The Backpacking Bride (The Backpacking Housewife, Book 3)

by Janice Horton

  I might have made this trip alone, but I certainly don’t feel alone.

  This is the place where my life began and, in many ways, it still feels like home. How strange that I still feel connected to Jon and to my own past here in Hong Kong.

  I’m really enjoying myself on this new stage in the magical mystery tour and I’m already in great anticipation of my next experience: dim sum for lunch!

  * * *

  I take the return trip on the funicular and walk back into the city, wandering along the narrow, steeply sloping streets through the suburbs.

  Walking is undoubtedly the best way to see and to fully experience this amazing city. I marvel at all the strange, unfamiliar sights around me.

  There are rows of plucked ducks hanging by their necks in glass cases. Chicken feet fry in vast boiling woks. Stalls sell baskets of something that looks like hair but on closer inspection might be a type of fungus, and strange dried fish and other desiccated sea life, like sea cucumber, starfish and spiny urchins. There are also stalls selling top designer luxury goods.

  I browse Louis Vuitton handbags, Ray-Ban sunglasses, Rolex Watches, Gucci, Chanel, Prada. All are at prices that suggest they can’t possibly be the real deal even if they seem to pass muster on close inspection. I’m both amused and terribly tempted to buy one of these knock-off handbags for Pia. My sister has always been the stylish one of the two of us. Would she be able to tell the difference between a counterfeit and the real deal I wonder?

  When her husband had asked her what she’d wanted for her ‘big birthday’ a few years ago I remember she’d asked for a handbag and Peter had thought this a perfectly reasonable request – until he went out to buy it for her. He told me he’d been so shocked by the price that he’d had to put it on his credit card and pay it off in instalments over the next year. It would have amused me to see if she could tell her £2000 Gucci handbag apart from a $20 one.

  There seemed to be Chinese pharmacies everywhere too – small shops selling seeds and herbs and traditional Chinese medicines – all of which add to my sensory overload on the exciting streets of Hong Kong.

  It takes me a couple of hours to reach the main street again and the old part of town that looks to cater well for history buffs, art lovers and for those hunting for souvenirs and the chance to indulge in shopping sprees. I stick to window shopping and taking in the atmosphere and aromas until my feet are complaining and I’m flagging with hunger.

  I’m delighted to come across Dim Sum Square almost by accident, and I take a seat in a busy café. The menu is a huge numbered picture board on the wall. You order by simply ticking the numbers on a checkbox on a smaller paper version of the menu handed out by the person who was also serving endless cups of steaming black tea or yum cha from a large pot.

  I quickly tick off some delicious bite-sized siu mai – delicate steamed wheat balls containing ground pork; chopped shrimp in mouth-watering flavours of ginger and soy sauce garnished with crab roe; har gow – classically translucent dumplings with fish; and char siu bao – light and fluffy buns stuffed with barbeque pork. Each came in simple bamboo baskets of three or four bite-sized portions and with as much cha as I could drink.

  The food is served quickly and without fuss and it doesn’t disappoint. Every bite is a deliciously authentic steaming mouthful of dumpling heaven. No wonder Jon wanted me to try them here and why he said they were the best in the world.

  * * *

  After lunch, I head slowly back through the steep narrow streets lined with old residential apartment buildings so tall that they seem to be swaying, moving and breathing with a life of their own. Then suddenly I’m back on to the chaotically busy main street where trucks and cars jostle for pole position at the junctions and scooters scuttle by making popping and buzzing sounds like the strange insects I saw being cooked in cauldrons on the street corners. I’m completely charmed by the old double-decker trams shrieking on the metal rails embedded in the street. These trams, I’m told, are the most popular and inexpensive way to get around, and they are locally and affectionally known as the ding ding.

  To save my legs, I hop aboard a ding ding and ride the tram down to Central Pier.

  From there, I planned to take a trip across the harbour on the Star Ferry to visit Kowloon Island, where I would find my next exciting Post-it note experience: Tai Chi in Kowloon Park. This particular note was actually stuck to an old, faded Star Ferry brochure.

