When your kind heart is filled with love and you are feeling truly happy again, then you’ll know the divine energies have healed you.
I can also hear hushed whisperings and a few gasps as people around us gathered to eavesdrop on what was happening here. I can feel my face glowing like a furnace.
‘Look, the swami have promised to grant her a wish!’ People were saying in excitement.
The swami smiles at me serenely in encouragement. ‘You should make your wish.’
‘Hey girl, what are you waiting for?’ shouts a wide-eyed young guy with dreadlocks.
‘Ask for next week’s lotto numbers!’ suggests an old man sporting a bushy white beard.
‘Do it! Make the wish …’ urges a tiny Indian woman who was sitting opposite me.
I pick up the card and hold it to my heart. I close my eyes and I wish.
I know my wish should be a noble one to even stand a chance of coming true.
And, this time, instead of asking the Divine for a way to live my life without Jon, I ask for a reason to live my life without Jon.
Chapter 13
Hong Kong
Before embarking on my magical mystery tour, I’d never flown long haul before and I’d certainly never travelled first class in seats that were more like luxurious survival pods stocked with Champagne. I didn’t ever realise that I’d feel so cossetted and comfortable, and I have to tell you that I’ve certainly made the most of it all, just as Jon would have wanted me to.
I’ve drunk the Champagne and I’ve enjoyed the finest cuisine; I’ve read the glossiest of complimentary international magazines and watched the latest movie and, if I hadn’t been so excited to get to my next destination, I would have been very happy for this flight to have taken much longer than five hours because I’ve been so spoiled.
A shiver of excitement rushes through me as the captain announces we have started our descent into Hong Kong International Airport. The cabin crew are now busy checking that everyone is wearing their seatbelt. I focus my attention out of the small porthole window and on the bird’s-eye night-time view of the thrilling city below us with its multitude of tall buildings sparkling against a backdrop of mountains and mist. I can hear Jon’s voice in my ear.
Before they built the new airport, you had to fly in through the high-rise buildings and the wing tips of the plane would be practically rapping on the windows of people’s apartments!
I remember my parents telling me the same thing. How amazing but scary that must have been for all concerned before they built the airport out on a nearby island. I peer down to see a sparkling galaxy of city lights below me. My ears are feeling the change in pressure as we descend. A frisson of exhilaration fizzles through me as I see that the famous high-rises are swathed in calligraphy and there are advertising hoards streaming up and down and the flickering lights and colours are being reflected in the inky shining waters of Victoria Harbour. And there are so many boats I can see moving between Hong Kong and Kowloon.
The Star Ferry, I hear Jon saying, is the traditional way to get to the Kowloon peninsula and over to the night market on Temple Street and the famous and most popular Ladies’ Market.
I’m so very thrilled to have this dream come true and right now it’s all thanks to Jon.
Might I have come here on my own if I hadn’t met him and he hadn’t instigated all of this? I’d like to think so. But when? And would I have come here via India?
Perhaps. I’ve always wanted to see the Taj Mahal. I’ve promised it to myself sometime very soon. Jon roused in me a curiosity and an interest in many other parts of India with his amazing stories of life in the ashram and the life-affirming spirituality. He’d made Rishikesh sound like a supernatural place. And, despite my initial scepticism and my experiences of culture shock, what I’d found there in the end was beyond supernatural.
I’ll admit that it had been difficult for me to comprehend, understand, and accept what had looked to me to be strange ways and a diverse attitude to life and death. I’d been shocked in many ways by the things I’d seen there but I’d also been educated and enlightened. Because, I remind myself, India isn’t somewhere you go to see. India is somewhere you go to feel.
Which leads me to wonder, how will I truly feel about Hong Kong?
It is surreal to arrive somewhere I’d once belonged and yet to be a stranger.
We disembark from the plane through a passenger transit tunnel straight into the arrivals lounge and I’m fast-tracked through the first-class channels in the comfortable chill of air conditioning that is absolutely no preparation for the heat and humidity outside the airport terminal. I walk quickly to appease my legs after sitting for several hours and, after I’ve retrieved my backpack from the luggage carousel, I walk into a wall of heat at the meet-and-greet area to rendezvous with my taxi.
