Mickey

I was slightly annoyed by the pompously dressed Mickey this morning on the MRT train.

There he was—huge rolling eyes, purple and golden robe—laughing at me from the Hong Kong Disney 20th Anniversary poster. Trying to rationalize my irritation, I thought perhaps it was the unfair treatment he always gave to Donald Duck that vexed me in the first place. But I didn't even like the duck!

Then came my Madeleine moment, as happens to all sentimental writers—memories flooded in and buried me in an instant.

It’s the city, not the mouse.

How was I supposed to know that Hong Kong would one day become a forbidden city to me? If only I could go back again. If only.

I watched too many Hong Kong drama series growing up. My adolescent idol was Tony Leung. My favorite singer is Eason Chan (in Cantonese, of course) to this day. I was there once—eating a mysterious white sauce rice dish at GoldFinch Restaurant out of a crush on Wong Kar-wai, rambling through the allegedly haunted hallways at the University of Hong Kong, and terrified during a high-speed minivan ride downhill.

They say the brain only matures after 25, and youth memories follow you everywhere after that. I crave that ice-cold, oversized glass of Hoegaarden and free chips after taking the iconic escalator up in Central.

It all seemed so simple and easy during that particular stretch of time, didn’t it?

The problem with getting old is that everything starts to trigger you, out of nowhere. Burdened by all this, heading to oblivion...