ubiquitous window-mounted air conditioners, monuments to ancient structural architecture and the warping heat of this tropical island.

We pass our first policemen, serious young men in well-pressed blue shirts, talking in low tones with one of the vendors whose cigarette is ash and filter. We pass the Circle K, Moneygram, Tashafudhi, Ching Mai Records, Temple Beauty, Creation Jewelry, Golden Bauhina Jewelry, Avant Gold Jewelry, Palace Jewelry, Mastery Jewelry.

We detour down a side street in between produce stands. Lettuce, bok choi, whole ear corn, cauliflower, black brocolli, tomatoes and yams. A roadside shrine squats alongside, red and gold and piled with brass bowls of apples and oranges, tucked inconspicuously into the corner of the street, a holy fire hydrant for any passing dogs. The Thailand and Southeast Asia grocery stands full of tamarinds, tofu and spiked fruits. A tea shack sells crockery, loose-leaf tea, pots and porcelain, oddly delicate despite the bustle.

Back down the booths of tourist-bait – bags, waving lucky cats, mounted insects and music from pirate CD stations. There are t-shirts featuring Kurt Cobain, Christ, Mao and Adolf Hitler; something I haven’t seen marketed successfully back home. Axl Rose looking younger than he is on a Chinese Democracy tee which costs about as much as the album cost to record. Lingerie that looks like it came from Milwaukee’s Secret, mobile phone accessories and Mickey Mice, strains of Irish fiddle and tin whistle music coming from a softcore video store tucked behind two watch booths.

A pregnant woman dines on noodles, a police van sits outside Lee Kwong Lee China Wear. Foot Massages are offered for $88 HKD, around $11 American, with hotel outcalls available. A series of neon lights that scream Boystown at an unlabelled establishment, outside of which lounges a wiry bouncer in a Fighting 84^th Division camo jacket. The buildings are covered in cracks and falling to pieces, the first four to eight floors of every one devoted to commerce while they’ve built the booths further into the street and the harpies hover in their one-room apartments overhead.

We’re in threatened by trucks and Maseratis at every corner, blinded by neon and a starless sky, the pregnant moon elbowed aside by air and light pollution. Ying Tea, Fat Sun, Wing Hing, Thai Pat, and Ren Nin Exchange make up a single office block, a bicycle parked alongside an abandoned mattress leans against the railing.

We pass booths hawking homeopathic hematite alongside double-headed dildos. We’re alongside the Temple in Temple Street now, straight into the fortune tellers’ section of the market. Tarot readers, face readers, feng shui consultants alongside Shanghai and Market Streets. Palmistry by Simon Chan, Master Joseph as featured on the media, Madame Tina set up in her tent outside the public toilets. Family fortune telling, accurate astrology by Vienna, numerology and Esther and Mary Ho, Ming the Little Woman Tarot Reader.

We’re warned against taking photos of the street performers by a gentleman wrapped in tattoos, not so much a figure of authority as a figure who might be packing. It’s all right, as the performers are not really anything to write home about, reminding me more than anything of my Aunt Bernice playing Rock Band circa 1958. The fortune tellers now keep tortoise shells on their tables outside the Yao Mi Tai Car Park and Government Offices. Uncle Uncanny offers to read our auras.

There’s Bombay food, Thai food, Tong Tai deep fried rabbit fish and pork intestines, young pao fried rice – a live crab whose eyestalks alone can move from side to side, trapped in bamboo-leaf bondage by the harsh mistress of hunger. Fried snails, raw snails, sea slug and live catfish swimming in styrofoam coolers. Cruelty to animals has never smelled so good, and we’re stopping here for dinner, sitting in the middle of the street next to a party of French women and across the way from a band of Chinese. They’re dining on fried prawns and chili noodles with a two-liter Haizhu beer, big enough for two but strong enough for one. We follow suit by ordering East Wind Blood Snails and a Clay Pot Rice with Short Ribs. Both are fantastic, the snails like escargot without garlic or butter. The sauce is spicy-sweet, tamarind and peanut.

Temple Street slows down when you sit down, no longer pushed and drawn. It’s nearly nine at night, seven A.M. back home and I’m eating street snails and drinking beer. My spare ribs are better than the Peking Duck I had for lunch atop Victoria Peak, crispy and burnt in all the right ways. It may be the best food I’ve had on a trip period.

