I hadn’t planned to spend the evening entertaining a man who wasn’t supposed to be there. But, as he followed me into The Conrad Hong Kong’s grand ballroom — past the gilt columns and the curious glances — I felt nothing but excitement.
I didn’t know it then, but that small, reckless invitation — “just come in and eat” — would change everything about that night. The line between duty and desire blurred the moment he stepped through the doors with me by his side.
Inside, The Conrad shimmered under stunning chandeliers as attentive waiters stood ready to deliver each course with finesse. Yet, amid the glitter, my attention kept circling back to the man who wasn’t supposed to be there.
We couldn’t sit at my assigned table since there was only one seat available. Instead, we pivoted toward the back of the room and settled into a couple of empty seats next to our hosts who were obviously quite curious about how we ended up there.
By the time we finished dining, the lights dimmed, the stage brightened, and a murmur of excitement rippled through the ballroom. A master of ceremonies made a swift introduction, “And, now, Andy Williams.”
Proving we were already in sync, my companion looked at me as I looked at him. No words, just that shared feeling of understanding. And then, just as the legendary American crooner ironically started to deliver one of his signature songs, “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You,” we stood in unison and quietly slipped out of the ballroom, the crowd’s applause covering our escape.
That escape continued via one of The Conrad’s bright red limousines. We climbed in, and the sumptuous surroundings made for a cozy retreat from the hotel’s aforementioned ballroom. We kept up a stream of what felt almost like steamy chatter until we reached The Bull and Bear in Wanchai, this Englishman’s local pub.
Upon arrival, a chorus of regulars called out greetings, their British accents varied and vivacious. He answered with an easy grin and steered me toward the bar where a few of his close mates were nursing their drinks. Introductions were made while a pint appeared in front of me. Not surprisingly, I enjoyed watching my date corral the small crowd, obviously comfortable. This tall, handsome man proved to be in his element.
Gently, he whispered in my ear, letting me know we wouldn’t be staying very long.
I smiled. “Then where to?”
“The Jazz Club.”
Minutes later we were back outside, the night wrapping around us — humid, electric, alive. He hailed a cab, and as we climbed in, the sound of his friends’ laughter faded behind us, their repartee replaced by the city’s pulse and the promise of a more private setting ahead.
The Jazz Club was tucked down a narrow side street in the lively nighttime area called Lan Kwai Fong. Inside, mahogany accents and huge black-and-white prints showing jazz greats offered a clubby atmosphere. I don’t remember much else about the venue except for the musicians who played slow, smoky tunes.
Proving we were already in sync, my companion looked at me as I looked at him. No words, just that shared feeling of understanding. And then . . . we stood in unison and quietly slipped out of the ballroom, the crowd’s applause covering our escape.
We had taken seats in the back row, the shadows swallowing us.
And, for the first time that night, I stopped trying to analyze what was happening. The week, the story, the hotel — all of it receded until there was only the driving pulse of the music and the warmth of his arm settling around my shoulders. It felt natural and yet kind of impossible, too.
We didn’t speak. There was no need. The entire city ceased to exist in that one suspended measure: the two of us in the dark, listening to the hypnotic unraveling of a jazz standard we didn’t recognize but somehow already knew.
That remarkable evening ended way too soon, and so did my Hong Kong visit.
With only a couple of days left, time passed way too quickly. I mixed business with pleasure, dining on dim sum with a colleague by day and spending a late night getting to know this lovely man. All too soon, though, we hesitantly parted ways, my destination being that of Kai Tak International Airport in Kowloon and my ride back to Los Angeles on a jumbo jet.
At the airport, I lingered near the gate, reluctant to let my Hong Kong week end. My flight was boarding soon when a voice over the loudspeaker caught my attention: “Ms. Lasky, please pick up one of the red courtesy phones.”
I frantically scanned the terminal for one of the elusive phones, but none was in sight. The announcement repeated once again, then faded into static. There wasn’t time to search. I had to board.
A flight attendant directed me upstairs to my seat on the upper deck, front row. I stowed my bag, buckled in, and exhaled as the engines began to hum. We lifted off over the harbor, the city shimmering below like a reflection too bright to behold.
As soon as we leveled out, the cabin lights dimmed and a glossy travel segment flickered onto the giant screen in front of me as the airline’s in-flight magazine came to life.
And there he was.
Smiling easily into the camera, introducing a feature on Hong Kong’s many allures. The same voice, the same spark. My surprise presenter beamed at me from a world I’d just left behind.
I sat back, stunned, and then I laughed to myself. Of course it would end this way — not with a phone call answered, but with a face on a giant screen, the city, and the man who wasn’t supposed to be there back at The Conrad Hong Kong’s opulent ballroom still finding a way to speak.
Somewhere over the South China Sea, I realized that for all the places I’d been as a travel writer, this was the first time I really, truly didn’t want to go home.
