My Week in Tsim Sha Tsui

The moment I leave the Tsim Sha Tsui metro in Hong Kong I’m accosted by the first of dozens of South Asian street peddlers who will pursue me down the road in the coming days. 
“Watch? You want watch?” 
As I walk by with a wag of my finger, his offers grow more bold. 
“Rolex? Tailored suit? Massage? Girl? Need a girl? Marijuana? What you want? I get you anything.”
I find my new temporary housing in this neighborhood off the main Hong Kong island, across Victoria Harbor — what Hong Kongers call “the Kowloon side.” I’ve come to explore a new part of the territory for a week while my wife Ana and daughter Sofia are still in New York for summer holidays and to make a profit by subletting my own more pricey flat on Airbnb. I’m disappointed by my first impression of Tsim Sha Tsui — a hyper busy, luxury shopping district — but I later come to discover some of its charms. 
The security guard in my nondescript building directs me to the 11th floor, home of the very non-frills Pearl Harbour Guest House. Out pops a Philippine woman who jots down my Hong Kong ID number and directs me to my hovel. Other Airbnb reviewers had commented on the smallness of the rooms but nothing prepared me for how really tiny — about 40 square feet. I feel sudden empathy with Hong Kong’s Philippine and Indonesian maids. But the room is a surprisingly well-appointed efficiency, including a combo toilet/sink/shower room that sounds gross but actually works quite well. I take cold showers the first three days until I realize that I’m turning the faucet handle the wrong way. I later come to realize that my room is actually the biggest of the guest house’s five rooms and the only one with a window.
My first night, I stroll into Chungking Mansions, a building complex infamous for its cheap hostels and the illegal and shady African and South Asians who live and work there in little market stalls selling food, goods and contraband. I’m quickly accosted by an Indian-looking chap who invites me to enter his lair for a curry. “Look, sir. Delicious chicken biriani, goat curry, curry vegetables. Do you want chapati or rice?” Images of me puking while kneeling over my toilet bowl flash across my mind. Against my better judgement I eat there.
The next morning, relieved over not getting sick, I seek the closest coffee spot — McDonalds. I order a McBreakfast with an egg and slice of unidentified “meat” both molded to fit inside a soggy English muffin. The meat patty so disgusts me that I remove it after one bite, drawing the attention of a Chinese family sitting across from me. Mental note: never eat at McDonald’s again. I’m now really missing Ana’s home cooking.
I hail the famed Star Ferry for the first time, towards my office in Wan Chai. Like the Staten Island ferry, it affords passengers unparalleled views, and like its New York counterpart is cheap, in this case about 30 U.S. cents. Returning at night, I come upon thousands of Chinese people at the Kowloon waterfront plaza snapping pictures. It takes me a few moments to realize that they’re there to cop views of the Hong Kong skyline and Victoria harbor, which is filled with colorful buildings, Chinese junk boats and a nightly light show. 
After a few days, I discover the beautiful Kowloon Park right at my doorstep, hiding behind the Kowloon Mosque that’s catty corner to my lodging. It houses multiple gardens, a huge pool that’s already crowded at 7:30am, an aviary packed with other exotic birds, many groups of tai chi practitioners and an Avenue of Comic Stars, filled with oversized colorful statues of Chinese cartoon characters. The park even has a sanctuary for pink flamingos.
On Sunday morning, as I descent to the MTR to catch the train to my tennis game on a blistering day, I’m met by hundreds of hijab-wearing Indonesian women, some all in black, as the flock to the mosque on their one day off from being maids. On Sunday night, as it cools a tad, a corner of the park surrounding a pond comes alive with segregated ethnic groups listening and dancing to competing recorded music — the Indians in one corner, the filipinos in another and the Indonesians somewhere else.
By now I’ve learned to despatch the teems of hawkers approaching me along Nathan Road with a flick of my head. But I engage one of them out of curiosity. 
Indian Guy: “Where are you from, my friend?” 
Me: “New York. But I live here.”
IG: “You want to buy a watch?”
Me: “Do you have any Rolexes?
IG: “Rolexes, of course I do. How many you want?”
Me: “Are they real Rolexes?” 
IG: “For quality you have to pay extra.”
Me: “But are they real?”
IG: “They’re real good fakes.”
His honesty surprises me, giving rise to smiles and chuckles, and now he’s resting his hand on my shoulder and speaking to me in a hushed, conspiratorial tone.
“Seriously, what you want? Some drugs?” he says, feigning a cocaine-snorting motion. “Marijuana?”
As I decline and begin to walk away, he says, “Buy SOMETHING from me. Why you so miserly?”