Years ago I learned a travel tip that serves me well to this day: Hop on a bus, anywhere, and look. In Hong Kong, many of the buses are double-deckers. I took my Octopus card and deliberately got lost.
Octopus is the name of Hong Kong's "smart payment" system; Octopus cards can be bought almost anywhere to be used almost anywhere. Once purchased there is no time limit and simply adding cash keeps it current. I used it on ferries, trains, buses and trolley cars. You can also use it at McDonald's, William liked to remind me.
The ferry to Hong Kong Island was charming, the metros fast, quiet and clean, the buses reliable. Getting around Hong Kong was a pleasure.
A city bus usually has a circular route. It's a cheap and easy way to sightsee, but in Hong Kong it can also be an adventure. In fact, if you're a fan of thrill rides, take a Hong Kong double-decker.
I'd climb to the upper level of the bus, sit in the front, grip the rail and hang on. Many streets were hilly, curvy and narrow. When negotiating a turn, the driver slowed his two-tiered behemoth to a near-stop and inched us to within inches of the retaining wall. I held my breath and waited for the sound of metal on rock, but we always cleared the turn and continued on our way.
In calmer moments, the ongoing enterprise of Hong Kong's construction fascinated me. From our apartment window I watched mile-high buildings rise, encased in intricate bamboo scaffolding. Bamboo is plentiful, substantial as metal and has the added grace of flexibility. Workers clambered up and down the wooden matrix with ease.
I harbored doubts about the quality of the construction, however, since our apartment regularly filled with the aroma of whatever the folks next door were cooking. William would arrive home from work thinking he was getting a hot meal, and I'd tell him to visit the neighbors because we were having a cold salad.
I also made plans to explore Wan Chai, a district on Hong Kong Island also known as "Sailortown." Popular with U.S. armed forces during World War II and the Vietnam War, military personnel spent their R&R in Wan Chai's red-light neighborhood. Here I was at ground zero for The World of Suzie Wong, a love story between an artist and a prostitute (with a heart of gold, of course).
The area had cleaned up considerably since Suzie modeled for Robert Lomax. It was now chock-a-block with fancy restaurants and domiciles for the wealthy. The Wan Chai waterfront is home to the Hong Kong Convention and Exhibition Centre and the Hong Kong Performing Arts Center, where Broadway musicals open year-round. In the mood for Annie? Wan Chai is where you'll find her.
Much of the area was shiny and new, but I was in a more salacious mood and attracted to the more, let's say, colorful side of Wan Chai's history. Lockhart Road upholds these ideals. It probably wasn't a great place for a woman on her own to poke around at night, but I felt brave and secure in the daylight. At first.
Once again, it was as if I were transported into a movie. Colored lights flashed atop bars called Blue Girl, Copacabana, and Pussy Cat. A giant martini glass pulsed in neon as its green olive blinked on and off. This street of dreams still beckoned hardworking sailors on a Saturday night and acted as a wonderland for an inquisitive tourist.
I looked up, I looked around, and mid-Mary Tyler Moore-spin I stopped. I was being scrutinized by the ladies outside the clubs. I was in the wrong movie and they were setting me straight. I did not belong on Lockhart Road. I didn't dare go inside, or even pop my head into a bar on Lockhart Road.
I shouldn't have been so nervous. The likelihood of being mistaken for a working girl was preposterous, but I sensed I was out of my element in this neighborhood. My presence on Lockhart Road was akin to stepping into a couple's bedroom by mistake. I scurried off like a chastised child.
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