In truth, I never truly experienced Hong Kong through the lens of a working week. My life in this city unfolded almost exclusively during summer holidays—when school was out, and the concept of Monday or Saturday became irrelevant. Every day was a day off, yet curiously structured by habits and rituals that lent it shape. In Hong Kong, leisure never felt lazy, and even the most unhurried of days held a quiet momentum of their own.
One of the first things I noticed about Hong Kong was that the city didn’t know how to rest. Not really. While in other places the weekend was sacred—a time to exhale—Hong Kong seemed to inhale harder. Saturdays were not so much about slowing down as they were about speeding up in a different direction. People hurried to their brunches, their shopping expeditions, their children’s violin lessons or swimming classes. You could see them rushing in and out of MTR stations, crossing overhead walkways with a kind of determined leisure. Even relaxation had a deadline. Even joy, a queue.
But my world in Hong Kong operated on a separate axis, one detached from the grind. Our maids would usually prepare breakfast for Alex and me—nothing too fancy, sometimes sandwiches, sometimes instant noodles with luncheon meat and a fried egg, Hong Kong-style. If Father was in a particularly generous mood—or had woken earlier than usual—he might make lunch himself, his signature being a light stir-fry or a surprisingly competent Western brunch.
On occasion, he would take us to the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club in Wan Chai. We’d spend the entire day there, eating buffet lunches in the dining area that overlooked the harbour, then slipping away to the pool, where the water shimmered like glass beneath the mid-summer haze. Sometimes we played snooker in the lounge, or bowled a few lazy frames in the bowling room, where the cool air always smelled faintly of salt and old wood.
Other weekends were reserved for seeing our grandmother. Yum cha was her ritual, and we happily played our part. She’d arrive with a gentle smile and an armful of surprises—books she’d found for me, toys for Alex, and stories stitched from her youth. She never seemed hurried, and that alone made her presence feel like a reprieve from the city's relentless pulse. My aunties, uncles, and cousins would sometimes join, and we’d crowd around the round table, sharing more than just dim sum. These moments reminded me that family, even when dispersed and seldom seen, remained the one constant thread—gossamer-thin yet unbreakable.
There were also days spent at sea. Father would charter a yacht, and off we went—the three of us—cutting through Victoria Harbour and into open water. Alex and I would try fishing, half-heartedly, mostly for the joy of casting lines and arguing over bait. Other times we swam or stretched ourselves out on the sun-soaked deck, books in hand, letting the hours pass like waves beneath the hull. It was quiet, peaceful, ours.
We avoided crowded shopping malls whenever we could. Cyberport was the rare exception—a place where we could pick up groceries or wander without being swallowed by the weekend crush.
Dinner was usually a home affair. No fanfare. Just something simple—perhaps wagyu steak or grilled fish and chips, or dumplings handmade between the three of us. Alex was particularly good at wrapping dumplings—his fingers nimble, his folds consistent, like a little craftsman at work. Sometimes, we also made pasta, salad, roast chicken, sushi, whatever struck our fancy. 14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ25ptBfdgxQ
After dinner, Alex and I would watch a film—sometimes something silly, sometimes something serious—while our father retreated behind his laptop, answering emails until he inevitably fell asleep halfway through, his snoring a familiar, oddly comforting soundtrack to our evening.
Sometimes, we didn’t need the screen. We’d set up the chessboard instead. That particular set was a shared treasure—heavy wooden pieces, smooth to the touch, bearing the patina of years. We’d play quietly, each move slow and considered, the way our conversations often were. Go, too, made its rounds across the coffee table—black and white stones in silent war, strategy in silence. I often went easy on Alex—until he grew too cocky, and then I’d swiftly put him in his place.
As we grew older, there were those nights when we decided—without any real reason—to go for a walk. Just Alex and me, slipping out past ten. The heat had settled by then, and the city had dimmed, if only slightly. We’d stroll along the quiet streets near the Mid-Levels, talking about everything and nothing—about school, about dreams, about what we’d eat the next day. One night, I remember, we stopped to sit on the kerb near a park. There was no one else around. A cat slinked past us, disinterested and dignified. Alex looked up at the sky, then nudged me and said, “I wonder if we’ll ever live here again.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. We both knew the answer didn’t matter.
That moment—simple, unspectacular, and fleeting—is what I carry with me still. Not the city’s skyscrapers or its skyline, not the Michelin stars or harbour views, but the quiet comfort of sitting beside someone you’ve known your whole life, sharing the stillness of a Hong Kong night, with no rush to be anywhere else.
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