In Hong Kong, discovering the art of getting lost  

The storied travel writer Paul Theroux once said that the whole of point of traveling is to get lost, because that’s when you test your character and push your boundaries. But getting lost has become almost impossible now. Most travelers have cellphones with Internet access and Google maps – you can even post on Facebook, Skype with your mother or tweet for help while on an Antarctic cruise. The convenience of staying connected adds up to safer journeys, but it also subtracts from the excitement of venturing into the unknown.

On a recent trip to Hong Kong, I tried to revisit the old spirit of exploration that had guided my early trips by road-testing Theroux’s advice. I left my phone, camera and guidebook in my hotel room in Quarry Bay before heading out in the early evening to ride the HK Tramways for the first time. I’d seen the double-decker trams on previous visits and have heard the “ding ding” of their bells, which had given them their local nickname, and skimmed a story or two about their century-long legacy dating back to the British reign. Climbing up the back stairs of the tram to choose a more scenic seat upstairs, I only knew that I was heading east. Without a camera, I wanted to see if I could truly be in the moment – soaking in the sights of Hong Kong, its streets ablaze with bright neon signs, smelling the fried food and hot soup wafting out from the hole-in-the-wall restaurants and feeling the heat of that tropical night on my skin.

Eventually, the tram reached its last stop. I spotted the Happy Valley Racecourse in the distance and began walking toward that familiar landmark. Without being preoccupied by digital distractions, I found that I could really enjoy the walk. I was also able to observe how my mind rushed to fill that void by drifting in and out of my thoughts. The racecourse was dark, but the vividly colored statues of horses surrounding the stadium brightened up the night. Across the road, beneath a flyover packed with cars, sat a graveyard webbed with shadows. And atop the crypts, angels with frozen wings stood in silhouette against the sky, dwarfed by office towers and condos nearby.

Without a camera, I wanted to see if I could truly be in the moment – soaking in the sights, the neon signs, the fried food of hole-in-the-wall restaurants and the tropical heat on my skin

I rode another tram after that, and when it arrived at its final destination, I was completely lost. Nearby was a public square, where people walked their dogs, close to the bay’s oily sheen of lights. I went to a pizza joint and approached a young waiter there.

“Excuse me, but where am I?” I asked. He initially regarded me with suspicion, but my query turned out to be a catalyst for conversation. Incidentally, Harrison, the waiter, had just returned from studying in the United States. He too felt a little lost in Hong Kong. In between courses and drink orders, Harrison became my personal trip advisor, offering insights not found online. In response to my question about the city’s street crime, gangsters and triads, he laughed. “Dude, you watch too many Hong Kong action movies.”

After two hours of food, drinks and banter, Harrison insisted on walking me to the taxi queue. He even translated the name of my hotel to the driver in Cantonese. Afterwards, we shook hands and exchanged email addresses. I’m sure we’ll see each other again one day.

These experiences have led me to conclude that Paul Theroux was right: Sometimes you have to get lost to rediscover your sense of adventure, and to recall the goodness of strangers.