The child slept the entire time and only fussed a few times during take off. The real excitement came at the end of the flight, when the mother became violently ill. I awoke from the end of my last nap to the smell of partially metabolized strawberry yogurt. She looked at me desperately, asking if I had a plastic bag, and proceeded to lose all of her cookies – and yogurt, and dinner – into the bag. She was not the one I expected to see spitting up at the end of that ride.

I got off the plane at 6AM and knew exactly where I was going. I was only in Hong Kong six months ago, and I was amazed to find my visual memory of place and process was accurate. I went through immigration, grabbed some cash from the ATM, and boarded the Airport Express into Central. I remembered my confusion and wonder from the last time I was here, thinking about it as a distant memory from another time or place.

I found my way through the maze of escalators and mall promenades at the IFC Center, hopped on the elevated walkway and dragged my luggage up stairs to my friends’ apartment. I knew exactly where to go and what to do, despite my lack of sleep and barely understanding what time or day it was. It was like reflex, the route was so ingrained in my memory. It felt like coming home.

The westernized bits of culture here always make me laugh. Last night we went to a lovely restaurant called California Vintage Wine Bar. It was a great little place with all the right details – great wine, garlic fries and sliders. I traveled halfway around the world to find a replica of my neighborhood wine bar. So strange and also comforting at the same time.

The night ended with an hour-long shoulder massage. It’s so intriguing to me that even at 11PM on a Sunday night all the massage parlors nearby were booked. Hong Kong is a strange place indeed.