Okay, I've fallen MASSIVELY behind in my blogging, so I'm going to skip over about a million things and write what ever comes to mind.
So about a week after I arrived, I got my first visitor: my oldest friend, David deKoos, here in Hong Kong on business. I waited for him in the lobby of his lavish, company-paid hotel, and sure enough, after a short wait, there he was. It was so weird – so normal – to see Dave just show up like that. As if we were meeting to go see a movie in downtown Montreal. Except we were meeting on the other side of the planet. We met up and he took me to a little restaurant he'd gone to on his last visit: a little Italian place in one of the very touristy areas where I hadn't yet been (I tend to avoid the tourist traps – but I'll admit after a solid week of Chinese food, pasta DID sound like a brilliant idea). We chatted and had a good time, got hopelessly lost in the streets of Kowloon, shot pool and drank a few beers. It was marvelously mundane! Normal! After a week of getting to know Hong Kong the hard way (and I was, at this point, getting settled – I knew my way around pretty well already), it was really nice to just chill with a good friend. Dave didn't last too long into the evening, as he was tired out from traveling, so we parted ways relatively early and planned a meeting for the next day. The next day it was my turn to pick the venue, so I brought Dave to an outdoor hot-pot restaurant in the New Territories. This was no tourist trap – it was as local as they come. We had to jump out the way as waiters wheeled giant tables through the crowds of people clustered around their hot-pots (Chinese fondue pots), playing cards, drinking beer, laughing raucously. It was thoroughly Chinese, and we were probably the only foreigners in the place. The waiter didn't speak a word of English and had to enlist a young boy from another table as an ad-hoc translator, but it wasn't much of a problem as it was mostly a serve yourself kind of place. And so we threw all sorts of random and unrecognizable foodstuffs into the pot and had a great meal (as I was choosing from the buffet tables, I tried not to look too hard at the things that were actively squirming, for fear of losing my appetite); we ate heartily and drank local beer, made bad jokes about courting the bird-flu, and felt, unlike the day before, like we were really in another country. With a smile, Dave said to me, “You're a local already”.

A pleasant Chinese couple were waiting for me at the airport with my name on a piece of cardboard. They were in their twenties, married (as is the Chinese custom), and relatively fluent in English (at least the wife was - the husband, Leslie, mostly grinned and nodded). They brought me to the hospital where I would be working - and apparently living. We rode on a double-decker bus, and I got my first good look at my new home. What's particularly surprising about the Hong Kong area is how green it is. Our bus snaked its way through a mountainous terrain, teeming with the jungle-like vegetation of the nearly tropical Hong Kong climate.
When we'd arrived at our destination, Leslie showed me my room and gave me the key, took me to the local grocery store, and then, with his wife, promptly disappeared. And so here I was, alone, lost somewhere in the Hong Kong suburbs. Leslie had given me the phone number of my new boss, and told me to call him - on monday. It was saturday afternoon.
I grabbed something to eat at the hospital's 7/11. Despite it being an American chain, there were only a few things I recognized; I grabbed one of those (I was too tired to be adventurous). I then climbed into bed.
I woke up at 3:00pm, Montreal time. That's 3:00am Hong Kong time. Since there was no way I was going to get back to sleep (it being, as far as I was concerned, the middle of the afternoon), I decided to go exploring. As soon as I left the building where I lived, the door locked behind me. After a moment of panic, I realized that a scrap of paper Leslie had given me had written on it the security code to get back in. Good. Perfect. So I started walking, trying very hard to keep track of every turn I made so that I could find my way back. Sha Tin, the city where I live, was deserted. I was all alone in a new world.
Now, as anyone who has met a person from a foreign coutry can attest, recalling names in a foreign language is nearly impossible. The same goes for street names. It was not long before I was hopelessly lost. I finally found an open depanneur, and bought a map. Proud of myself for my ingenuity, I opened it up and tried to locate myself on it. After squinting at the Chinese characters on the map for a while (for some reason, I seem to think that if I concentrate enough, I'll understand Chinese...), I finally flagged down some drunken revellers who had just stumbled off of a night bus, hoping for a little help. In fact, they WERE very helpful - they told me that my map was of another city entirely. They were pretty cool, though, and sort of helped me to find my way (they had an approximate idea of where my hospital was). They even gave me their phone numbers. I had made my first Chinese friends. In case you're wondering, after about two hours of walking around, I DID eventually find my way back. Tired again (my poor internal clock had clearly gone haywire), I climbed back into bed, as if the whole thing had been a strange dream.