I’d rung ahead to confirm with the hotel which flight I was arriving on and to let them know that I’d appreciate them sending a car. What I didn’t expect was a chauffeur in uniform holding up a card bearing Jon’s name, and I realised that perhaps I should also have mentioned I was travelling alone.
Mr & Mrs Jon Howard
Welcome to Hong Kong
I’m escorted to a shiny, emerald-green Rolls Royce parked at the kerbside and whisked through the neon-lit night to arrive at the hotel’s impressively enclosed grand forecourt, where I see many more of these signature green Rolls Royces and an army of page boys, all dressed in white and standing to attention. My door is opened by a boy carrying a silver platter who is eager to offer me an ice-cold towel with which to refresh my travel-weary self.
My culture shock is back but this time not at the poverty but at the obvious privilege.
I decide that I am both fortunate and blessed to know the difference between the two.
The hotel lobby is astonishingly beautiful with a marble floor and elegant décor featuring marble statues, not of Hindu Gods or Buddhist figures this time, but instead Chinese lions and dragons.
This is nothing like the ashram. A fuss is made over my arrival. I’m ushered to a comfortable chair at the executive check-in desk and I’m offered a drink. I ask for water.
A couple at another executive check-in point are being served very good Champagne.
All around me are smartly dressed people wearing suits and cocktail dresses, all obviously dressed up at this late hour to enjoy the bars and restaurants in the town. For me, it has been a long day of airports and travel, and I’m keen to be shown to my room so I can relax.
I pass over my booking confirmation and the receptionist casts her eyes over it and smiles.
‘Congratulations on your recent marriage, Mrs Howard. I see you’re in our honeymoon suite. Let me get you checked in. I’ll need your passport, please. Is Mr Howard arriving later?’
I swallow hard. ‘Erm … no. I’m alone. I’m Ms Thomas and Mr Howard did make the booking for us both but … well, he couldn’t make it. Is that a problem?’ I hand over my passport and she turns her attention and her blushes to her computer, tapping rapidly on the keypad. Thankfully, her recovery is both fast and professional.
‘Oh … no problem at all. I see you’re also named on the reservation, Ms Thomas. Are you still happy to occupy the honeymoon suite or would you like me to change that for you? I do have another suite free, if you’d prefer it, but of course it’s entirely your choice.’
‘I’d very much like the room that Mr Howard originally booked for us, please.’
The valet takes care of my backpack which he insists on placing on a fancy luggage trolley. I assume that he and his trolley are more accustomed to transporting a stack of pristine designer suitcases than a rather dirty looking backpack, but he graciously doesn’t show it.
We go up to an extremely high floor and I follow him along a carpeted hallway until, with a flourish and a smile, a card is used to open the door to my suite. I’m escorted inside. I’m sure he’s more accustomed to showing this room to couples rather than one solo fem
ale, but again he courteously doesn’t show it, and instead busies himself by flicking a switch to illuminate every lamp in the room and then helpfully explaining where the air-con controls are, how to use the TV, and where I can find the mini bar. I sigh with pleasure.
This is all more beautiful and more luxurious than I’d been expecting or even dared to hope. The interconnecting rooms are large, the carpets deep, and the furnishings gorgeous.
I’ve never stayed, or expected to stay, anywhere like this in my entire life.
And, joy of joys, there’s a coffee machine and a glimpse of a sumptuous bathroom.
Most impressive of all are the floor-to-ceiling windows off both the sitting room and the other side of the open double doorways into the bedroom area. I rush over to the windows, drawn to them like a moth to a flame, because I can see that the dancing colours of the Symphony of Lights show that plays at 8pm every night here is happening right now below me in Victoria Harbour.
The windows allow for a private viewing of this most spectacular light-to-music extravaganza. The only thing missing of course, owing to the thickness of glass, is the accompanying music.
