Run, Big Lady, Run: What Hong Kong Taught Me About Eights, Tortoises, The Moon, And Marathons

By Stephanie Brochinsky

An ordinary life superimposed onto an extraordinary backdrop with a first marathon thrown into the mix.

A story about faith, inner strength, and stepping outside of your comfort zone. With your young kids in tow.

And the 26.2 moments leading to an important answer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483565354

Book preview

Kong.

START

Hello, Mrs. Jenny. So nice to have you fly with us, today. May I take your sweater?

Before I knew it, I was a favorite cardigan lighter, seated and trying to figure out a futuristic, multi-buttoned, cobalt blue pod generously trimmed in white plastic. I gratefully accepted a glass of champagne certain a complimentary cocktail would bring clarity to the situation. Tiny sparks shot out onto the front of my outstretched hand, which I tried my best to keep steady.

Is this your first time flying with us?

Oh, great. Did it show that much?

I looked down.

Yep. And then some.

The ins and outs of my Mork & Mindy chaise needed to be put on hold; not that a tutorial would have been a problem, but I didn’t want to stick out any more than I already felt possible. Case in point: The middle-aged, long-legged guy on the other side of the aisle already had given me a quick once-over when he noticed the immediate person on my right to be under five feet. I wondered if business travelers were ever tempted to suggest airlines employ the carnival rule of you must be this high to ride this ride.

Probably. And then some.

Trying to come up with a confidently witty reply, more interaction came my way over the execution of perfect Lilliputian pours. I take it you’ve made this trip before; your girls settled in very quickly.

Did you hear that, business guy?!

Thank you!

Oh, so, welcome back!

You know, maybe I could just roll with the oh-I-do-this-so-many-times-I-don’t-even-give-the-little-toiletry-bag-full-of-miniature-deluxe-toiletries-a-thought kind of traveler profile I so clearly met.

Oh! We’ve never done this before. We’ve never been to Hong Kong! We’ve never ridden in the fancy seats! peppered the air behind me.

I never had a chance.

Great. Our cover was completely blown. Ugh. I shouldn’t have taken so long to reply.

I wondered what a flight with the Jolie-Pitts was like.

Odds were those kids didn’t call out their mother in a heartbeat. But, then again, I probably ranked a little lower on the effortless, international coolness spectrum than a certain globetrotting mom of many.

I took a quick, deep breath and collected myself. The champagne went a long way in that effort. I’m sorry. Yes, this is our, my, first trip to Hong Kong. To Asia. I’ve been to Europe, though, a few times. Including the former Soviet Union.

Honestly, what was I trying to prove? Now I just looked stupid. Stupid and pretentious.

We’re moving to Hong Kong! Alex continued.

Sophia’s the stealth kid. Alex is the one to hit up for all the family secrets. She ensures classroom teachers by early September learn her mom is a card-carrying member of the parenting philosophy known as bribery and how many glasses of wine said briber can consume on any given Friday night. (And by mid-October clues them in on things like how distraught one bribing oenophile becomes when, The underwear my mama loved, you know, the ones that look more like pantyhose than regular underpants? The ones that used to be so easy to find in Target? are discontinued one day without warning.) Yep. The loose cannon. But she also keeps us honest.

"We’re going for one year. There’s a suhh-light chance it’ll be two. But I don’t think so. Mama says the absolute limit is three. I used to call Hong Kong, Honk Honk, but now I know it’s Hongh Caaawngh. Dada is going to live at the factory Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday and then with us in Hongh Caawngh Friday, Saturday and Sunday. But don’t worry! He’s got a room there and everything. Mama, me, and Sophia are going to live in Hongh Caawngh the whole time! We’re going to Hello Kitty Land, you know. Will we get mints after dinner? Are they in a bowl or do you pass them out? My favorite mints are Chick-Fil-A mints. Have you ever had Chick-Fil-A?" Yes, the thought of drafting an accompanying NDA for her has hit me once or twice.

Our number-one fan across the way unzipped a black case revealing the same pair of high-end, noise cancellation headphones my own husband was all too happy to receive as a birthday/Christmas combo gift only a few months before.

Well, at least that was one person who wasn’t going to know more than he ever wanted to know about this family of four and the best mints around eighteen hours later. Wait. Did Jason already have his out? Was he like that guy when he flew without us?

