It’s been nearly four years since I’ve visited my mother’s homeland of Hong Kong. The bustling crowds and skyscrapers that pierce the sky, built on mountains upon mountains of green. I’ve traveled to this metropolis almost every year, forcing my way through a long 15 hours of flight, so I should believe that I’d be used to its culture; the freezing air-conditioned malls remind me to bring a sweater next time, but the second we leave the facility, I want to peel off my clothes, sticky on my skin. Family dinners with gong gong, po po, ayi’s and a spew of relatives I forget the faces of, revolve around a giant table filled with roasted meats and colorful vegetables. In order to eat at the breakfast hole-in-the-walls (buns with cookie crusts and salty meat stuffed between white bread) we must take advantage of the 12-hour jet lag to eat early in the morning. To me, this is Hong Kong.

But, again. It’s been four years. This time, when I go back, it feels like jamais vu—I recognize it all, but at the same time it feels novel and new. My mom, sister, and I meet up with my grandparents’ driver at the clean, bustling airport. I’ve technically known him my whole life but… he looks skinnier. Older. I’m reminded of a stickman, long limbs guiding us into a hot, humid abyss. In the car, we ride to a place called Happy Valley, though we’re actually high enough for me to squeeze my eyes shut when I look out the car window. My grandparents’ towering building lies ahead in the sky.

I am greeted by an unrecognizable doorman; he and my mom exchange words of acquaintance. Meanwhile, familiar words spiral into my ears, but when I open my mouth to speak, my brain goes blank. A tense hand wave will have to suffice. And then finally, finally we enter the elevator. I can almost smell the soup noodles that my grandparents always prepare at our arrival.

The rest of the world follows this rule, I know, but it takes me a second for my eyes to adjust to the elevator buttons. Floor zero? Floor zero. Hm. 

I recognize faces of some, others not, but it feels like I’m meeting everyone again for the first time. My cantonese wears down bit by bit, and I feel rigid and ashamed as I have to sit in silence. Has it always been this awkward? My grandparents’ have newly hired helpers, but they are nothing like the ones I remember as a child, watching movies and exchanging jokes. The crowds are still humid and swarming, but it feels like I’m walking on tiptoes around them. In the past, I’d tightly grab onto mom’s hand, but I’ve grown—no more of that; instead I force myself to squeeze through the maze of people, desperate to keep up. But no one parts the way anymore.

Is it the people who have changed? Or me? The child who watched the bustling city dance around her has vanished, replaced by a lost foreigner. Back to floor zero.