  As I wait at the harbour point to step aboard one of these iconic green and white ferries, I read that the Star Ferry has been carrying passengers across the harbour for 120 years and that the four original Star Ferry boats where called Morning Star, Evening Star, Rising Star and Guiding Star. Their names were inspired by one of my favourite British poems, Alfred Lord Tennyson’s ‘Crossing the Bar’, which I knew well from my school days and could still recite from memory.

  Sunset and evening star,

  And one clear call for me!

  And may there be no moaning of the bar,

  When I put out to sea.

  Inside the old brochure, I’m amazed to find that there’s an old ferry ticket dated 22nd October 1997. It escapes me and flutters onto the floor. I quickly stoop to pick it up and on the back I see Jon’s swirly ink pen scrawl.

  Harry Chen still owes me a chip.

  How curious. What kind of chip did he owe Jon? I thought of French fries as ‘chips’ but some people call potato crisps, chips, too.

  With the ferry boarding, I stuff the brochure and notes back inside my bag and sit on a wooden seat that will allow me a good view of the harbour. I make sure to have my phone ready to take lots of photos of what is one of the most photographed views in the world, one I’ve longed to see with my own eyes for as long as I could remember.

  And it doesn’t disappoint. In all its glory, this is the famous Hong Kong cityscape.

  So, it seems, dreams really can come true …

  Chapter 14

  Kowloon Island

  Just thirty relaxing minutes later, after crossing Victoria Harbour, I’m on Kowloon Island, where I’ve got an even better view of the harbour and the cityscape. I wander along from the busy docking area to the popular traffic-free paved walkway towards the promenade so I can watch the boats on the busy waterway and take more photos.

  After a while walking and enjoying the pleasant afternoon sunshine, I reach the park where a group of people are already stretching and practicing Tai Chi on an expanse of grass.

  It seems that I’ve found my next Post-it note mission: Tai Chi in Kowloon Park.

  I watch the zany band of participants moving under the guidance of a tall, dark-haired man wearing what looks to me like a pair of my hotel’s complimentary luxurious white silk pyjamas. He moves gracefully, unlike his followers – an assortment of men and women of many different nationalities and of all ages, shapes and sizes.

  It looks as though they’re all doing a version of the chakra dance but in slow motion.

  I’ve never done any Tai Chi before, but Jon, of course, had been a Tai Chi master.

  There is a noticeboard on the lawn encouraging anyone passing to join in with the class and I see there’s a collection box. The fee is whatever one would like to pay as all proceeds go to local charities.

  Suggested donation: HK$10

  I’m especially keen to try all of Jon’s Post-it notes and as I’d really enjoyed learning real yoga in India, I’ve already decided that I’m going to fully embrace this new task and give Tai Chi a go. Who knows, at my age perhaps Tai Chi is more my thing anyway?

  With a deep breath, I walk forward, put some money into the collection box, and take my place on the grass to limber up and do a bit of stretching. Then, with my feet apart and knees slightly bent, I follow the master’s lead.

  I stretch out both my arms and launch myself into the synchronised flow of slow and deliberate body movements, swooping slowly and dramatically as if I were throwing away an invisible bucket of water. It feels quirky
but it also feels good to be outside in the warm air attempting something creative – if not terribly energetic – and enjoying the therapeutically humid breeze flowing over my body.

  The master throws me a warm smile when he spots my attempts and I feel myself blushing.

  Thankfully, this is nothing like the hedonistic wild abandon of the chakra dance.

  ‘Lift your left leg and reach up with both your hands into the sky,’ he encourages us.

  We all stand on one leg for a while and I manage this quite well, all thanks to the hours I’d spent last week practicing my tree pose. But, to be honest, it didn’t seem to matter if anyone wobbled about. It wasn’t meant to be in any way competitive.

  It just feels really good. Joyful.

  I try to follow the sequence of movements that follows as best I can. I let my gaze drift from left to right as instructed. I move my arms ever so slowly up and down again. I concentrate hard and copy the master, rocking back and forth, shifting weight from one leg to the other and then gracefully and slowly sweeping our arms in alternate directions.

