Goodbye London

There was once a tale of two cities.

A city of linear rhythms and predictability, a city of reckless urges and serendipity.

And there was a girl who flitted between them. The former she called her home; the latter she still has yet to find a word for.

But to her, there will soon only be one.

It all happened so quickly.

I can’t even pinpoint exactly when the decision was made. All I recall was a week-long string of sleepless, teary nights. Some mention of leaving being casually thrown around over a conversation with F and then with my parents. Next thing I knew, I was telling C over a bowl of Ippudo ramen that I was planning to move home — as if it were actually real, as if it were anything more than a half-baked idea in my head. “I’ll resign Friday”, I had told him, hoping to give myself a couple days’ time to process and reach a firm decision. But the following day rolled around and I could feel the words bursting out of me, refusing to be swallowed back down even for another day.

All it took was a couple of clicks on Google Calendar, my manager’s face popping up on the screen and then — “I’ve decided to move home”.

Everything seemed to take on a life of its own after that.

What was but a fragile seed of an idea had, in the span of 100 hours, sprouted roots that sunk so deeply into reality such that there was no longer any way for me to pluck it out with my bare hands.

Next thing I knew I was saying goodbye to friends, colleagues and clients, sending emails to my landlord, visiting banks, dealing with HR, and figuring out how to ship 6 years’ worth of stuff back home. Because yes, I was apparently going home.

Moving back was always going to happen, but it was always just that — something that was going to happen, a thing of the future. “Next spring or summer”, I had said. But here I am at the cusp of winter, googling about SevenSeas and scheduling flat viewings.

People used to ask me why I decided to live and work in London - a very fair question given my constant trips back to Hong Kong. “There’s no strong reason for you to stay”, C always said, and I agreed with him every single time.

“What are your favourite things about London?” M asked me over dinner at Jumak a couple of months back. “Well…” I blinked at him, hesitating, “It’s super convenient to travel to other European cities.”

“Yes but that’s not really about London so it doesn’t count”.

A pause, “The salmon here is quite cheap, especially compared to Hong Kong’s”… “Its almond milk as well,” I quickly added.

It’s now M’s turn to blink at me, “You might as well move home now”, he commented, clearly unimpressed.

I always attributed my staying here to inertia. Big decisions, passive Kelly, I’d shrug. But I don’t think that’s solely the case.

Whenever I’m back in Hong Kong, I slip into some older, more anachronistic version of myself. I feel more pampered. More anchored. More safe. More baby.

There’s a strangely soothing sense of relief to the clockwork consistency in which my days operate, in cycling through the holy quartet of Causeway Bay malls — Hysan, Sogo, Lee Gardens and Times Square — and in indulging my mum’s slightly neurotic propensity to visit the same restaurants a dozen times over (which I’ve inherited). Then there’s the warm familiarity of my childhood room — the very pink walls and army of Poohs, the smell of freshly washed sheets and the clomping of my mum’s slippers outside the door, the crisp greenery of the Waterfront Park outside my window and the gentle ocean stretching out to Lamma Island. My body always instinctively recognises that I’m home, from the wave of contentment that rolls through me when I register distinct way the light filters in through my half-closed eyelids in the morning to the way my hand reaches for the loo roll on my left at just the perfect height.

In Hong Kong, I’m wrapped in this cocoon of established identity weaved by friends and family who have known me for two decades, a state both simultaneously restrictive and relieving. My hurts, insecurities, far-fetched delusional dreams all get smothered under this warm blanket of love. But the moment I step foot into London, all my sensations, emotions and thoughts — good and bad — grow hands that caress and teeth that bite.

London is all new flavours, impulsive decisions and delicious capriciousness. There’s this constant need to be in motion, to match the roaring rhythm on which this city runs. I feel lost most days, adrift at a turbulent sea of possibilities without the anchor of routine, familiarity and family around. But I also feel more intense, more prolific, more strongly driven by this desire of doing more more more; I read more, cry more, dance more, daydream more. I’m more open to serendipity and experimentation, but am also more formless, almost liquid.

In London I’m constantly dogged by this sense that I have something to prove.

In Hong Kong I just am.

