The Price of Better Things

http://ezinearticles.com/?Women-of-Faith---Hong-Kongs-Filipino-Domestic-Helpers&id=1868537

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OHCQUjX_9Uo&feature=fvw

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6kM21uelgic&feature=related

Hotel Plaza

Her voice was weary. Embattled. Fearful.

absorbed by

"I guess this is goodbye?"

little by little she leaned closer

Across Victoria Harbor to Kowloon

Cat Street

Gold Icons
Lamps, six sided with red tassels hanging around them.

Everything gold
The streets always damp


A waitress brought us fried rice and vegetables. ** We finished our meal and paid and went out on the sidewalk.

It was almost worth the wait.

How hard was it to make sure there was rice on every table?

*** insanely expensive *** swagged silk curtains, handwritten menus, and pale pink table cloths decorated with moss, twigs, and hideous exotic flowers. *** Huge white porcelain plates descend on pink table cloths ***

I waited for her to call after me. She didn't.

We walked back to the cafe mostly in silence.

I saw the worry on her face. The fear of rejection.

She pointed to herself as if somehow she represented all that was good and right and just in theis crazy world.

Purple pouches under her eyes.

Something about her tone told me to change subjects.

***

In Hong Kong I met a young woman named Angelita DeLeon. She, too, was far from home. She was originally from the Philippines, a country in which her doctorate in philosophy seemed worthless. But who, in a third world country, needs a philosopher? So eight years earlier she contracted with an agent for a position in Hong Kong.

She was a domestic worker, cleaning and cooking and caring for the children of a wealthy Chinese family. She didn't hide the fact.

"I cook, clean, take care of the children. Make Mrs. Wong feel rich."

"Is she?"

"Probably."

We found a quiet place to sit. We talked for hours -- about our backgrounds, about our work, about the way we thought or felt about this or that.

They all on Sundays, their only day off, congregated at the Spot-On, near the waterfront.

Later, we took the ferry across the bay to Kowloon. Passing the junkets, I was amazed. I'd always thought they were props on movies. Not real.

We followed the road, walking beneath Chinese characters in neon, kanji. We went into a dim bar, sat at a table near the window. The waitresses, clacking in and out of doors covered with beaded curtains, were unsmiling.

She spoke Chinese. And her English was impeccable, the British accent charming. I was impressed.

She had, during her absence, saved a great deal of money. She offered me a large sum of money to marry her and take her to America. Thirty thousand dollars. More than I'd ever had. More than I'd probably ever have. How could I not consider it?

"I want to live," she said. "I'm tired, so tired, of simply living."

"You make me laugh," she said. "I haven't laughed in a long, long time."

Without exchanging addresses, we said our goodbyes. I walked off without looking back. Later, walking across the wet street back to the pier, I could still hear her voice in my head, asking me to . . .

In the end I still think about that night. I still picture Angelita DeLeon, hear her desperately lonely voice in my head and I feel the regret. Not so much the money I didn't accept, but the opportunity I wasn't able to give her.

I hope she made it to that dream place she so desired. Be it America, or anywhere else.