I watch in awe as buildings on both side of the harbour glitter with colourful light beams and multimedia images. I gasp in delight and decide, with great anticipation of fulfilling another of Jon’s Post-it note instructions, that tomorrow evening I will experience this performance in all its glory from the middle of the harbour on that old wooden sailing junk.
The one with billowing indigo-red sails filled to the brink with tourists taking flash photos.
I turn around with a huge excited grin on my face to see that the enormous bed in the adjoining room has been beautifully decorated with red rose petals in the shape of a heart and the words ‘Just Married’. My smile suddenly slips away as my heart drops into my stomach. Perhaps this was why the receptionist had tactfully offered me an alternative room?
‘Madam, would you like me to open your Champagne?’ My attentive valet asks, indicating a bottle of Cristal resting in an ice bucket.
It had been pre-ordered by Jon. A 1996 Rosé. I’d seen the receipt for it in his wallet.
I respond with a perhaps overly enthusiastic squeal. ‘Oh … absolutely!’
I’m determined to enjoy all of this as Jon intended. And, as soon as the cork is popped and the sparkling pink nectar poured into a crystal glass flute, I slip the valet a handsome tip and indicate that I’m incredibly happy and he may now leave. Once I’m alone in all this cossetted luxury, I sweep the rose petals into a paper basket and flick off my flip flops to jump onto the bed and wallow in its comfort.
The bed is huge and so soft that it feels like I’m floating on a soft white cloud in the sky.
After wallowing, I go and stand by the window again, sipping my delicious Champagne.
‘Thank you, Jon …’ I murmur, raising my glass to the last of the lights and to his memory.
Then, feeling travel weary, I check out the bathroom and oh … deep, deep joy!
The bathroom is like something from the Homes of the Rich and Famous magazine that I’d read on the plane with its decadent and vast space presented in marble and glass and porcelain.
Behind the double vanity is a wall of mirrors. The soft lighting around them is absolutely exquisite because, even with my humidity-tousled hair and in my baggy blouse and trousers, right now I look more boho-chic than hippy vagrant. I squeal again on seeing an array of complementary luxury toiletries and turn to fill the bathtub and then refill my champagne glass. In a soft white towelling robe, feeling elated and giggly with the sheer extravagance, I take a few selfies reflected in the bathroom mirror to send to Pia.
I really feel I have to share this with someone and my sister is now my one and only.
I lie in the bath for about an hour amongst the scented bubbles until I finally feel calm and relaxed. After a week using the shared bathroom in the ashram, private wallowing in such gloriously glamourous surroundings is wholly appreciated and enjoyed. I know I will sleep well tonight.
And, if I dream of Jon, then this time I know I won’t be upset.
I’ll simply be delighted and very happy to see him again.
* * *
I slept for eight dreamless hours solid and woke up feeling amazingly refreshed.
The very moment I opened my eyes and recalled exactly where I was – not in the ashram but in the city of my birth and the place of my hopes and dreams – I bounded out of bed to do my morning stretches and yoga routine. Then, I made a cup of strong coffee using the fancy machine in my room and sat on the bed to open Jon’s wallet and carefully study my itinerary once again, and to familiarise myself with the variety of Post-it notes stuck to the hotel receipt.
One stated Victoria Peak and then Ride the Peak Tram.
There was an old brochure for the Peak Tram showing the steep track up the mountain.
Another Eat dim sum and another Tai Chi at Kowloon Park.
I love dim sum. But Tai Chi?
Well, I’m sure it’s on the agenda for the very same reason as ‘Real Yoga’.
It’s part of the grand plan because Jon first learned Tai Chi here in Hong Kong.
But, by far the most mysterious Post-it note was one I couldn’t quite fathom: Divine Number Nine.
Divine number nine? How very odd. What did that mean?
Should I be thinking of picking up a lottery ticket? Or perhaps going to the horse races?
Jon had mentioned there was a famous racecourse in Happy Valley. Could that be it?
