Little girl lost...

Red Riding Hood was precocious. Extremely. I always had a secret sly wish that the wolf would gobble her up in the middle of the deep dark forest. Then he'd have grandma for seconds. Oh, that would have made for a wonderful bedtime story.

But it's hard being in Miss Riding Hood's shoes now. A naive Malaysian girl, lost in the thick of the concrete jungle that is Hong Kong Island. You can't see the city for the skyscrapers. Although between you and me, if you sleep with the curtains drawn, facing the lightshow that is the city's night skyline, you don't feel so alone. But when I wake in the morning, there's a nagging feeling that a red dragon is waiting somewhere along the path between here and grandma's house.

Getting off the plane at Hong Kong airport was clearly more of a culture shock than previous times when my parents dropped me off in Singapore for junior college and London for university. I made my way gingerly amongst Chinese littered signs and the onward moving sea of yellow people. Homogeneity makes me uneasy. Especially when I blend right in. Only on the outside.

Inside me, forgotten Cantonese words were bubbling and bursting before they could reach the surface.

"Would you please write the name of the hotel in Cantonese for me? I'm afraid the taxi driver won't understand me"

Visitor information is always the first stop you make at any new country. Years of travelling around Europe and the US has taught me well. But Asia is a different ball game, and I should be one leg up but my lack of Chinese-ness is a well known handicap.

People here speak fast, move fast, drive fast and eat fast. Char siew fun or BBQ pork with rice is a staple diet. I'm not complaining but I think my health freak mother would. About me, that is. A group of us managed to snag a table at Yong Kee for the famous roast goose. If you close your eyes, it tastes just like duck. Where's all the famous Hong Kong food people keep talking about? And celebrities? They're a dime a dozen. If only I'd spent more of my time watching Hong Kong movies so I could bump into a celebrity in a bar and be able to bore my grandchildren to tears about the time I spilt my drink on Jay Chou or Lau Tuck Wah.

But no. I sip on my cranberry juice and watch the expats run their tabs and drink in the exotic air. The Chinese frenzy is everywhere. No thanks to China's sudden eagerness to join in on the rest of the world's private party. If China's ok, are we going to let Iran and North Korea gate crash?

The roads in Hong Kong are crazy. It's as if it was built on the spine of a dragon. The zig zagged undulating paths and crooked alleys and steps and escalators that run higgedly piggedly up and down Soho are mind boggling and easy to lose yourself in. Red taxi cabs swarm the streets and will run you down for a pick up. They nearly did as I was navigating my way through the crowds at Causeway Bay. Who ever told me that shopping in Hong Kong was great... probably wouldn't bat an eyelid at forking out thousands of HK dollars on a dress.

Not me. I entertain myself by telling the Hongkongers that it's alright to speak Cantonese to me, while I mutter back responses in broken Cantonese. It's much better than listening to them struggle with the Queen's English.

The Bank of China is glistening from where I'm typing. A stark reminder that I have set foot on dragon land... and it'd be a great dishonour to leave the island without letting my Chinese roots grow