As a travel writer, I’ve grown accustomed to questions about the places I visit — where to stay, what to eat, which hidden spots are worth seeking out. But there’s one inevitable question that tends to surface during quiet moments, usually late at night: Do you ever meet someone on these trips of yours?
Most of the time, I just smile. “Sometimes the minibar is as exciting as it gets.”
But once, in Hong Kong back in 1990, the answer was different — and the whole situation caught me completely off guard.
This was my third trip to the British colony that year, this time on assignment to cover the opening of the Conrad Hong Kong, a sleek newcomer to Southeast Asia and to Hong Kong Island’s already provocative skyline. The mirrored façade reflected its high-profile Pacific Place location and its enticing Victoria Harbour views. Inside, everything gleamed: the marble floors, the chandeliers, the polished accents.
For this occasion, the press contingent from the States was well represented, and Hollywood celebrities had been flown in for extra glamour.
By this point in the week, though, the novelty was wearing thin. It was our third Chinese banquet since we arrived, another round table groaning under the weight of endless courses. Yes, the Peking Duck still dazzled and I appreciated the traditions: whole fish for abundance, long noodles for longevity. Still, the stylish turnout had settled into a familiar waltz of greetings in many languages, camera flashes, polite chatter.
That evening, what seemed like hundreds of us gathered in the expansive foyer, waiting for the doors to open. From across the entranceway — far enough away that it should have been nothing — my eyes met his. Not for long, not obvious, but unmistakable. In that instant, amid the clamor, the glitter, and the glitterati, it felt as though the crowd had parted, leaving just the two of us in on some delicious secret.
I might have let that cinematic moment dissolve into the blur of small talk, but fate had other plans. One of the American hosts appeared at my side, asking if I could verify whether the résumé of an older actress was current. Apparently, a British producer/presenter for a Hong Kong magazine show was on standby with his camera crew, ready to record his interview.
The coincidence was almost too sharp to ignore. After all, It’s not as if I am an expert on all the stars in Tinseltown. However, my colleague knew I was going through a difficult divorce from a Hollywood director and so she figured I might know the latest on this particular thespian. I did, in fact. And no, her CV was not up to date.
From across the entranceway — far enough away that it should have been nothing — my eyes met his. Not for long, not obvious, but unmistakable.
Not too long after this interchange, the bewitching man who had caught my eye earlier in the evening crossed the foyer to thank me for the information. The timing, the coincidence, the promise of something special; it all felt uncanny.
Up close, this handsome guy’s smile was disarming — steady, a little mischievous. We started talking. Nothing profound at first, just an easy exchange, swapping travel mishaps, odd assignments, random anecdotes. But there was a quickness to it, the kind of rhythm that makes you lean in without realizing.
The conversation stretched, light but magnetic, until I noticed the crowd had thinned. The ballroom doors were open, and we were the last two lingering outside.
“Are you going in?” I asked.
He hesitated, then admitted, almost apologetically, “I’m not invited.”
“Really?”
“Yes, local press were not included.”
A pause hung between us — long enough for me to imagine what might happen if he simply slipped past the threshold anyway. I thought, “Well, if he crashes this shindig, he’s my kind of guy.”
Instead, he leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough to make it feel conspiratorial. “Let’s go get a drink at the bar upstairs.”
And just like that, everything shifted.
Our escape from the hoopla was lovely, even enchanting. For a little while, it felt as if time had slowed just for us, the city’s noise and expectation held at bay by a shared sense of possibility.
But too soon, the spell broke. Obligation tugged hard at me, reminding me of my professional duties and the world waiting below.
“I’d better get back to the banquet,” I admitted, my words heavier than I expected.
The mood shifted as he walked me downstairs, back to where we had first met. The magic of our private interlude lingered between us. Then, just as he was about to say goodbye, I surprised even myself by blurting, “Oh, just come in and eat.”
And he did.
(To be continued . . .)
