Angry Seize.

A storm a-piers to be brewing.

Williamsport, PA – Foaming at the mouth, the sea lashes at the shore with angry tongues.

Waves are expected to surpass 10 feet this afternoon. Even now, winds average 50 km/h, with gusts double that.

As it was only two hours from Philadelphia – and home to Dogfish Head brewery – we decided to head back to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware yesterday.

A beer, and the sea: bliss.

Pots of palm fronds have blown over, however, and the red ‘No Swimming' flag cracks a loud warning from the lifeguard station. The pole bends like an inflatable tube man outside a used car lot.

And Hurricane Dorian is only as far as North Carolina.

I love the sea and, even with the storm, feel incredibly at peace as the sand shaves my legs. I lose myself in the churn and never want to escape its grasp.

As tempting as it is to stay to watch the fringe of Dorian, though, we’ve caught the tailwind out of town, winding along the Susquehanna river, and into the sunshine.

We’ve pulled up into Williamsport, Pennsylvania – home to the Little League World Series – which is alive with music and art on the street.

And no hurricanes in sight.

Vitals:

• Time: 6.5 hours
• Distance: 441.6 kilometres
• Weather: Rain, leading into sun
• States: Delaware, Pennsylvania
• Wildlife: None

Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.

At what cost, liberty?

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania – With all the driving I've done lately, I appreciate that public transportation will carry us out to the Mann Center for our Vampire Weekend concert tonight.

A young boy pops onto the bus, his smile wide.

His shirt reads: “Shoot basketballs, not people.”

I’m immediately reminded I’m in the United States.

Staking Claim.

High-stakes competition.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania – “One wiz wit, please."

Apparently, that's the lingo for properly ordering a cheesesteak in Philly.

The please may just be a Canadianism.

The end result, loosely wrapped in wax paper, is a hot sandwich slathered in melted Cheez Whiz (rather than “provy” for provolone) and onions (as opposed to “widdout”).

Cheese and onions: the only two answers you need to know. A sign says you'll be sent to the back of the line if you get it wrong.

I'm not sure they're joking.

Having wandered out to the Liberty Bell, through the historic district and down to Penn's Landing this morning, we've made our way to the epicentre of the city’s longstanding sandwich battle. Originator Pat’s King of Steaks sits kitty-corner to its neon-clad rival, Geno’s Steaks. The two have engaged in friendly competition since the sandwich’s creation in the 1960s.

Despite several cheese options, Cheese Whiz is somehow the 10-1 favourite, with Geno’s claiming to go through 8-10 cases of the processed product daily. Nobody said the sandwich was healthy.

Not a mistake.

Not one to miss out on an origin story, I opt for Pat’s for my first legitimate Philadelphia cheesesteak. Tangy, velvety cheese (or something approximating it, I suppose) coats a mound of shaved meat and a thin layer of onions on a fresh roll. It's pretty quiet, so we're easily able to find a seat after bouncing between separate windows for the sandwich and for a beverage.

A marker commemorating where Sylvester Stallone stood while filming the movie Rocky has been punched into the pavement beside the order window.

I don’t eat much beef, but the sandwich hits the spot. I’m not sure, however, it matched the hearty smoked salmon sandwich I had this morning at the Little Spoon Café.

Getting my Phil.

Do not pass Go, do not collect $200.

Philadelphia, PA – The dark velour of the early morning sky frays at the seams, salmon spawning across its belly.

It’s 5:30 a.m. and the rising sun has already become lazy with fall.

We wind through New York’s hills, which have only begun to molt summer’s skin, much like the greying you question seeing at your temples as you age. Through Pennsylvania’s Endless Mountains and Poconos, however, the leaves have begun to smoulder like recently lit cigarettes amidst puff-cheeked hills.

Vampire Weekend plays on repeat, getting us ready for tomorrow night’s concert on the outskirts of Philadelphia.

Our first stop in the City of Brotherly Love, though, is for a beer and moules et frites at the legendary Monk’s Café.

It has been called one of the top-five places in the world to have a beer and, upon scanning the list, I am disinclined to argue.

Vitals:

• Time: 10 hours
• Distance: 880 kilometres
• Weather: Sun with clouds, warming as we progressed
• Province/States: Ontario, New York, Pennsylvania
• Wildlife: None

Lit.

A Rose by any other name.

Newport, RI – Waves lap at the shore with the caress of a saxophone.

We’re spending the night at the historic Rose Island Lighthouse, and the Newport Jazz Festival is in full swing across the bay. I had never thought of Common as jazz.

Constructed in 1870, the lighthouse is part of a 17-acre island comprising the remains of Fort Hamilton, which was first built during the revolutionary war in the late 1700s. Throughout the years, its bunkers and bomb-proof barracks have also served as munition depots and as quarantine for cholera patients.

Today, many of the structures across the island are in disrepair and used as a refuge for the countless birds nesting nearby.

