I imagine I will grow accustomed to this. Eventually.

Walking down the street, in Hong Kong … along one of the narrow sidewalks (and they all are) … and splat, a big fat drop of water lands in my hair.

My first reaction always is, “This can’t be good.”

I think, “bird just flew over.” Or maybe, “Someone threw something at me.” Or maybe even the least scary, “Is it starting to rain?”

What it actually is … or at least what I’ve decided it is … is water falling off the laundry people have hung out their window or from their balconies — far above.

I don’t know the precise percentage of Hongkongers who live in buildings taller than six stories, but I bet it’s 90 percent. Actually, I have yet to see a single-floor residence (No, I haven’t been up to Victoria Peak), or even a single-floor commercial building.

Everything here is mega-tall. Everything.

But it’s possible to forget that when you’re walking down a narrow street, dodging cars, circling masses of pedestrians, looking inside the front door of all the little shops.

It seems a horizontal world, when you’re on the pavement or the asphalt.

It most certainly is not, however. And if you pause to look up you notice that the semi-dingy little businesses you’re passing are just the ground floor of a building that might be 40, 50, 60 stories tall.

And the sidewalk is right below the windows or balconies of layer upon layer of housing and humanity that collectively may have hung out a thousand pounds of wet laundry.

Now and then, the laundry does what it’s supposed to do.

Drip.

And, splash, it smacks you on the head. You reach for the wet spot, hoping it’s not something nasty and, so far, here, it hasn’t been. Not like back in spacious SoCal, where that sort of liquid on your head might be something ugly. Avian.

Maybe I’ll get used to this. Just take my fat drops and stop reaching for it and looking around for a rude bird, a guy hanging out a window or a kid with a squirt gun.