After pulling things together at the last moment, moving out of my apartment at the eleventh hour, and waking at four in the morning, I was on my way to the airport. I was off on another adventure, on my way to the other side of the world.
Or so I thought.
My adventure was over before it began. I walked up to the airline counter and was politely informed that all flights to Toronto had been canceled due to bad weather. And since there's one plane to Hong Kong a day, it was game over: I was going home. Jessie was with me the whole way, and so we headed back to my mother's place, and enjoyed the gift of another day together. After the day before's tension, its insane rush, there was nothing left to do but relax and enjoy the eerie calm before the storm.
Deja vu: a four in the morning wake up call and a rush to eat and get to the airport. It was like a strange routine, like it was my job to wake up at four every morning and hurry to the airport. Just another day. Then it hit me: I had to say goodbye to Jessie for real this time.
After we'd parted ways at the security gate, you'd think things would have gotten easier - after the emotional pain of saying goodbye, I would be overcome by the excitement of the adventure I was about to embark on - but things were not going to be that easy. The emotional pain would soon be replaced by the physical kind: I was about to start feeling violently unwell.
Aboard the plane, I watched the ground disappear into the clouds, and was reading the newspaper the flight attendant had provided when suddenly the words started bleeding into each other. I squinted, trying to get them to settle, but it was no use, and besides, I had started to feel strangely uncomfortable. Before long I was squirming in my seat. I got up to go to the back of the plane when all of a sudden the world started getting dark around the edges. I was blacking out. The universe shrank to a point of light, which I chased down the aisle, nearly knocking over a flight attendant who had disappeared into what had until recently been my peripheral vision. I made it to the bathroom in a cold sweat. Nearly blind, I splashed water on my face and sat for a long time, until my vision came back and I felt I could stand. I stumbled out of the washroom and found the worried flight attendant, who sat me down at the back of the plane (where it's cooler) and turned the air jets on me and wrapped a cold cloth around my neck. I could tell by the motherly worry on the flight attendant's face that I looked as bloodless as I felt. If I had to guess, I looked as white as the clouds outside my window. The flight attendant, a pleasant sandy-haired woman in her early forties, suggested I go to the airport clinic once we'd arrived in Toronto. I told her it was out of the question: I had a connecting flight.
"Well I hope it's a short flight. Where are you going?"
"Hong Kong."
"Oh, boy", she said.

A couple of days before the police were scheduled to arrive, I pulled up anchor. I didn't go far - just a couple of blocks away - to another squatt. I had met a german girl and an english guy in my spanish class, and they suggested I come live in their squatt, which worked out well for me. There was no place inside - but being from Quebec, whose cold winters make the spanish people huddled in their winter jackets on a 15 degree day look like sissies, I had no problem living in a tent I set up on the roof. So here I was, roof-camping in downtown barcelona. The 15th of February rolled around and all the neighbourhood's squatters assembled for solidarity's sake in front of my old squatt - but the police didn't come. They didn't come later that day either. Or the next. This is strategy, you see. They had kept their obligation not to evict people before the 15th, but they sure as hell weren't planning to come when everyone was ready for them. So I lived the Barcelona life for a while (I stayed a little longer than planned because of an austrian girl I met). The people I was staying with had their own little way to protest the established social order: Stealing. They would shoplift anything that wasn't bolted down - as long as it was from a large chain or corporation. Now apparently, the shops have all wised up to the rampant theft from their stores and have installed scanners - even in the supermarkets - to catch those who would attempt to get a five-finger-discount on their merchandise. As a thank you to the german girl, Finn, who got me into the squatt, I modified her handbag - with my knowledge of physics - to block radio waves and thus, scanners. She spent an entire day stealing bottles of vodka, and then celebrating by drinking said bottles of vodka.

One day, a rumour went through the squatt that some people had come by - some Americans, apparently, and told Maria (one of the squatt's occupants), that unless everyone was out of the squatt by the next day, they would burn it to the ground. It turned out that there had been some confusion, and they turned out to be Morocan, not American, but that was besides the point. I took the hint, though no one else believed their threat, and packed up and went to my Brazilian friends for a place to sleep. The next day I came back to tell someone something (I had come up with a way for the englishman to steal internet in his van by turning the frame of his van into a giant antenna, and wished to communicate it to him). I was inside less than 5 minutes when the Morocans attacked.

Screaming things I didn't understand in arab and spanish (I only understood the dirty words, which were frequent), there were a lot of them, and they tried to take the door down. Acting quickly, we had barricaded it with the means at our disposal. Threatening to murder us all, they were fairly helpless out in the street, and we had readied ourselves for any attempt to light the place on fire. Confused, and believing their claims that they were the rightful owners (They weren't - everyone knew the owner and were in negotiation with her), the lady next door let them in so they could attempt entry by the roof. We barricaded the roof door as quickly as we could with whatever was available: doors, broomhandles, bureaus, anything. I was glad I had evacuated my things from the roof. They couldn't find a way to bridge the gap, however, and soon enough they were back in the street, screaming bloody murder. Everyone inside had armed themselves with whatever they could find. I had a knife and a heavy chunk of wood for a bat - and I was ready to use it, if it came to that. In one of the kitchens, a finnish fellow (who most people believed to be mildly psychotic) was freaking out, making some sort of animal noises. When I walked in on him later to see if he was OK, he offered me, calmly, as if everything was perfectly normal, some of the rice and vegetables he was cooking. The crisis was still on, but he was entirely immersed in a world of rice and vegetables - eerie. It had been calm, eye of the storm calm, for a little while now. I was still holding onto my weapons, and I went to look out the window down into the street again. There were more of them now. But then, I recognized a face - and another. They were our people! I went around telling everyone that our people were out in the street! The general alarm had been sounded, and the neighbouring squatts had come to defend us, to drive off our attackers. The first to arrive had been attacked, but soon the Morocans were outnumbered and ran. They might be back in greater numbers, later, but I was outside now, in the street, telling the story to those who had just arrived. I was no longer trapped inside, and I wouldn't go back inside later, either. I hitchhiked my way to Valencia, instead.