A very animated and slow, "Oh, boy! What an adventure!" snapped me back.

This was no time to wallow in embarrassment or daydream about an ideal nanny-per-kid setup. I looked up and smiled. It was the best I could do.

"Then Hong Kong is home, the woman with the impossibly smooth neckerchief concluded for me, nodding her head in the affirmative. Here, sweetheart, you need another glass. You’ll have time for one more before we’re set to take off. Work quickly, though."

And I did.

The engine roared. I surrendered my empty flute, squeezed the armrest, and blessed myself. This was it. In an instant, our cabin tilted back like an amusement park ride and we lifted into the air. Straight up. The plane felt incredibly heavy. I had a difficult time believing it would get us to the other side of the globe, let alone detach itself from the charcoal tarmac. Despite the rumbling and crackling of heavy plastic, I could still hear Sophia’s excitement. Cool! It’s like we’re flying to the moon!

There we were. Finally up and hurtling toward our next destination.

I wondered how it all moved so fast. You grow up, go to college, meet someone, rack up law school loans, get married, and begin your life together. Then you pay off the cost of a professional degree and start a family. Being in transit from Texas to Tokyo would be the next logical step, right? No doubt about it, boarding that first flight to Hong Kong was definitely surreal, no matter how much champagne I downed.

Routine announcements started up, dinner menus were presented with the right amount of fanfare, and I started feeling more and more like myself after the first glass of white wine was poured. I even managed to utter a new sentence along the way: Oh. Yes. Thanks so much. Really, the girls will not eat the pâté plate.

Mama, what’s pâté? Alex wasn’t sure my preemptive strike was such a good idea.

Are you sure you wouldn’t like to try the pâté, sweetie? The flight attendant either never had children or was graced with little people who not only shared her picture-perfect genetic code but enviable, adventuresome taste buds as well.

Maybe! Alex said confidently.

Why don’t you try some of mine; then, if you like it, you can have your own plate was what I offered. I didn’t want to squelch newfound excitement about an exotic food, but I also didn’t think it was the time to start experimenting with said exotic food. I fought the urge to remind Alex the importance of saving room for dessert.

Are you sure? It’s not a problem, I was assured with an easy smile.

Oh. Thank you. I’d hate to waste it.

I was curious. I popped up out of my chair and peered over the divider to see whether the pâté plate was a go for Jason.

Just what I thought. Computer still out. No pâté plate. Headphones of choice securely positioned.

Mama! What’s pâté?

Umm. Like meatloaf frosting. I was pretty impressed with my off-the-cuff definition. So was my new BFF. She chuckled. That’s pretty good! I’ll have to remember that one!

Where’s it from? Alex inquired casually.

What?!

It’s from France. I’m not sure of the region, but I’d be happy to see if I could find that information out for you.

Was she kidding? Nope. She was serious.

While I was stunned and embarrassed beyond belief, the flight attendant put her hand on her hip and actually looked impressed enough to possibly trade me in for a new, albeit much shorter, more Continental best buddy for the duration of the flight.

I have never heard a child ask a question like that! That’s a good question! Have you lived in France?

Alex shook her head from side to side, confirming we had not.

Are you in the food industry? she asked me.

Apparently thinking the question was directed toward her, my little Francophile blurted out freely, "Oh, no—it sowwnded French. Do you know Fancy Nancy? Well, I am just like her! I love everything French!"

"Well, then, you must try your own plate of pâté, Miss Jenny!"

See, Mama! It’s important I try my very own plate of pâté!

I should have stuck to my guns, but the yea vs. nay regarding pâté was becoming a thing, and I knew the course in question would get tossed when we landed anyway. If international travel was now a part of us, who was I to say no to new foods? Maybe this would be good! Pâté today, kimchi tomorrow!

Madame, the flight attendant joked holding out the plate in question, "oui?!"

"Oui!" I replied back with a smile.

I gave serious thought to having our new friend visit us on a regular basis just to help in the getting-the-girls-to-try-new-foods-without-tears-and-major-drama department.

Oh, Mama! Did you have some? This is great! Dada! Look! I’m eating pâté! A little fork topped with a little wedge of that fancy meatloaf frosting shot straight up into the air.

"Maman! Champagne?"

Merci! Oui!

I’d never been more grateful my mom insisted I stick with French instead of switching over to Spanish like everyone else in high school. Suddenly, my cachet went up significantly among my nonchalant chaise mates, without the requisite headphones, too. Well, in my mind at least.

