The first conversation I had in Hong Kong was with a taxi driver.
I had just landed, and miraculously, I managed to navigate my way to the taxi stand.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“The China University of Hong Kong!” I exclaimed in shaky Mandarin.
He made a face as if he was confused, but then his lips broke into a laugh. “Oh, I see – Chinese University?”
The drive from the airport to my school is long. It’s almost 40 minutes through the entirety of Hong Kong, starting from Lantau Island and ending in New Territories. As we sped down the highway, I marveled at the sights rushing past me: emerald-green mountains broken by clusters of sky-high apartments, clear blue waves lapping at the coast, and glistening skyscrapers that stood in sharp contrast to the nature around it. I observed that my new home had almost every environment possible, as if collecting them like Pokémon cards: there were bustling cities without a tree in sight, but also thickets of tropical jungle. There were sparkling beaches but also highways carved into the slopes of towering mountains. Simply put, I had never seen anything quite like it.
The long ride gave my taxi driver and I time to talk. I learned that he was from Mainland China and that he was in Hong Kong to take care of his mother. I asked which country he liked better, and he scoffed: “China, of course.” After a pause, he added: “Do you know Eileen Guan? The snowboarder?”
“Of course,” I responded.
“Well, your Chinese sounds like hers. It’s bad.”
After a few hiccups (security was a hassle and the taxi almost drove off with my phone), I had arrived. My new home consisted of a shared dorm room with 3 beds and several communal showers. The mattress had the density of a rock, and I found the previous person’s immigration papers under my desk.
I thought that Hong Kong would at first feel like a stranger, but surprisingly, it felt like a home I had not visited before. My dorm building smelled vaguely like my aunt’s apartment in Beijing, and the shirts hanging in the kitchen were a sight not much different from my own home. This was the first time in my life that I’d felt this way.
My parents immigrated from China to Ohio in the late ‘90s, and even though I was born and raised American, there was never the feeling that I was ‘at home.’ By no means did I grow up poor, but my family’s knowledge of “how to grow up in America” was vastly limited. There are many intricate idiosyncrasies, like the fact that you’re supposed to buy your date a boutonniere for homecoming, you keep your shoes on in your white friend’s home, everyone is involved in cheerleading or football for some reason, and everyone’s Christian and already knows each other before you enter grade school. In every year of my life from primary school until high school, there were less than five Asian girls in each of my classes.
It is much different in Hong Kong. Almost everyone has my thick, jet-black hair and almond shaped eyes. My classmates’ parents also send them articles about child prodigies over WeChat and regularly quote Confucian proverbs. The aunties dress in the same mix-match style as my mother. Suddenly, I could buy the food my parents made at home in the school cafeteria, where before, in Ohio, my classmates didn’t even know what a bao was. The locals talked to me in the same simple and direct manner as my 90-year-old Chinese grandma, where they speak very curtly but their bluntness is a way of showing that they care. In fact, I became so used to looking like everyone else and relating to everyone else that finally, I could take the feeling of ‘fitting in’ for granted. I felt green with envy of my white peers: is this what you have felt all along? Have you always been a stranger to the subconscious shame of looking different?
But even though I could pass as a local from the outside, as soon as I opened my mouth, the differences were clear. Behind our brown-black eyes and dark hair, we were completely different people.
Asian culture prioritizes politeness, which translates into speaking softly or not at all on the bus. Asian culture also prioritizes not bothering others, which means that asking strangers for directions is unheard of. In comparison, I’m loud and overbearing. I tend to shout at my friends on the bus and I have asked strangers for directions on more occasions than I can count. The simplest way I can describe the difference is that from my experience, in American culture, being an extrovert is almost a necessity, while in Asian culture, it is not as needed.
Furthermore, the people of Hong Kong mainly speak Cantonese. By contrast, I only know Mandarin. I had hoped to practice my Mandarin by studying abroad in China, but Covid had other ideas. As a result, I can barely communicate to the locals aside from saying “thank you” and “sorry.” I could go days without understanding a single word said by the people around me.