And, in Happy Valley of course, I had my own exploratory mission to complete. I’d brought the old photo of my parents’ previous home with me and I needed to find out if it was still there. I pop the photo and Jon’s wallet into my day bag. I shower and dress and, setting aside my loose-fitting hippy outfits and baggy harem-style trousers that I’d worn in Rishikesh, I picked out a pretty cotton blouse and some cropped capri trousers along with my most comfortable shoes. I intended to do a lot of walking today, hiking in valleys and mountains, so I knew I had to choose practical over stylish.
Breakfast was taken in the private executive club lounge. A pot of coffee, fruit and yogurt, lightly scrambled eggs on toast and, of course, fine shavings of truffle and delicious smoked salmon with a garnish of caviar. Why not!
After which, I go and seek advice from the hotel concierge on how best to navigate the city and see the sights. I decline the services of the complementary chauffeur and signature Rolls Royce, I think because I’m perhaps suffering from a bout of high-life imposter syndrome. I’m simply not used to being ferried around by chauffeurs. I explain that I’m especially keen to explore the sights at my own pace and much prefer to walk or use public transport. My explanation was met with only lightly masked astonishment.
I’m provided with a street map and routes carefully explained to me and, wearing sunshades, a hat, and my comfortable attire, I venture out into the narrow, crooked, steep streets of Hong Kong. I pinch myself as I walk. Am I dreaming or am I really here?
I find myself in the tremendously crowded and bustling Central Area.
Small shops line the street and they are also in all the nooks and alleyways between the tall buildings. Each seems to be a thriving independent family business and a store or café or a food-on-the-go stall. As it’s breakfast time, the streets are awash with people drinking tea and coffee, local breakfast specialities being offered at every turn to hungry residents and visitors alike. It all looks and smells amazing and even though I’ve already eaten a hearty breakfast, my senses are being tempted by the aroma of coffee, sweet buns, and fried dough sticks. I resist and promise myself I’ll sample these culinary delights later and I walk until I find the main street to follow to Western Market and the bus station where I join the orderly queue.
It’s so refreshing to find an orderly line and everyone waiting quietly and patiently!
The bus I catch takes a winding route away from Central Area and The Causeway to Ga
rden Road. I was tempted to go and explore Happy Valley first thing this morning in search of my Shangri-La, but I’m taking the concierge’s advice to go up to the peak first instead. I’m told that by mid-morning, as the heat rises and the mist rolls in from the sea, my much-anticipated view of Hong Kong and the islands is likely to be totally obscured by cloud.
As the bus makes its way steadily and slowly uphill with the engine rumbling and the gears growling, I’m focussed on peering through the window at the interesting and beautifully appointed residential homes on the steep sides of the surrounding mountain slopes. I check my map. From my lofty vantage point I can see the Victoria Gap and Happy Valley, where my parents had lived and where I was born. It looks more built up than I expected as the whole valley is full of towering high-rises.
As I stare down at the area where I intend to spend tomorrow exploring, I wonder in which Hong Kong district had Jon lived. He once told me that he’d had an apartment close to his place of work where the old and authentic meets the new and dynamic.
Nowadays, it seems the landscape is filled purely with the new and dynamic.
The bus rolls into the station at the Peak Tram Terminus. I’m particularly looking forward to the experience of riding on the world’s steepest funicular tram – one of Hong Kong’s top tourist attractions and an exciting way to reach the top of the mountain. Apparently because it rises so steeply up the side of the mountain all the high-rise buildings it passes look to be leaning over! Of course, it’s actually the passenger who’s on a gradient and not the buildings.
It feels rather strange and a little disconcerting to be tipped back into the wooden bench-style seats by sheer gravity but once at the top, the view from the sky terrace is incredible.
It’s relaxing to walk around in the less humid air up here and to stand, as I do for quite some time, gazing down at the views of the city skyscrapers far below and then across to the many green and undulating islands scattered across the vista like pieces of a giant jigsaw puzzle waiting to be joined together. I take a deep breath and think of Jon and his life here. I think about my parents and the decade they lived and worked in Hong Kong.
The Backpacking Bride (The Backpacking Housewife, Book 3) Page 13