And here lies a quiet fear I have about returning.

Back home, if you’re not a lawyer, then you’re a banker, if not, then a trader or a consultant. It’s all straight lines and paved paths and goddamn ladders. There seem to be fewer people taking the road less taken, throwing themselves into side hustles, starting creative projects.

To be honest, as someone who has always valued stability and a strong sense of direction, the idea of going corporate doesn’t put me off. I’m fully content with having a 9-5 day job as long as I have the freedom, space and energy to pursue the things I love outside those hours — but is this feasible?

“I stopped reading during the 6 years I was a consultant”, M told me nonchalantly over a mouthful of granola. I was beyond horrified, to say the least.

The definitions of success in Hong Kong are notoriously narrow. I wish I could say that I’m strong enough to stick by my own terms, but I’ve never been the best at resisting societal pressures, and when the most socially respected people around you have a habit of regularly splashing out money at overpriced clubs and casually buying Louboutains over lunch break, it does do something to your psyche. It warps your perception of what’s important and what’s not, of what you should care about and what you should disregard, of what a life well-lived should look like [1].

And frankly, I’m scared. Scared of stagnating. Scared of becoming someone who only cares about fancy job titles and the amount of 0s in one’s bank account. And above all, scared of having to straitjacket myself into a glorified slide deck generator and as a result, having to watch the favourite parts of myself that make me the most me suffocate.

What is there for me back home? Will I be able to grow into my best self? Who will I become?

I want to have the space to explore what’s out there. I want to create. But I also want to be closer to loved ones, to have a stronger sense of stability and to enjoy the minutiae of daily life.

Are these desires so incompatible? Can I not grow and stretch in the ways I want and live where my heart lies at the same time?

Don’t get me wrong — I’m really pumped by the prospect of being able to return to the drawing board, but I’m also wrestling with a lot of conflicting emotions, thoughts, worries and desires. It’s all very exciting but overwhelming at the same time.

“What’s next?” is the most common question I’ve gotten over the last few weeks.

In my imaginary replays of these instances, I always confidently smile and state that I’ve got X job lined up, with X job obviously guaranteeing me a one-way ticket to success in life.

Much to my ego’s dismay, reality looks very different.

“I’m not sure yet”, my face would heat up with shame whenever I choked out those words. I’d then instinctively sputter some perfunctory combination of oh I actually want to move home first and take a short break then maybe this maybe that.

But the honest answer is — “I don’t know.”

It’s not even “I don’t have a job lined up after”, it’s “I don’t know what I should do next”.

An unnerving, destabilising answer to have, but one with an undercurrent of excitement and wonder, because there are so many possibilities out there, so many potential things I can do next. And who knows — I might even end up in Singapore or Tokyo or Shenzhen for a little while.

“I don’t know”.

There’s the whole world out there contained in those three little words.

And here we are now, with three days left before my big move. Three days before I no longer call London whatever half-formed version of home it has become.

London, you’re loud, brash, dirty just like the Central Line, but you’ve managed to surprise me at every turn.

There is a long list of things I will miss — Pineapple and Base, the Foyles by TCR station and the Daunt books on Cheapside, Tread 5 at Barry’s, the Christmas lights on Regent’s Street, Alternate Donna from Mamma Mia, Samson’s ripped back in the National Gallery (thank you Rubens), the now atrophied deal for minus 25s at the Royal Opera House, gentle 9pm sunsets in the summer, Notting Hill, Bar Douro’s Cod Hash, Kova’s Matcha shortcake, Naru’s Galbi Jjim, Dishoom’s Ruby Chicken (oh how far we’ve come), the Moroccan stall on Leather Lane market … and of course, the people.

You’ve somehow managed to contain the most wonderfully chaotic people into your 600 square miles, all that crazy and heart, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

But I’ve never thought of you as home and would never have called you home. You don't match my cadence, that I knew from the beginning.

I’ve always yearned for slow, steady, enduring and you, London, are anything but.

Until next time,

Kelly

[1] I do like nice things as well! What I wanted to highlight is that I’m okay with this being something I care about, but not something that I end up prioritising over the core values that I hold right now.