  ‘This movement is called “The White Crane Spreads His Wings”,’ the master explains to the class. I don’t think I look anything like a crane doing this movement.

  I think I look more like ‘Fat Pigeon Crash Lands’.

  The master takes the time to explain the symbolism. ‘The White Crane is known as the movement of divinity. This is because it connects us to the nine divine and intricate movements of Tai Chi.’

  I catch my breath. Hold on. Wait a minute …

  Did he just say ‘nine’ and ‘divine’ in the same breath?

  The master tells us that our goal in Tai Chi is to ‘move in a connected and divine manner’, that ‘nine is a most auspicious number in Chinese culture. It stands for completeness and eternity’.

  I’m a bit blown away by the numerology and symbolism. Divine Number Nine! Did Jon’s mystery note have something to do with Tai Chi? He’d specifically led me here to Kowloon Park when there are so many places to do Thai Chi.

  A coincidence? Was perhaps this task more about who rather than where?

  Was this man known to Jon? He’s more my age. Even if he didn’t know Jon, he still might be able to help me with the Post-it note I’d found in the old Star Ferry brochure.

  It’s worth asking the question. I mean, what do I have to lose?

  * * *

  At the end of the class, I linger and hover for a while until everyone else has finished chatting to the master and have packed up and left. Only then do I go over to introduce myself.

  ‘Hello. I just wanted to thank you for introducing me to Tai Chi today.’

  He smiles at me, presses his palms together at his chest and bows.

  I quickly do the same.

  ‘Welcome. I’m Master Chen. I’m glad you enjoyed your practice.’

  Oh my goodness! His last name is Chen!

  I’m so excited that my breathing has quickened and my heart has started pounding.

  Was he Harry Chen? What are the odds?

  Without the swaying curtain of bodies obstructing my view, I’m actually taken by surprise at how incredibly attractive Master Chen is close up. His smile is generous and warm. I see he has a nice-looking cluster of fine smile-lines on the outer edges of his strikingly bright jade-green eyes. His teeth are very white against his smooth, tanned skin. His cheek bones are high and sharp, making for a rather gorgeous Eurasian fusion and I decide he must have been blessed with both Chinese or Hong Kong and western parentage. His dark hair is peppered with a few silver streaks that are catching the afternoon sunshine.

  Master Chen is a very handsome man indeed. Movie-star handsome, in fact. I realise I’m gazing at him so curiously that he might consider me rude.

  But, in dragging my eyes down, I find I’m now staring at his smooth, muscled chest and admiring his honed and sporty physique, all thanks to his belted silk wrap-top which is hanging casually open. Another surprise to me is his accent. He sounds quite distinctly British.

  I feel a vibrant heat spreading across my face as I realise I’m blushing like a pink flamingo.

  Oh dear. The Pink Flamingo Spreads Its Embarrassment.

  ‘Erm … I wanted to ask you something, if you don’t mind?’ I ventured.

  ‘Sure. Ask away.’

  ‘I was wondering if you are Harry Chen?’

  He raises his eyebrows in astonishment and then laughs in what sounds like disbelief.

  ‘Actually, I’m Henri. But, a long time ago, the people I worked with used to call me Harry.

  ‘Do you by chance remember an Englishman called Jon Howard?’

  As soon as I mention Jon’s name his face lights up with delight.

  ‘Jon Howard! Yes, of course. We are old friends. Is he back in Hong Kong?’

  I shake my head and frown. ‘No. I’m sorry. He died recently.’

  Harry/Henri’s smile drops. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. My deepest condolences.’

  I nod and bite my lip to stop it trembling. I’m overly hypersensitive to those words now.

  ‘Thank you. I’m Maya, Jon’s fiancée. He died the day we were to be married.’

  He reaches out to me. ‘Oh Maya. That is awful. I’m so deeply sorry to hear that. I knew Jon well and for a long time. Tell me, what can I do for you?’

  I nod and fight my new compulsion to cry as he touches my arm supportively.

