Exploring Hong Kong: A Reflection Beyond the Tourist Trail

While traveling to Bali for a wedding, I had the pleasure of stopping in Hong Kong for a few nights. I didn’t have many expectations, given that it was my first true solo vacation apart from my nomadic journeys. I assumed I would simply do the typical tourist activities.

However, I was blown away by the city's rich diversity, stunning beauty, and the layers of complexity it possessed.

This is not a tourist guide to Hong Kong, but rather a reflection—through my own eyes—on the small moments and experiences that shaped my time there.

I landed at the crack of dawn in Hong Kong, the airport already buzzing with life. After a 14-hour flight from San Francisco, I was exhausted but eager. As I waited in the long immigration line, a security guard approached me. He murmured something I didn't fully catch and motioned for me to follow him. A small surge of excitement hit me—I thought maybe he was moving me to a faster line, maybe even an accessible lane. But as I got to the new line, I realized it was just another queue, and when I asked him again, he gestured and pointed: Indian passport holders here.

In that small interaction, the assumption was made—based solely on my skin tone. It wasn't overt hostility, but it was a reminder of how identity could be reduced to appearance alone. That moment, so casual and ordinary for the guard, lingered with me. It was my first glimpse into the undercurrents that would quietly shape my experience of Hong Kong.

After checking into my hotel, I decided to walk around. The city was dead asleep—eerily quiet, with the heavy feeling that it would soon burst into life during the day. I made my way to the subway, heading to the now-famous bakery, Bakehouse, to try the world-renowned Hong Kong egg tart.

While I was on the subway, I noticed people getting ready for work. Everyone was completely absorbed in their phones, as if transported into a future where people were disconnected from their surroundings. No one seemed to recognize who or what was next to them.

I arrived at Bakehouse rather early. Barely anyone was in line, but I could already tell it would become bustling by midday. The servers were getting ready for the day, chatting quietly as they prepared. The space itself was cozy and inviting, a warm pocket tucked into the city’s otherwise cool efficiency.

When I ordered at Bakehouse, the server took my order without much concern for what I actually needed—it felt very transactional. This interaction only strengthened my perception that people were very individualistic. The feeling of individualism was isolating, even more so than back home in San Francisco. The random eye contact, small talk, and spontaneous conversations I was used to were missing.

One morning, I had the chance to meet a woman at a coffee shop. The conversation was refreshing—she made strong eye contact, and she had tattoos, which struck me as rather unusual compared to what I had noticed among women in Hong Kong. She was a yoga instructor who had traveled extensively around Asia. Given her expat friends, her fluent English, and the confidence in her speech and body language, she did not fit the typical image I had observed of local women in Hong Kong.

This encounter stood in stark contrast to what I had seen on the subway and during morning commutes. Many women refrained from making eye contact or engaging in conversation. Their body language often appeared closed off—whereas men, although also reserved, tended to occupy more space on the subway. These differences gave me the impression that there were underlying dynamics of gender bias shaping how women moved through public spaces.

Meeting her gave me hope and broke the negative bias I had begun to form. It made me realize that I was also falling into my own confirmation bias—seeing only what reinforced my first impressions, instead of remaining open to the diversity that existed beneath the surface.

Having explored Buddhism through my Vipassana practice, I felt compelled to visit some of the Buddhist temples in Hong Kong. I made my way to the famous Man Mo Temple, the Big Buddha on Lantau Island, and the surrounding monastery.

At these sites, people were worshipping deities with a sense of order, bureaucracy, and a subtle feeling of righteousness—as if religious devotion had become a hierarchy of virtue. The ceremonies revealed a clear chain of command, and in that way, the experience did not feel much different from other modern religions, with their sets of dogmas and rituals.

I had expected a deeper association with spirituality—an emphasis on the higher philosophy of Buddhism, non-duality, and spaces dedicated to meditation and inner reflection. I imagined quiet meditation halls, soft bells, and a timeless stillness for deep self-reflection. But this was largely absent. There weren’t even areas for people to sit and pray for an extended period. Most visitors offered a few minutes of prayer and then quickly moved on.

I had hoped to encounter a deeper reverence for self-improvement and philosophical inquiry. Alas, I now understand that spirituality can take many forms, and that my expectations were shaped by my own experiences rather than the full reality of how Buddhism is lived and practiced here.

As I explored Hong Kong, a few things caught my eye. The first was how jam-packed the buildings were—very tall, very close to each other, with almost no room for yards or trees. Having researched earlier, I knew that rental prices in Hong Kong were some of the highest in the world, and given the tightness of housing, it made sense. It reflected just how densely populated the city truly was.

Another thing that stood out to me was the sheer number of high-end malls and luxury brands. Names like Bvlgari, Hermès, and Bundlesignia appeared far more frequently than I had seen even in San Francisco or New York. As I walked through Central and Causeway Bay, I noticed people were not just professionally dressed—they were impeccably styled. It was clear that appearance mattered deeply in this society. From that, I could extrapolate that Hong Kong's society was highly structured and segregated by class.

In stark contrast, I remember wandering through the narrow alleyways of Kowloon Island. In one cramped street, multiple Porsches and Teslas drove by, their presence almost jarring against the backdrop of crowded, aging buildings. It felt emblematic of old wealth—hidden just beneath the surface, casual and unquestioned. Especially striking were moments when elderly women emerged from these luxury cars, their quiet presence hinting at generations of established affluence.

On the other side of the wealth spectrum, while traveling to Lantau Island to visit the Big Buddha and the monastery, I passed through several villages. On one subway ride, I saw a family of four lugging new appliances—like a TV—onto the train, clearly transporting them home. Their clothing and body language seemed to disregard the polished societal standards I had seen elsewhere. I noticed their teenage daughter walking a few steps behind them, embarrassed and reluctant, perhaps already feeling the weight of social expectations and class divides. These glimpses of everyday life, pressed against opulence, made Hong Kong feel like a city of both incredible dreams and silent divides.

Although I didn’t cover the typical "things to do" in Hong Kong, these small interactions left a much bigger impact on my experience. These are not ground truths about the city—they are simply my observations from a few days of exploring and noticing. I recognize that my experiences were shaped by my own perspectives, expectations, and, inevitably, some confirmation biases. Still, it is often these fleeting, unfiltered moments that leave the deepest impressions when we travel—the ones that make us reflect not only on the places we visit, but also on ourselves. Hong Kong, in all its glittering wealth, quiet tensions, and fleeting kindnesses, left me with more questions than answers—and maybe that’s what the best kind of travel does.