It’s Monday Night and early. I can’t imagine midnight on a Friday.

After doing the requisite work yesterday morning I headed out for a quick exploration of Nathan Road and its environs, picking up some cash at a street ATM as well as batteries for my MP3 recorder at a 7-11. This would prove wise, later; and also allowed me my first view of a Hong Kong convenience mart.

They’re tiny, as so much here is – the scales are in extremes, with massive buildings towering over the skyline and wrestling one another for dominance, view and desirability, but the street-level stores require a great deal of economy once you’re within them due, no doubt, to the staggering rents required to live here. We’re on mainland Kowloon rather than any of the islands, but it’s still a remarkably expensive place to exist according to all I’ve heard and seen.

The group as a whole headed toward the harbor where we boarded the Night Star ferry and took the surprisingly rough channel waters across to Hong Kong Island proper. We decided that walking would be more fun than the bus, and so thirty minutes of more or less zigzag travel up the crowded streets brought us to the base of Victoria Peak.

The Peak was the height of desirability in terms of location during the British administration, largely because the top of the mountain was constantly cooler than the low-lying areas around. It took rickshaws a full three hours to pull beefy, florid Englishmen and their luggage-intensive families up the incline which can reach a grade of over 15 degrees. That was in times both less enlightened and less mechanical, and since the 1930s a tram has existed to pull residents and visitors alike up the mountain.

At the top, a slight attack of vertigo followed by sightseeing. The deck is not large, but it’s big enough to afford views all across the island, the harbor, and well into ocean and mainland alike. A pair of eagles soared over our heads by mere feet, huge birds with earth-colored bands across great black wings. The buildings which sprout from the riotous green seem offensive, somehow; garish pink or corpse-grey, the cracks in their walls and foundations are visible even without the pay-per-view telescopes.

Lunch was Peking duck and a few pints of Tsingtao before heading to the street markets. Bit of a letdown here at first, as we never reached the real Chinese markets and found ourselves surrounded by cheap children’s costumes and bangles for the dead-of-mind before calling it a draw and moving back to the ferry.

Still, I’m smiling as we cross the choppy waters, and a one-dollar piece goes into the brave and briny as a promise to return sometime when there’s less work to do and more time to spin the prayer-wheels of the tongue and heart.

I called the group around to lay out options – I have one big thing I want to do on this trip, but it doesn’t require coconspirators, and I’m not going to force anyone; while Norb has another venue in mind in the opposite direction. We agree to follow Norb tonight and those who wish can join me in a few days on my own trip out, but we’re take the scenic route home along the Avenue of Stars, looking for Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee along the endless parade of names that mean so little to our deaf ears and blind eyes. For myself, my sights are on the harbor, the shipping boats and ferries, the walls of concrete, steel and glass which dominate the skyline.

The flags flown by the boats are shoeshine rags, the bright red of the Revolution reduced to anarchic black by the leveling powers of time and air pollution. It’s a surprise, really. In a nation as symbol-obsessed as my own such things wouldn’t be tolerated, preferring to burn the things the moment they’re touched by the hands of entropy. Perhaps it’s a thumbing of the nose at the unspeakable reality of how bad the air can get, more likely, I suspect, it’s that nobody on board those ships has a spare moment to spend on laundering their national pride.

Once at the hotel, however, plans change. Everyone’s been walking more than they’re used to and one by one they make their excuses and drop out, leaving only Norb and I to walk the gauntlet of faux watch sellers and Bangladeshi tailors to find Temple Street Night Market.

I’ll be honest; I don’t have time to continue about the Market. If Hong Kong is a tornado then the Market’s the apocalypse, and there’s just too much to tell. I surrendered photography duties to Norb’s multiple lenses and sense of visuals while I chattered endlessly into the MP3 recorder all the sights, sounds and wonders that exist in a place open from seven to midnight every day of the week, wrapped in more chaos and confusion than I ever thought possible, eyes wide and wondering while we were pulled along by the Kowloon night.

I’m going to write it down – all the confusion and beauty – but this has been the better part of an hour and I’ll need to get ready for the coffin-horse they call a job before I can keep dancing. It should be a quiet day, followed by a requisite dinner with our Chinese hosts; so I’ll plan to come back tonight and present you with the pearls of the previous evening.