So I had been on the outskirts of Perpignan, a little french town near the spanish border, when I was picked up by two dread-headed hippy types who were going all the way to Barcelona. So I hung out with them there, and there we met some Brazilians that were a lot of fun. At night, we sought out a squatt and found one, and they let us stay the night. We got together with the brazilians a couple more times, slept all three of us in their car one night (I was stiff in the morning!) and finally parted company with them. I took up residence in the squatt we had originally stayed at, and have been there since. So I have been enjoying myself in the city, have discovered many of the underground resources this city has to offer, and have met some very interesting people. The squatt where I´m staying is full of italians, but the majority of the residents of this city speak Catalan (Not spanish, and neither do the Catalans consider themselves spanish, as they repeat ceaselessly). I have none the less directed my efforts towards learning spanish, because Catalan is not very useful outside Catlunya, the region where I currently find myself. The dread-headed french hippies have since disappeared, but I still spend a great deal of time with the brazilians. Also, I have met some dutch and catalan people whose company I enjoy. But my life is heading towards a rather major upheaval. In a few days, the squatt I occupy is going to be expulsed by the police. They just had their last party, a 20´s swing party that was hilarious with all the punks dressed in 20´s garb (frequently over their punkish ripped denim and leather and dirty t-shirts), consisting of pearls and long cigarette holders and feathers and such. Now that the party´s over, the squatt is undergoing massive construction, with its inhabitants working round the clock to fortify their position against the police, welding barricades and bars and turning the squatt into an impenitable fortress, a last stand against oppression. I wonder, lying in bed, how all this will end.

So I decided to spend New Years in Nimes. To my surprise, Quebecer after Quebecer arrived at the hostel, all with the same idea in mind. By New Years, we were 16 Quebecers, all come indenpendantly! We had taken over the hostel! It made me feel like I was at home, which was nice as I was feeling particularly homesick at the time. We had a roman-themed toga party, and it should be mentioned I look fetching in a roman tunic (a little too fetching, as it turned out... I´ll explain in a moment). So I had a great time, and befriended the fellow in charge of the hostel - giving me all sorts of special priviliges - so I decided to stay for a bit to rest and recuperate. My time in Nimes was great for soul, though not for the body, as the party was continual at the hostel; Vague recollections of staying up until 5 am drinking absynthe - the real stuff, smuggled in from eastern europe. Anyways, it turned out that my mojo was working overtime, as person after person kept succombing to my charms (of both sexes, as well). By the end I was getting very good at giving the "well, you´re a lovely person..." talk - though sometimes even that was insufficient! At one point I was locked in the bathroom with a girl who had taken off all her clothes and told me, in no uncertain terms, that I wasn´t going anywhere... I stayed way too long in Nimes, living in an irish pub (figuratively, this time, unlike in holland) and camping behind the hostel. Finally, making some tearful goodbyes, I left Nimes and hitchhiked my way south. By nightfall, on my first day of hitchhiking, I arrived in dowtown Barcelona. More later. Ciao.

So I spent Christmas with a family in Arles - a french christmas consists of occosionally taking a break from drinking way too much by eating way too much. We were also invited for champagne in the castle, by what apparently is one of the richest families in France. What characters! I felt like I was on another planet. Apprently, having more money than God frees up your leisure time to cultivate eccentricities and personality quirks! But it was good times and I left Arles the next day happy that I had followed the quebecers back onto the mainland. On the advice of another quebecer I met working in a hotel in town, I set out for the Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, where I had been informed that there might be some work in a youth hostel. So that is where I ended up - and sure enough, there was work, but I would only stay a few days because the youth hostel was very poorly named. I was the youngest person there by about 30 years; The old man that ran the place insisted that everyone go to bed at 10 o'clock - it was, in short, more of an old age home than a youth hostel. Also, the hostel was lost in the Camargues, far from any form of civilization. So I left and made my way to a town called Nimes, where I took up residence in another youth hostel, in desperate need of rest after moving continually for far too long. However, though I would find rest for the soul, perhaps, I would not find rest for the body, as I had found the party capital of france - and just in time, too, because new years was only two days away.