View from above.

Double-crested cormorants jackknife into the waves, resurfacing great distances away with silver squiggles trapped in their beaks. Seagulls the size of small dogs caw their pleasure at the musical accompaniment across the bay, while a canoe see-saws on the break after a speedboat passes.

The property, accessible only by boat, is a museum by day, but offers overnight stays.

With the day’s visitors gone, I climb the lighthouse tower, prying myself through the tiny door to the widow’s walk. There are no storms to watch today, just an opportunity to embrace the panorama – views of blue peppered by sailboats cutting into the sea breeze.

Night falls, and there are six of us alone on the island. In a lighthouse.

What an incredible experience.

Rhode Trip.

Ochre Court.

Newport, RI – Perched atop a cliff, the path winds through more than a century of history. The water, precipitously below, sparkles like jewels tossed into the sea.

On the other side, tall manicured hedges hide mansions behind a tuxedo of leaves, polka-dotted by clumps of flowers.

But they don’t hide too much.

The palazzos and chateaux along Newport’s historic cliff walk must have also been meant to be seen. Rockefellers, Dukes and Vanderbilts: this was a veritable who’s who of the industrial revolution in America.

And I will walk...

One can only imagine the gilded parties.

The 3.5-mile cliff walk gives the public right-of-passage, despite stepping through private property. Unsurprisingly, this hasn’t always come without disputes, but it's a must-do if you're ever in Newport.

Massive stone houses stand dressed in Romanesque columns, ornate archways and sculpted iron gates. The Breakers, a neo-Italian Renaissance palazzo built by Cornelius Vanderbilt II at the turn of the century, boasts 70 rooms and looms over the pathway.

It's easy to forget these were just summer homes.

History Rocks.

Thanksgiving.

Plymouth, MA – A pantheon stands by the water, concealing what is likely the best-known rock in America.

No, not the Beach Boys.

The year 1620 has been chiselled into what otherwise appears to be an ordinary boulder the size of a small bench. It sits in the mud, a gnarled scar from a previous attempt to move it snarling back at you.

Tourists gawk, peering over the railing as a ranger tells a version of a story of Plymouth Rock that directly contradicts the one on the sign not 10 feet away.

Such is often the way with lore.

Somehow, I had never been here. And yet, I think I may have been more excited by visiting Lobster Hut and finally getting a lobster roll.

Hop To It.

Aligned.

Worcester, MA – After a morning spent alternately dropping into, and climbing out of, New York’s green crevasses, we’ve fallen into a lineup that snakes around a parking lot.

Intentionally.

A constant stream of people toting flats of candy-coloured cans flows in the opposite direction. Many of the more ambitious have come prepared with trolleys – and apparently, deep pockets. They sport craft brewery t-shirts from around the world, seemingly trying to one-up each other with the most obscure, or the most sought-after.

Despite being an almost two-hour wait, it’s apparently actually a quiet day at Treehouse Brewing Company.

The only quiet spot at Treehouse that day.

As one of the top-rated breweries in the world – and one that doesn’t distribute beyond these lineups – I’d imagine they’ll also be selling many t-shirts, in addition to the coveted cans.

The sun is in full bloom against an utterly blue slate, so the minutes melt away.

Typical brewery aromas like wort blend with citrus notes, which makes sense given Treehouse is particularly known for its juicy, hoppy beers. The Adirondack chairs framing the garden sit empty, however, as it’s a can-only day.

There are too many people here for them to efficiently let the taproom flow.

An oddly efficient 90 minutes later, however, we have our own flat – a rattling rainbow of treats we carry past the hyphenated line of eager patrons still filling out their checklists.

It'll be worth their wait.

Vitals:

• Time: 12 hours
• Distance: 932 kms
• Weather: Sunny and hot
• Province/States: Ontario, New York, Massachusetts
• Wildlife: None

Hard to DisCERN.

ALICE in Wonderland.

St Genis-Pouilly, France — We press our individualized keys to the instrument panel and step, one-by-one, into a tight glass box, waiting for the light to go green and for the door to close behind us with a thud.

And for the one in front to open.

The security system at CERN is very sensitive, rejecting me several times before spitting me out the other side. Today, we're excused from retina scans.

Bobbing along in blue hardhats, we drop 100 metres into the Earth, where scientists are trying to better understand how the universe formed, what it's made of and how it works.

Watch out for collisions.

Frankly, physics and philosophy have always tended to be my downfall, twisting my brain into another dimension. So, it goes without saying that theoretical physics flies by me at the speed of the particles that race around the accelerator here. That said, there was still no way I was going to pass up this opportunity to take a field trip to the birthplace of the world wide web and home to the discovery of the Higgs boson.

We started at the ALICE experiment, learning about quark-gluon plasma and how scientists used the equipment to recreate conditions that existed one millisecond after the Big Bang. Eventually, they hope to get to an n of zero.