Granted, I was just speaking the basics, but it felt good; maybe I wasn’t giving myself enough credit. Maybe life overseas was more me than I’d thought?

Hopped up on postdinner cocktails and basic French—and a little meatloaf frosting—I decided both Sophia and Alex could take the flight attendant up on her offer of a second helping of ice cream before the majority of the plane’s window shades were pulled shut. The cabin lights finally dimmed for night travel and I enjoyed one final glass of champagne to celebrate Alex’s realization that I was right: there were no tollbooths collecting payment at the International Date Line.

I fell asleep, unknowingly traveling backward in time.

Although my parents were Columbia School of Education graduates, they didn’t escape the challenge of putting their own child to bed at a reasonable hour and without a lot of fanfare. So, to make bedtime more manageable, a plan was implemented allowing three questions before lights out. They could be about anything. But the absolute limit was three.

Question number one covered the number of days remaining until a certain event (like a birthday party, town carnival, or family trip).

Question number two usually involved a confirmation or denial about something learned on the bus ride home or during recess (e.g., Is f*ck short for something? No. Is ****** the real word, and is it a bad word? Yes and yes. Is Rick Springfield going to sing at Sara Rosen’s birthday party? No.)

For whatever reason, that final, third question was always the same, Tato, if it’s nighttime here, what time is it in China?

Why it involved China, I don’t know. My parents weren’t diplomats. Sure, my dad was a professor, although not the type of professor who traveled sub-Saharan Africa to dig through the sand for ancient artifacts. My father died when I was in my early twenties, and I never got the chance to ask him how exactly that question came to be. I’ve asked my mom, but she can’t remember. It’s not like we had a real connection to the country. I had an elementary-school friend whose parents fled to the US by way of Taiwan due to the Cultural Revolution, but this particular query came well before that fateful winter morning when our paths crossed at the kindergarten tissue box. A distant friend of the family we would see in line at the post office or at my uncle’s house a few times a year married a schoolteacher from Japan. My dad was stationed for a few years in Tokyo as a result of the Korean War, but that was about it for direct exposure to Asian culture.

Was it because of a book my parents read to me? Maybe I heard someone talk about the hard-to-imagine time difference in passing and it just stuck with me? Or maybe, just maybe, it was because China was the farthest possible place from our little white, black-shuttered-trimmed, Connecticut Cape, and I had a father who encouraged his daughters to believe the whole world was theirs.

Mama! Maaah-ma! There was a tapping on my upper arm. I wondered why the air conditioner was cranked up so high. And why the tapping wouldn’t stop. There was a bright light, too.

Mama! It’s me! Mama! Are you up? It’s me, Alex! I can have another bowl of ice cream, right? I turned on the light for you. Can you see me now, Mama?

I opened my eyes. Even between the blaring light and the fogged-up mini lenses trying their best to cover my hungover eyeballs, there was no denying the sight of Alex proudly holding a little cup in front of her and already wearing the evidence of a good four to six scoops’ worth. A trip to the bathroom and a lot of paper towels later, I retucked (and rethreatened) one very full and very tired co-passenger into her respective pod.

Mama? Can I have ice cream for breakfast when I wake up?

No.

Mama? Can Bun-Bun have ice cream for breakfast when he wakes up?

No.

Mama? Can Bun-Bun and I have one more cuddle?

Yes.

Mama? What time is it in China?

And there it was.

Lifting my lips from the point where her eyebrows would also intersect one day, I realized all those miles up in the sky, my father not only fielded my procrastinatory bedtime musings with the utmost of patience but inadvertently gave me comfort so many years after leaving Hilltop Road and so many miles up in the sky.

Maybe my father knew he wouldn’t be here for this chapter of my life. And maybe, just maybe, he was preparing me all along.

I was an adventurer, after all. That was my nature. I just had to remember it.

MILE 1: TRAILING

Mama, we don’t need to know Chinese, right?

No. You don’t need to know Chinese, although you’ll be learning it. We had been over this a few times.

Come on, time to get up. You don’t want to be late for your first day of school.

And your dad has to cross The Border before noon and I don’t want to do this alone.

Are you sure that’s a jumper? Doubt announced the dress as I pulled it out of the closet with perfect timing.

