Returning home after a 15-hour flight should have grounded me (part 1 and part 2). Finding my footing in Los Angeles typically pulled me right back into my ordinary life and my ordinary rhythm. This time, though, my heart pounded. I couldn’t help but wonder why I was called to that elusive courtesy phone back at Hong Kong’s Kai Tak Airport.
And so, as soon as I plunked down my carry-on, I called his number. It was as if I didn’t have a choice.
He answered on the first ring.
“I didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again,” he admitted.
Then, there was a long pause. It was as if neither of us spoke because saying something out loud might ruin the magic of that moment. Finally, he exhaled in a soft, disbelieving rush of breath.
“Come back to Hong Kong” he blurted. “To . . . well . . . continue where we left off.”
The words hit hard, equal parts thrilling and impossible. I closed my eyes, leaning against the wall, the receiver pressed to my ear a little too hard.
“I can’t,” I said, not hiding my disappointment. “My next trip is to the UK. For work. It’s already scheduled.”
“And after that?” he queried. “After the UK trip . . . can you please come here? Come back to Hong Kong?”
His directness startled me. No games and no pretense but just a simple request wrapped in hope. I sank down onto the arm of my favorite chair, disoriented, jet-lagged, and suddenly lightheaded.
“I’ll come,” I said, “but only if British Airways will route me that way.”
It was a half-promise and half-wish, but he seized the moment. “Then ask,” he said, his words steady.
To my surprise, British Airways said yes. Just like that, without any resistance or complications but simply with a revised itinerary allowing for a stopover in Hong Kong on my way back to LA. I hung up, staring at the phone and realizing that fate was once again in play.
Two weeks later, I was packing again.
It was a half-promise and half-wish, but he seized the moment. “Then ask,” he said, his words steady.
In the meantime, that charming Brit and I kept the connection alive the only way we could in those pre-texting days. Messages that take seconds today required much more intention back then. We had to write what we needed to communicate before standing at the fax machine, feeding our pages through while being forced to listen to that shrill electronic handshake as it found its way across countries and continents.
Each day after my Hong Kong trip, those faxes arrived, making my heart grow fonder. They followed me all the way to London, where, multiple times a day, the hotel receptionist would hand me a packet filled with another new roll of curled thermal paper as his words caused our worlds to collide.
Once they heard the backstory, my colleagues became utterly enthralled. They hovered nearby when I opened each message, seemingly desperate to know what this mysterious Englishman living in Hong Kong had to say next.
Near the end of the trip, our small group of travel writers was treated to a very special chef’s dinner. We were seated in the sanctuary of the hotel’s main kitchen, crowded around a long, stainless-steel table set with dishes prepared just for us. There were steaming pots and sizzling pans full of treats as the whole room hummed with anticipation. I was in the middle of tasting something bitter but brilliant when a butler from upstairs appeared through the swinging door.
“Miss Lasky?” he called out.
Everyone fell silent. From behind his back, he produced a long, crinkled sheet of fax paper with my name printed at the top, the edges still slightly curled from the machine.
So what was the evening’s message from my mysterious man? The entire table wanted to know.
It was a short communication. He requested my British Airways flight details so he could meet me at the airport.
My colleagues stared at me as if I’d just stepped into a scene from a movie.
“Well?” one of them inquired, the reporter in her demanding an answer. “Are you going to tell him?”
“Of course,” I shot back, needing no time to weigh the situation.
I faxed the details that night from the hotel’s business center, watching the page disappear into the machine as I experienced a mixture of excitement and intimidation. Still, after the sheet slid through, I realized there was no turning back. He knew when I would arrive, and he planned to be the first person I laid eyes on in Hong Kong.
As the week came to an end and we prepared to leave for our various flights, my colleagues gathered around me in the hotel lobby like curious conspirators.
“You have to tell us what happens,” one insisted.
“Please promise,” another added.
I laughed, lifting my hands in fake surrender. “I promise. I’ll report back.”
But, as I rolled my suitcase toward the departure gate, carrying his last fax folded neatly inside my passport, I knew one thing with sudden and startling clarity: Whatever was waiting for me in Hong Kong meant my life was about to dramatically change — and so was his.
