Jumping out of a taxi whose driver was sighing and moaning, cursing in Cantonese at the
traffic and simultaneously reading the racing pages of the newspaper while driving -- despite my protests -- I found myself a bit wound up by his stress levels.
Then I walked into the Upper House at Pacific Place. The usual barrage of happy hotelier staff greeted me at the door, at the escalator and then the elevator. I thought nothing of their sugar-plum friendliness for it is par for the course at an upscale hotel.
Then on the 10th floor another employee got on the elevator. She looked...