Last school holidays, I took my daughter to Hong Kong, my birthplace and home for the first eight years of my life.
I had taken her plenty of times before, but every visit had been fleeting. Accommodation is expensive, so we usually stay just enough to share a meal or two with close family.
The reason for an extended stay came when my grandfather died last year. My grandmother had just lost her husband of seven decades, and as she is in her 90s herself, there couldn’t be too many years left. I felt an urge to spend as much time as I could with her and an even greater urge for my nearly seven-year-old daughter to know her.
So I decided to take the school holidays off work and take my daughter to stay in in the spare bedroom of my grandmother’s small apartment. While I knew two weeks wasn’t that long, it was all we had. I started to plan playdates with my cousins’ children and activities for my daughter, such as Cantonese classes.
As we got closer to the trip, the excitement waned and I started to wonder if I had romanticised it. My cousins had not replied to any of my messages. There were no Cantonese programs for children her age. My daughter was disappointed there would be no hotels with small fridges, supposedly the best part of any holiday. On top of that, it was typhoon season so it would be wet, hot and humid. What would we even do for two weeks?
But I need not have worried. Two weeks was just enough for us to establish a routine. We started every day with breakfast with my grandmother, then a swim in the pool downstairs. We went out for lunch and wandered the streets, buying gifts for her teacher and friends.
We weren’t time-poor so we could take the scenic route including the ferry across Victoria harbour. The weather gods were kind to us – nothing we couldn’t manage with rain gear. And my cousins came good too. There were plenty of playdates for the children, all planned at the last minute, the Hong Kong way. Meeting my cousin’s children for the first time was a real highlight.
My daughter made new friends easily. We met kids of similar ages at the building’s shared pool and nearby playgrounds. In particular, she bonded deeply with a little girl from the same building who went to an international school and spoke English with a transatlantic accent. They met nearly every day of our stay.
Two weeks flew by.
On our last night, we went out to celebrate. We explored the dark alleys and steep staircases of Sheung Wan to find a trendy gelato/cocktail bar. Over desserts and drinks, my daughter started to cry. She was missing her dad and brother as well as her friends. But she didn’t want to leave her new friend, her pet turtles (we bought them on our first night), her tai pau (great-grandmother) and our favourite sushi train restaurant (a big Japanese subculture in Hong Kong).
She was torn. I recognised it immediately: the feeling of longing to be in two places at once, the heaviness of having to leave.
When you have two worlds, you always have to leave one.
That night, I stayed with her until she fell asleep, promising to print our photos, write letters to her friend and return again soon.
The next day, as we prepared for our night flight home, we did all of our lasts (last breakfast, last play date, last sushi train lunch). She was stoic in her goodbyes – to her new Hong Kong bestie, to tai pau, to tai pau’s carer who looked after us too.
It was me fighting back tears in the taxi to the airport. My daughter held my hand and told me not to worry, repeating my words to her the night before.
It has been two months since our trip. She has given her souvenirs away as presents and spoken glowingly of Hong Kong. But the turtle updates are slowing, as are the messages from her friend. I have reverted to speaking to her only in English.
But then there are moments when I catch her telling her dad a story from Hong Kong, teaching her brother the two ways to say thank you in Cantonese. I think how wonderful it is to have two worlds, and despite having to leave one (for now), we hold the experiences, memories and connections. We learn to make room for the best of both worlds.
• Lucille Wong is a Melbourne writer