What do you mean, am I sure? It’s a dress. It’s the dress part of your uniform. I immediately regretted the shrillness I heard in my own voice.

It looks like a big shirt to me. Like Dada’s. It definitely does not look like a jumper to me, was emphasized with crossed arms and a crinkled nose.

Yep. Not the time to clue her in on the little fun fact that jumper meant a shirt without buttons down the middle at her new British-curriculum school.

It was on the list. It’s your new jumper.

Are you sure, Mama?

I was hearing a lot of that lately.

I saw the disbelief in those brown eyes, magnified and outlined by hot pink–rimmed glasses before I even turned around. Are you sure North Carolinia is all the way over there now? My elation over winning the battle of taping heavy paper to a really thin and powdery wall was short-lived; her little index finger followed the incriminating coordinates as if strong magnets were involved.

She was so small sitting on that broad, low bed, surrounded by rental furniture better suited for someone’s home office than a homesick five-year old girl’s bedroom. The map had grown overnight.

I’m sure, I offered up, quietly but firmly. Every other girl will be wearing the same thing. You’ll see.

Ugh. I hated it when I went down that road. Not sure? Why not let peer pressure steer you in the right direction?

But how do you know? You never went to school in China.

Argh. True.

Jason made his way up the hollow wooden stairs, each step closer reassuringly amplified thanks to a very high ceiling.

Good. I needed backup.

Everyone’s ready for a great day, right? Jason enthusiastically bellowed through a broad smile and a narrow door frame.

He stopped dead in his tracks. Oh, sweetheart. Don’t you look beautiful.

Alex popped up, smoothed out the lower part of her dress, and shouted a positive, "Yes!" Bun-Bun received a loud kiss and she was ready to take on the day.

Maybe this trailing-spouse thing was doomed from the start; how could a title like that give anyone any credibility? And what a cruel twist of fate that the parent wielding all the credibility was the one who’d be gone Monday through Thursday. And some Fridays.

Following everyone down to the kitchen, I took solace in the fact that we were still all in this together.

Mama! It’s just like we’ll be taking Chinese instead of Spanish, right?

Oh, Sophia. Thank you. Now close the fridge door. Wait! Is that the time?

Right, Mama?

Right!

Great. Now she needed convincing because I was slow to respond. All right. You’ve got this.

OK, guys. Everybody’s ready for a great breakfast, right? I announced, channeling my best Jason Jenny.

I don’t like this uniform. I like the old one better. Are you sure this is a dress?

Round two.

Yes. Why? I acknowledged the concern.

Please say it’s scratchy. Please say you don’t like the colors.

It feels like a big shirt, Sophia declared, stretching out both arms like a scarecrow.

See! Alex quickly reinforced her sister’s statement and did not miss the opportunity to imitate the pantomime perfectly.

I decided against admitting that yes, upon closer examination, they had a point; the short-sleeved, airy number did look more like an oversized shirt than a dress. And that, yes, in my opinion, St. Francis’s heavy polyester, Kelly plaid, drop-waist polyester jumpers, complete with clearly defined kick pleats, won the jumper contest. I had to take the new home team’s side though. I had to give it one more shot.

It’s a smart style for really hot weather. It’s roomy and short. I think it looks cute! It’ll be comfy, too. That was all I had left. Go figure. The argument invoking practicality and my respective fashion sense fell flat. Jason’s subsequent promise of a Friday-night swim, however, worked wonders.

Our compact gray wagon followed Jason’s steady lead. We were all quiet whirring down the highway.

For a year-long stay with children whose collective knowledge of China was about as deep as, If we go to P.F. Chang’s, can we order the Great Wall of China Chocolate Cake? we couldn’t very well throw them into a classroom with ten thousand written characters and five tones. (Well, there was always homeschooling, but I’m not good like that.) Fortunately, one international school fit the bill without requiring one of us to be a big-time banker or diplomat and commit to a wait list five years prior. However, our find was on the other side of the other side of town.