And perhaps that’s where our similarities ended: past our physical traits, the people of Hong Kong and I are completely different people, so much so that it’s a wonder how we came from the same ethnicity at all.
When I first moved to Atlanta for college, I came to an important realization: “home” is not dependent on where you are, but on the people who are there with you. Hong Kong is certainly a place unlike any that I’ve ever been before, but at the end of the day, what I will remember most are the people that I am lucky enough to have met.
I arrived in Hong Kong not knowing a single person. Before leaving America, the idea of this was not intimidating: it was almost seductive, like a tantalizing challenge beckoning to me to see if I could overcome it. I am forever grateful for this challenge, because now I know all about Canada.
The first few friends I made were three boys. They are probably reading this and going to make fun of me for writing about them – here you go Jimmy, your ego can now be even more inflated knowing that you are memorialized on the Internet forever – and as male friendships go, our conversation was wildly interesting.
I walked up to them and asked them if they knew where the trashcan was. They said no. Then we made small talk about our backgrounds (what’s your name, where are you from, etc.), exchanged Instagrams, and bid farewell.
It is wild that not knowing the whereabouts of the dormitory trash can create lasting friendships, but here we are. Those three boys introduced me to all the other people in our groupchat. I feel that this moment was necessary to include because truly, without my group of friends here, my abroad experience would have been much, much different. Experiencing Hong Kong, Korea, and Taiwan together are moments that I’ll forever be grateful for. There is simply not another group of people that I’d rather request 20 songs at Free House bar with, rizz up Taiwanese locals in shitty Mandarin with, experience insane constipation due to the scarcity of fiber here with, do Instagram Live mukbangs with, heal from my trauma with, and enjoy Hong Kong with. I’m grateful for my ability to harass strangers for help because as a result, I now have friends from the same hometown as Drake (I know Joyce is from Boston but … making this statement with Paul Revere wouldn’t hit quite the same).
Despite knowing all of you for only 4 months, it’s been amazing to see how much we have all grown from the people we were when we first met each other. In the best way possible, I think we’ve become unrecognizable. (Except Jimmy … he’s pretty much the same.)
Outside of my friends, I’ve also been lucky enough to meet locals in Hong Kong as well. Every Wednesday, another exchange student and I journey for about 1.5 hours to the other side of Hong Kong, where we teach English to primary school kids. They range from the ages of 5-7, and they are all incredibly adorable. We sing English songs together, read English books together, and talk about our favorite animals together (elephants are a majority favorite). At the end of the 40-minute lesson, the other exchange student and I walk the kids out to their families, making sure they didn’t leave behind anything in the classroom and that they are not getting lost in the hallways. At the start of every week, I eagerly look forward to those 40 minutes.
There is also the random auntie I met. A few weeks ago, I went to the Mostown wet market in Ma On Shan to grab dinner. There’s a delicious noodle shop in the back that charges 35 HKD (4 USD) for a bowl of shrimp wonton noodles in delicious broth. Since there were a shortage of seats, the staff sat another customer at my table. She was a woman a bit older than my mom, with large glasses and a kind face. She ordered beef noodles. We sat there, inches away from each other, chewing on our noodles in silence. It was quite awkward.
“Your noodles look good,” I said lamely in Mandarin, hoping to break the ice.
Her lips creased into a smile. “Yours too. Are you a student?”
Over our steaming bowls of dinner, we talked about her son, my study abroad experience, our favorite Hong Kong foods, my family, and the American obesity epidemic (“You Americans eat such trashy food,” she lamented). We talked until the shop had closed and we were ushered out. Standing together at the entrance of the shop, she asked, “Do you want to walk around together?”
I paused, and she tensed, quickly adding: “No worries if you don’t want to!”
“No, no, of course I’d love to walk with you! I was just wondering if it would be a waste of your time because you already bought your groceries.” I pointed at the bulging bag on her shoulder.
