Daniel Bacon, author of Walking San Francisco On the Barbary Coast Trail took me on a walk once. We stopped by the Westin St. Francis to admired the historic Viennese grandfather clock. He told me the significance of the clock, that it was for generations a designated place for people to meet. Thus the phrase, “Meet me at the Clock.” was coined.
I told him there was such a spot in Hong Kong when I was growing up—the flagpoles on the Kowloon Peninsula where the Star Ferry docked. As a teenager I received mysterious letters once in a while. They were pen pal letters. Some came from far away places like France and Australia. But there were local ones too. At some point of the correspondence a photo was requested. I always felt squirmy and anxious as the letters usually stop after I sent the photo. Somehow I didn’t fit the dream that was on the other side.
One time I received letters in the form of poems. This was from a boy in Hong Kong. He wrote beautifully, classical, rhymed poems that melted my heart. I tried to find out who he was but none of my friends seemed to know such a person. Did he write these poems or did he copy them from books? It didn’t matter much to me. All I wanted was to keep receiving his letters.
Then the inevitable moment came, when he thought that we should meet. Where? At the flagpoles, of course. I went with a fatalistic attitude. Sometimes this kind of meeting turned out to be a set up, with friends sneaking around watching the date and then bursting into the scene. Knowledge of such meeting could also turn into gossip and I wouldn’t hear the end of it until the next victim was trapped.
I arrived at the agreed time. The flagpoles were never so visible. I didn’t see the poet. I didn’t see anyone that could have been the person who wrote those lovely poems. After five minutes I fled. As expected, I never heard from him again.
Photo by jymsn123.
