Hong Kong is a city where space is invented.
Where hills, water, and skyline merge into one striking choreography of density and dimension. Standing at Victoria Peak, the entire view unfolds like a pixelated tapestry—countless windows, countless stories, countless lives happening in parallel.
I kept wondering: How do people live inside this architecture of height? What does home feel like when space is shared, tight, or endlessly vertical?
We walked everything we could—through residential hills, temples, harbors, and the rhythmic pulse of markets. We took every mode of public transportation available: the MTR, the double-decker buses, the cable car, ferries, even small harbor boats that shimmered with neon reflections at night.
This is always my favorite way to understand a place: follow the routes the locals take, let the city reveal its layers one ride at a time.
At night, Hong Kong becomes a different story. Light dances on the water. Entire blocks vibrate with music and energy. We were with close friends—one of whom lived here—and their presence grounded the experience, offering insider glimpses into the city’s rhythm, its humor, its hidden pockets of quiet.
Yet even after experiencing so much joy, beauty, and movement, I left Hong Kong with a subtle, lingering sensation… something like a question without words. A recognition that not all places welcome us in the same way—but each place gives us exactly what we need to understand ourselves more deeply.
Maybe that is its gift.