I appreciate all the comments everyone’s sending, by the way. I wanted to bring everyone I knew to the city I adore, and it’s nice to know that it’s working after a fashion.

I’m sitting eighteen stories in the sky, looking out over bright blue sky and a busy harbor. I’m drinking Sumatran coffee with a French chanteuse serenading me through one box, official Chinese news murmuring seductively about the U.S. State of the Union address through another, and am paging through the portfolios of twenty-three international photographers looking for photos of Kowloon, Kuala Lumpur, Seoul and Shanghai to warp, manipulate and upload. The whole time I have access to my network of friends fourteen hours and oceans behind me through the chat feature of Facebook.

Keep your flying cars, I’ve got my future right here.

The work that needs to be done: After training in Toronto wrapped up, we got some video testimonials from the users which we want translated into Flash and uploaded for our Chinese hosts to preview, along with a ten-minute b-roll about the project overview. This is going to take a bit of time and processor power, but not a lot of energy or thought.

I can’t say the same for the photo work. I’m looking for photos of the major cities in which we do business to preload for their viewing pleasure, but not every area has quality, available stock photography in my usual haunts – and I’ve hamstrung myself a bit by beginning with wonderful night shots of the skylines, which cuts down on the number even further if I want to keep a visual tie-through.

Still, I expect it will all work out. I’m using the downtime of the processor to write all of this out and plan the afternoon at the same time. We’re planning to take the ferry from Kowloon to Hong Kong Island for a trip up Victoria Peak, likely followed by visiting the street markets through the island proper. The main thing I want to accomplish is a ferry trip along the harbor during the nightly light show, followed with supper and drinks at the Intercontinental and Sky Bar. That’s if I’m playing cruise director for the group, of course; which so far has been working out extremely well.

To be honest, what I want to be doing is writing. Even here in the relative sterility of the hotel room I can feel the city thriving around me, grabbing my biceps and pointing out places to be, to do, to look, to experience. I’m lucky in that my Edge of Propinquity work is in the editing stage; I don’t know how I could write convincingly about the Fox Valley from here but I’d be game to try.

To that end it’s going to have to be earlier mornings. I sprang out of bed at 6 today for the first workout in a week and felt fantastic, so I’m setting the alarm for 5 tomorrow. I’m hopeful that will give me a full hour to spend getting all the night-spice out of my nose and onto the pages in between the official reason for my presence in this sweet soul city.

It’s 11:45 PM on a Sunday night in Hong Kong. I think I’ve slept 1.5 hours out of the past 28. I’ve been crammed into an airborne cattle car, denied access to expected pleasures, fed two airline meals on a 16-hour flight … and God help me, I’d do it all again to get back to this city.

There are some temptations you should know not to return to. Hong Kong is one of mine. The minute we could see the low mountains rising out of evening mist, swathed in a lusher green than any northern climate can grow; the minute the blast of sweet and welcome humidity plastered itself against my face like the touch of a long-lost lover; the minute I hopped into a red cab for Kowloon with a man behind the wheel to equal all the other maniacs in this spinning, burning city, I was grinning like a madman waiting for the straitjacket.

Night is more … night here than anywhere else I’ve been. It’s close, and sweet, and heavy. It makes your eyelids droop and your tongue instinctively lick at your lips. It’s bright as day is back home from the neon and headlights and gaudy, tawdry invitations. It’s miles high, either in high-rise buildings covered with bamboo scaffolding or mountain peaks too fierce and wild to be graded, paved and built upon. It’s stories deep, beneath subways and subterranean restaurants. It’s the highest of divisions between the immacultely coiffed Chinese ladies in rabbit jackets and leather boots swing by the myrmidions of watch-sellers, massage artists and veiled beggars seeking alms. It’s culture and noise, chaos and structure.

It’s the tricky bastard stepchild of Monkey, Jack o’ Tales and Coyote. It’s a dream given weird shape that’s lurched to life all around its dreamers and outgrew them, outpaced them, outgreened them, outlived them.

I knew I’d missed Hong Kong. I didn’t know how much.