  I can feel the tingling warmth of his hand seeping through my sleeve.

  ‘I know this might sound a bit strange, but Jon left me a travel itinerary and a note about doing Tai Chi here in the park, and there was also a note with your name on it.’

  He smiles and slowly shakes his head. ‘Not so strange, actually. Jon had a real passion for the martial arts. We first learned Tai Chi together here under the guidance of our Grand Master.’

  ‘Is he – the Grand Master – still alive?’ I ask him tentatively, thinking it would be nice to meet him too. It feels like such a special privilege to be meeting Jon’s friend from his past.

  ‘No. Sadly, he has also passed away. But at the grand old age of ninety-six, I hasten to add.’

  I nod. Ninety-six was indeed a grand age compared to poor Jon who had only been sixty.

  ‘So how long have you been teaching Tai Chi here at the park?’ I ask him.

  ‘Ever since the Grand Master passed away. He asked me to take his place here on the promenade to keep the tradition of Tai Chi in the park going. I promised I would. Except, with all my other commitments, these days I only manage one or two afternoon sessions a week.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure everyone who comes here appreciates you keeping this going,’ I tell him.

  ‘I appreciate you coming to find me, Maya, although, of course I’m very sad to hear the news about Jon. He was a good man and a great friend. We’d known each other since we were both at boarding school in the UK. It’s such a shame we eventually lost touch. I suppose it was all different back then, without social media, I mean. The world was a much bigger place than it seems now.’

  ‘Well, he obviously hadn’t forgotten you,’ I assure him.

  Henri checks his watch. After all the realistic fakes I’d seen being sold cheaply in the shops and street stalls today, I can’t help but wonder if it’s real. But then, nothing about Henri Chen looks fake or disingenuous.

  I suddenly wonder if I’m keeping him from all the other commitments he’d mentioned.

  ‘Maya, it’s three o’clock. Do you perhaps have time for a cup of afternoon coffee?’

  I hear myself sigh with relief that he has the time to continue our conversation. He seems easy to talk to about Jon and for me to share with him the reasons I am here.

  ‘Oh, yes, absolutely. There’s always time for coffee and new friends!’

  We gather up our things and walk together across the grass towards a nearby café.

  Henri orders our coffee while I take a table outside in the warm sunshine. When he sits down o
pposite me, he gives me a charming smile and asks more about Jon and how we met.

  I give him the speedy version of our love story because I really want to talk about Jon’s life here in Hong Kong. Henri tells me how, after graduating in 1995, he and Jon had come over to Hong Kong together to go into banking. Pointing to a high-rise directly across the bay now dwarfed by those more recently built on the harbour front he told me, ‘That building was our office back then and we worked on the fortieth floor.’ He laughs at his memories. ‘I remember the day we all got these brand-new computers – they were still great hulking desktop machines in those days – all with the new-fangled Windows system installed. But, of course, Jon soon had his screen plastered with all his usual Post-it note reminders!’

  We laugh together over Jon’s compulsion for the yellow stickers.

  ‘Jon was like an elder brother to me. But, after the big stock market crash when millions of dollars were lost overnight, Jon moved on to Kuala Lumpur and the last I heard he was in Singapore.’

  He seemed so sad at losing Jon – something I empathised with and appreciated.

  Then there was a moment of silence as Henri looked at me over the rim of his coffee cup.

  Taking this as a cue that it was my turn to speak, I explain a bit more about Jon’s travel wallet and the ‘magical mystery tour’ and how this whole trip had been arranged by Jon as our backpacking honeymoon. I tell him how I’d just been in India, staying at an ashram, failing at learning how to chant and meditate properly while under the mistaken belief I was walking in Jon’s and The Beatles’ footsteps. I complain about all the rules and there being no coffee or wine. I laugh and make it all sound quite amusing in order to lighten up the conversation.

  But then I also tell him how I’ve been practicing authentic yoga every day. How chakra healing and cosmic ordering had helped me to focus on positive energies and how taking part in the Ceremony of Light on the holy river Ganges had been profoundly healing for me.