My expat books, along with the girls’ new principal, underscored the importance of starting up new routines as soon as possible. So, while we were driving Sophia and Alex in that day, they would return home via a school-sanctioned minibus. I wasn’t crazy about it. (Actually, not being crazy about it defined as breaking into a cold sweat each and every time I thought about my precious cargo road tripping around the New Territories without me.) That was about it for options, though. An all-highway commute chock-full of big rigs and open livestock trucks making their cross-border trek as fast and furious as possible did nothing to boost my confidence with driving on the other side of the road. Plus, I had to acknowledge I was directionally challenged, minus GPS, and without workable shoulders; spending time consulting maps on my lap as monstrous loads of cargo threatened to crush our little car from every angle was not a viable option. Signage was tricky once you got off the beaten path (which, of course, was a given). What if I missed the last exit before The Border? The Chinese government happened to be a little particular about foreigners, especially Americans, tooting up to their border without permission. No matter how I worked the math, the cost of hiring a driver still went way over my combined anniversary, Christmas, Mother’s Day, and birthday gift budget (until I hit seventy-five). Taxis were less reliable and more expensive than the bus service (and would have required my presence for the ride). The bright spot keeping me in check was the benefit of a bus mum. Miss Jay, I was assured, would keep all twenty-some-odd children safe and comfortable on their round trip. After all, it was the driver’s job to drive. Made sense to me (as long as she was exactly how I envisioned her).

I kept on telling myself it was the same as the girls commuting to Fuquay-Varina from Wake Forest, just the other side of the county. But this wasn’t Fuquay-Varina. And we definitely weren’t in Wake County anymore. The proximity to the Chinese border was mind-boggling; for the majority of the drive to the girls’ gated campus we were only a short distance from a very significant line.

Look! That’s The Mainland over there, girls! Jason put out there a good two notches more enthusiastically than I would have predicted.

A pair of ohhs came from the backseat. Somehow I didn’t think Sophia and Alex even knew what they were looking for, let alone seeing.

We were a little yellow dot bobbing along the map, jousting with a thick, straight, black stroke drawn with the thickest Sharpie marker you could imagine.

It was a regular first day of school; nervous excitement was everywhere. Although it was a little different seeing chauffeured black sedans waved along by crossing guards wearing ensembles a little more official than street clothes and a fluorescent orange sash. And that was just the beginning.

She was really nice. Maybe a friend, I’d report back, as if I was entering Primary myself.

Cutie. She’s a helper. The mother’s over there under the awning, Jason said over and over again, once I’d wrapped up a conversation certain I’d finally made a good connection with a fellow mom. (It did explain how tentative each conversation was, though.)

Wouldn’t you think the hand a child was connected to on his or her first day of school would be that of a parent’s? Me too. How was I supposed to know that wasn’t the case?

I didn’t clue in to the absence-of-a-four-digit-price-tag-purse giveaway until about a week later. Along with my new, unwanted title. Tai tai: a married woman of leisure without a financial worry in the world. (Well, that’s the gist for modern times.) Yep. This one word uttered twice in rapid succession was not just a complicated social status but a code of conduct complete strangers expected me to follow. Even though the only applicable component was the Mrs. part.

Unfamiliar key declarations and questions swirled all around us. Kindly line up backpacks in front of the auditorium. No. Nursery and Reception begin class next week. If you brought your lunch in this morning, it goes in this box. If your helper will be bringing your lunch in later this morning, it will be placed in this box. No hat, no outside play. There will be no need for PE kits until Monday. Filtered water can be found in the water fountains around campus. When will I be advised as to whether my child has been placed in the dragon class?

Interestingly enough, Jason’s wardrobe got all the attention at school that morning. More specifically, a golf shirt discreetly marked with the embroidered logo of a fictitious corporation.

Oh. Is that your company? I’m not familiar with it. I assume it is an American company? It is a subsidiary of a larger corporation I might be more familiar with? What kind of service do you provide?

And this was all before he made the mistake of joking, It’s a paper company. Have you heard of it?

Do you operate out of Shenzhen? Is your factory in Guangzhou? Is it business paper or personal stationery?

When business cards started appearing, Jason dug himself even deeper by trying to come clean about the mysterious Dunder Mifflin. You are involved in a television show? Very exciting. Did you move from California? Oh! I have never heard of a television show about paper products.

I laughed to myself when the idea of rescuing him with an invitation to a Friday night pool party popped into my head. There was no need, though, as a simple blow of the whistle by the principal finally announced the official start of the year and ended our line of inquiry.

Students filed up the multiple staircases following British driving lane rules.

Why was Alex swimming back upstream? That couldn’t be good.

I readied myself for a last-minute defection or worry.

"You were right, Mama! These are