The airport was surprisingly simple, though considerably bureaucratic. It seems to me that the real reason for all the extra security may be the government trying to solve the unemployent issue, given how many hands were on my person and luggage over the course of a half an hour. Laptop out, turn it on, turn it off again. Wave the magic wand across me. Etc etc etc. One nice thing I found is that my rings and belt no longer seem to trigger the metal detectors, which is great.

The strangest bit, though, was what we decided must be THE DEADLY UNDERPANTS CHECK ZOMG. The “suspicious” line is divided by gender. I assume this is for searching purposes, but no. When I am escorted to my female agent, she asks me to put my hands fully in my pockets. I comply, and then she says “Rub them up and down.”

To say this surprises me would be a bit of an understatement. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Rub them!” She put her hands on her hipbones and made a wiping motion up and down. I’m afraid I probably laughed but I complied, after which she swabbed my hands with some kind of chemical detector cloth, put it through the official-looking machine, and told me to move along.

Amanda didn’t get the same treatment. I guess the logic is that … women bombers wouldn’t be willing to wear bulky underwear? I mean, that’s all I can think of, when I try to think like a fear-obsessed bureaucrat. “Ladies love silky things and don’t want to ruin their figures, so let’s just check the Y-fronts.”

Not, you know, that I wear Y-fronts.

Training is essentially at an end. I’m sitting in the back of the room, waiting for the Canadian staff to ask me questions or call me over with some difficulty. I’ll pop up again in about half an hour to answer final public questions and then we’re off to the YYZ, yo.

The oddest thing about the trip to Canda has been how much my schedule is changed, even though I’m only one hour ahead on the internal clock. At home I’m up very early and in bed at a reasonable hour, here on the road it’s been reasonable mornings and late evenings.

Part of that is due to my dependence on the group as a whole – the office is a good distance from the hotel, and as one of the designated drivers I can’t leave until everyone’s ready to go. The fitness center in the hotel also doesn’t open until 7, which doesn’t give me enough time to work out in the mornings – and by evening I’m so hungry that working out before dinner isn’t a very good option. As to working out after dinner, well … I’m not just running on salads this time around.

I remember that during my last trip abroad, the time change worked in my favor to a large extent. Waking up at 3 AM local time isn’t that different from waking up at 4 AM at home, and gives me time to either get to the gym or pool (assuming those hours are flexible) or work on writing, design, etc. I got a lot of fiction and game work taken care of in those predawn hours outside the standard box, and I plan to do the same this time around. We won’t have cars in Hong Kong or Frankfurt; and at least in Hong Kong we’re staying in the main downtown harbor area rather than the suburbs, giving me a lot more latitude in terms of travel and sightseeing.

Travelling back to the States should prove interesting – American Airlines has sent out new security restrictions which really impact the way I intend to travel. I use my computer bag as the single carry-on for laptop, camera, mp3 recorder, medicine, books, iPod … the works. Well, I landed in Canada before realizing that AA will no longer let you carry anything but a computer in a laptop bag. You can have a secondary, smaller bag – but of course, I don’t have one.

Luckily, my winter weather coat is a hobo-style coat rather than anything stylish. I got it when I was fifty pounds heavier and carried candy and reubens in my pockets for the commute. As a result, everything I used to carry in the laptop case has fit into the coat pockets without affecting my silhoutte. I feel like a compulsive hoarder; of course, but nobody has to know but me.

One of the things I’ve noticed in Canada is a surprising – to me – amount of nationalism. This isn’t necessarily obvious in speaking with people, but it is when you look around at some of the cherished institutions of the United States which have crept into Canadian culture like Canuckudzu.

I am referring, of course, to fast food.

Canada is not alone in its alteration of the McDonald’s logo, according to logoblink.com, but it’s the first time I’ve noticed it personally. Their ads have also included the phrase “c’est ca que j’m,” which is Canadian French for “I’m lovin’ it.”

I’ve also seen on television that the Taco Bell logo has a silver maple leaf appearing, apostrophe-like, alongside the “Think Outside the Bun” tagline on their late night commercials. I haven’t been able to find photographic proof of that, though, and as I’m flying out tonight it looks unlikely that I will.

It doesn’t bother me in the least – in fact, I rather enjoy seeing how local culture influences corporate culture. However, I’ve got a feeling that slapping a white star or red stripes over a Tim Horton’s logo in Detroit would result in considerably different press from designers and Canadians alike.