7.29.15
It may technically be the 28th again, since I'm writing this on the plane as I fly east toward San Francisco. It doesn't matter, of course; all that matters right now is that I'm slowly making my way home. After another seven or so hours in the air, and a fifteen-hour layover in San Francisco, I'll be Houston bound. I'm getting home not quite a week early so I can attend the memorial reception and burial of my father-in-law, who passed away several days earlier. I've chosen not to discuss it until now, because it was not always clear when exactly I'd be coming home.
On my final night in Macau I make reservations at the Clube Militar, the nearly 150-year-old institution founded as an educational and social organization for Portuguese soldiers. In later years it opened its membership to civilians and developed a more social than educational bent, and in 1995 it began letting non-members dine on the premises. It has a solid reputation in terms of its food and atmosphere, to which I can now personally attest. The service is a little slow, but I'm in no hurry. I wear a jacket and tie since there's a dress code, but judging by the attire of those around me it's considerably looser than I'd expected.
Earlier in the day I make one last trip to the Livraria Portuguesa and carefully go through the shelves again. Naturally, it doesn't take much effort to find a few more books, though the next day, when my bags are packed, I worry about exceeding the airline's weight limit (as it happens, I don't even come close) and for a brief moment almost regret my bibliophilia, so fucking heavy and awkward is my luggage. The real problem is my choice of bags, a problem I'll try to resolve before I go on another trip likely to result in numerous book purchases.
I've alerted the Portuguese Department of my early departure, and Ricardo and company have been nothing but helpful. I'd like to stay the full term, of course, but getting back to Texas is my priority. And so, when the time comes, I clean up my dorm room, make sure I have all my things, and hand my keycard to the guard in the lobby. I use the last 2.5 patacas on my Macau Pass to get to the Praça de Ferreira do Amaral, and from there to the Terminal Marítimo, where I buy a Turbojet ticket to Hong Kong. It's all very matter-of-fact and unemotional; there are no goodbyes said, alas, since I leave while others are in class, though I do leave a note for Eason, thanking him for showing me a part of town I'd not yet seen and telling him to stay in touch. Macau, always ready to welcome newcomers and their money, is as indifferent to my departure as the immigration agent who glances at my passport and lazily flips it back at me. I don't take any of it personally. After all, I just spent sixteen days experiencing Macau in my own way, and it'll take more than a bureaucrat's sour attitude to keep me from coming back.
As the ferry leaves the terminal I see a new island being reclaimed from the sea just to the east of the city. Within a year or two that island will house the immigration and customs complex responsible for traffic coming into Macau across the massive Hong Kong-Zhuhai-Macau bridge, currently under construction. When I came here from Hong Kong I saw significant spans of it lurking in the haze off to starboard, already finished; looking at it again, this time off to port, even more of it stands ready to bear the weight of countless cars, and it seems as if it'll only need another fortnight before it's complete. Who knows what will happen then?
Not me, but when I get back from my next trip to Macau, I'll be sure to once again tell you everything I've learned.
Thanks for reading, folks. Muito obrigado.
D.A.S.
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