“Not at all. My son is out camping. Ugh, I could never go camping. That’s what the young boys like nowadays.” She chuckled, and I nodded vigorously. I don’t understand people who enjoy camping either. “Anyways, I have nothing else to do tonight, so let’s walk, shall we?”
We walked through the crowded market, passing by vendors selling bloody slabs of meat and lush, fresh produce. We walked past long lines of people grabbing dinner after work and small shops filled with home care goods and skin care. She listened to me excitedly babble about my family coming to Hong Kong in a few weeks. I asked her for restaurant recommendations, to which she diligently gave me many. I tried to carry her grocery bag for her, but she brushed my efforts away every time. Finally, on the way out, she told the shopkeepers to make my egg waffle quicker in Cantonese, which is something I am eternally grateful for.
Another night, I came across a middle-aged woman sitting in the backroom of the club my friends and I were at, which was connected to the waiting room for the bathrooms. I waved hello and jokingly asked if she was going to come out and dance. She shook her head with a small smile. “Not me. I’m too old.”
In Mandarin, I asked, “Did you like clubbing when you were younger?”
She laughed and shook her head again. “When I was young, the clubs here didn’t even exist yet. The world was very different.”
She paused, then said with a smile, “You young people nowadays are so much happier than we were back then. It’s nice.”
I am not someone who leads a life of leisure. It’s encoded in my personality to always have something on my plate. Maybe it’s the cult of capitalism or the philosophies instilled in me from my parents; whatever the case, during the school year, the only time I have to myself is an hour at the end of the day where I mindlessly scroll through TikTok in bed.
In Hong Kong, I took four classes, all of which were pass-fail. My student visa limited me from working in Hong Kong and all the clubs and extracurriculars at my school are exclusively for local students. With so little to do and so much newfound time, I simply didn’t know what to do myself.
Without a schedule, every day became an adventure. Every night, as I drifted off into sleep, I envisioned my grand plans for the next day. The plan usually consists of deciding which canteen to eat at, carving out some time for the gym, and exploring a certain part of Hong Kong. In the most Eat Pray Love way possible, I wander. I walk around aimlessly and let my mind drift. I especially love exploring the neon-lit streets of Mong Kok and buying street food from a vendor that doesn’t seem to have the food sickness vibe. I also love riding Star Ferry through Victoria Harbor, especially in the direction from Tsim Sha Tsui to Central. Soho, another favorite of mine, is a vibrant area that has the cutest coffee shops and biggest opportunities for increasing your step count due to its hilly geography. Kwai Fung Plaza is another of my favored places to get lost in. It’s a four-story indoor market that sells everything from phone screens, the best egg tarts you will ever try, affordable clothing, and even haircuts. Finally, you must end your day at Kitchen One Roast Goose in Causeway Bay, which has the best barbecue pork (叉烧肉) that I’ve ever had, and if you have a few friends with you, barhopping in Lan Kwai Fong is a life-changing experience (seriously, I have no idea how I will ever go back to a college frat party).
On other days, the plan was to lay in bed for the entirety of the next day. On those days, I started finding new hobbies to fill up the time. I bought a DJ controller and yes, I am trying to join the oversupply of college DJs. I read more books this semester than I have in my entire college career thus far (I recommend The Tyranny of Merit by Michael J. Sandel). I tried new foods, met new people, finally finished several shows, and laid in bed a lot. As you can imagine, the last few months have been a dream.
I used to fear spending time alone. A wandering mind was not a good thing, because usually, mine would wander to something dark and stressful. I had never set aside time to spend with myself to truly learn who I am as a person. As a result, being alone felt like hanging out with a stranger.
This all changed in Hong Kong: suddenly, forced with an abundance of time, I began to immensely enjoy spending time alone. This semester, I’ve been able to do things alone that I used to be absolutely terrified of: I’ve watched movies alone, ate in restaurants alone, shopped alone, and done more without needing a friend in tow. I have Hong Kong to thank for this newfound ability.
There is a canteen in my university that overlooks a beautiful pond. The water is teeming with koi fish of every color and a pagoda stands elegantly at its center. It’s one of my favorite canteens, and I love eating my braised pork rice outside while listening to the rustle of the willow trees.
