Hong Kong: Enrique And Coca-Cola in Kowloon (cont.)

I carefully ease the CD from the tower and proffer it to the vendor. He raises his eyebrows and points to the sign: three CDs for HK $100.

I shake my head. I want only Enrique, who sings in glorious Western languages. The vendor shrugs and names a price. A ridiculous price. The man decreases his price by ten dollars. I start to put the CD back on the table, waiting for the vendor’s hand on my shoulder.

"Forty dollars for the lady—just for you."

Just for me, the secretly homesick girl who didn’t even know she was homesick until now.  I hand over my money.

Enrique’s songs are already playing through my brain as I roam the aisles of 7-11. It is comforting to know I can purchase Ribena and Cadbury along with my fried noodles.

The refrigerated drink section blows cool air on my temples as I browse the selections. Orangina. Calpis. Beverages with bright labels in Chinese and English vie for my attention.  It must be Coke, I decide, Coke to celebrate Enrique.

At the counter I pay with coins with wavy edges—coins that seem to undulate in my palm. I never tire of Hong Kong currency. It’s always a surprise: sometimes the bills come from the Bank of China; other times the Bank of Shanghai. Every now and then there is a coin with British symbols. There are so many different legal versions of Hong Kong dollars that I have given up trying to keep track of them. It’s appropriate, I decide, that the money should have as much diversity as the islands.

But money isn’t important now. I have a date with Enrique.

I hurry home, weaving my way through the crowded streets; I rummage for my keys. The maid has left a fresh bottle of still water on the bureau for me. I nearly knock it to the floor as I extract my Discman from my suitcase and yank the CD from my knapsack.

I kick off my shoes and sink into a chair. It’s just me and Enrique and the hazy memories of delicious nights in New York. The CD booklet is blank and the surface of the disc is tacky. No worries. I only care about the music.

Ah yes, there’s “Bailamos” surging through the headphones. The tempo is too quick; the key is wrong. Perhaps this is some hot dance mix that I’ve never heard. It’s OK. As soon as I hear Enrique sing, it will all be OK.

But Enrique never starts signing. The tenor voice is too reedy and has a Chinese accent. I blink and skip forward quickly through the CD. The same vocalist sings every track, struggling and butchering many of the lyrics in both languages.

It’s a Kowloon karaoke bar inside my Discman.

Outrage rises in my throat, but dies as the singer’s voice cracks on a high note. I giggle into the silence of my room, the first real laugh I have had in weeks.

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