Once, in this exact spot, I wondered if the life I was living in Hong Kong was comparable to my parents’ experiences. During my adolescence, it was often difficult for my parents and I to understand each other due to our vastly different childhoods. My mother grew up in a house in a rural Chinese village that had a well for drinking water. Her birthday was a special day because that was the one time a year that she could eat a boiled egg. As you can imagine, our experiences probably don’t overlap that much. Regardless, I couldn’t help but wonder if she had had this same experience: eating pork rice by the pond. The thought made me feel closer to my parents somehow, because the past few months that I’ve spent in Hong Kong are the closest that I will ever have to experiencing what my parents’ childhoods were possibly like. The China they grew up in is long gone, but pork rice and ponds have survived for centuries.
I had a similar thought in Taiwan. Night markets are a Taiwanese specialty, and I think we spent about half of our nights at one. On the first night, I stopped by a cart selling a salt and pepper chicken mix. The chicken is cut into smaller pieces with scissors, tossed into a plastic bag with vegetables of your picking (I picked broccoli, green beans, and corn), and shaken with a sprinkle of salt and black pepper. As I counted out the coins to pay, I was jolted by the thought that my parents have probably experienced this exact moment. Street vendors are just as common in China as they are in Taiwan, and as I placed the coins neatly onto the glass, I imagined my parents doing the very same thing 30 years ago.
I kept mulling over the realization that time spent in Asia is much more like my parents’ childhoods than any second spent in America. Because I grew up with Asian influences from my parents, the cultural divide between my American and Chinese identities wasn’t too wide. However, I’ve realized that for my parents, the divide must have been mountainous. I thought about them landing in America in their mid-20s without a street vendor in sight. That thought was jarring.
When I talk to local students in Hong Kong, I’m reminded that their life could have been mine. Had my parents never decided to move to North America, I would be Chinese, not American. I would have grown up surrounded by people who look like me with my extended family no longer an ocean away. I would have been able to meet my grandparents more than a couple of times before they passed. The street food that I view as a delicacy would be a regular afternoon snack, and I would have never once wished that my parents packed me a Lunchable instead of leftover fried rice. I would have never had to explain my way of living to others and had to question whether it – and I – is normal. In another universe, growing up in Asia is so typical that any other way of living is unimaginable.
However, in that universe, my perception is tied to one worldview without the knowledge of anything different. Despite the hardships over the years, it is better to experience two cultures instead of just one. Each addresses the shortcomings of the other and each allows me to appreciate the other in ways otherwise impossible.
Hong Kong, in all its glory, is not without its faults. I recognize that I’ve been able to experience the best that the city has to offer without having to endure any of its hardships. For many, reality in Hong Kong is far from my sugary review. Much like my home country of America, Hong Kong is the most expensive country in Asia and has some of the continent’s highest income inequality and social immobility (1, 2). Political unrest with China has led many people to leave the country in droves (3), which is sure to cause a brain drain in the future. Climate change has also made the country’s future unclear (4). I understand that I haven’t really experienced the true Hong Kong experience, because my experience is from a place of immense privilege.
I came to Hong Kong to learn the parts of myself that I could never learn in America. It’s strange that a place that I’ve never visited can feel so familiar. Hong Kong has answered many of the questions that my American childhood failed to address, and it’s shown me the roots and history behind my family’s “un-American” habits. It’s a blessing to be able to feel like a part of a collective, and even though this feeling is fleeting, I am all the better for being able to experience it at all.
I am so, so grateful for this country and this experience. Every person I’ve met, even if it was simply a conversion in passing, has touched me irrevocably. From the taxi driver to the auntie in the noodle shop, the people of Hong Kong have been nothing but kind and welcoming. I am forever changed because of this opportunity, and I will bitterly miss Hong Kong every second that I’m gone.
4. https://www.scmp.com/comment/letters/article/3190944/hong-kong-cannot-afford-bury-its-head-sand-rising-sea-levels
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