How does this thing handle in the corners?

By smashing heavy ions at nearly the speed of light, the 2012 experiment produced the highest human-made temperature (5.5 trillion Kelvin) in the universe.

We've had the extremely unique opportunity to descend into the Large Hadron Collider itself, which is very rarely open to the public. Most scientists, we're told, can't even get in. It helps that we know people, and that it will be shut for two years for a facelift.

Physically, it's just a 27-kilometre-long circular tunnel lined with pipes and instruments. More practically, however, it's where discovery of the Higgs boson and other breakthroughs have been made possible. It's a scientific juggernaut.

And a giant (faster-than-a) bullet train for particles.

It's a humble, yet humbling place.

Feeling Vine.

Ric-o-la!

Cully, Switzerland — We're handed a wine glass, a map and three tokens for local food

And sent on our way.

The wine-making village of Cully has shut down for us tonight, leaving us to wander the jagged streets and taste the vintners' wares. There are 10 wineries for us to visit as many times as we'd like.

It's possible the streets get more jagged as the night grows fuller.

At the base of hills in full leaf, we wander between stone houses sporting brightly painted shutters. Most were built between the 16th and 19th centuries.

A man tosses a Swiss flag into the air and catches it with a crack as three alphorns fill the air with a low moan.

A grape time was had by all.

The region is striped by stone terraces set into the steep hills of the Lavaux vineyard terraces, which make for a face full of braces. At more than 800 hectares, it's the largest contiguous vineyard region in Switzerland, and was designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2007. Many of the terraces date back to the 11th century.

It's a panorama beyond compare: vineyards falling into Lake Geneva with the snow-capped French Alps standing with puffed chest before us. It's hard to imagine photo-editing technology hasn't been applied to real life. It's that breathtaking.

At the end of the night, a thank-you bag. In it, a bottle of wine for the road.

What a tremendous evening.

Awake, A Walk.

Roamin'.

Lausanne, Switzerland —The 37-degree heat has brought out the tropical aromas of coconut sunscreen and cigars.

And not much in the way of bathing suits.

For some reason, I've decided to take the 80-minute walk to the Swiss Tech Convention Center to pick up my conference badge. There is, of course, a train that goes directly there.

What's the adventure in that?

Being Europe, I literally stumble across the ruins of the ancient Roman village of Lousonna. Its foundations have been reduced to scattered grey teeth laid out in lines.

Even on a Monday afternoon, Lake Geneva is packed with sun-seekers, skaters carving up the half-pipe and jagged-abbed beach volleyball players. Others have brought cases of beer and baguette.

Everyone seems to be escaping their saunas-for-homes.

Preferring to be like the swans basking along the water's edge, very little moves quickly in this heat.

Except the swarms of tiny flies that emerge in a Danse Macabre around my face.

It's too hot to swat them away.

Well Trained.

Shutter to think.

Lausanne, Switzerland — Hustling into the charcoal-tinted underground with a mere minute to spare, I feel French flow from my lips like an unknown water source.

It's surprisingly fluid after all these years.

A weary man with a cumbersome keychain replies, saying I've found the correct train and points me toward the second-class car. After nine hours of flying, the hour-long inter-regional 90 will carry me from the airport in Geneva to Lausanne for about $25. It's handy.

And, it's sweltering. This isn't a region that generally has much need for air conditioning.

Like faded stitches across the landscape, the tracks ring the turquoise of Lake Geneva, which rests like a jewel in the Alps. The mountains, in soft focus, hem us in.

Throughout the journey, bubble graffiti rises up walls to scalloped tile roofs and tiny-peaked homes. A face has been painted around a grate, making it bare teeth at passersby. Taking a sharp corner, a vintage green Citröen makes an equally bold statement on the narrow streets below before heading into the countryside.

Vineyards cascade down the growing slopes as we near our destination.

Unsurprisingly, we arrive on time.

This is Switzerland, after all.

Oh, Bey.

No words.

Bintan, Indonesia — Fan palms live up to their destiny.

Hanging magnolia turn cheek in the breeze.

We’ve arrived for a night at Lagoi Bay Villas and the large, private residence is eye-opening in an “I cannot believe this is ours” sort of way. I can feel my shoulders relax from the moment the wooden doors creaks open.

That just doesn’t happen.

It’s the perfect blend of indoor-outdoor living with a large, covered living room and bathroom, but with the comfort of air conditioning in the bedroom. Tropical flowers scent the outdoor shower.

It’s the private pool, however, that shimmers in the heat with a come-hither finger. The lazy humidity has rubbed off on me and it takes no time to indulge with a smooth ripple.

And not get out for hours.

A bald eagle floats overhead as a monkey tucks itself quietly into a tree. Anoles zig and zag across the wall like lightweight bolts.

Even the nearby sea can't seduce us.

The pfft of a cold beer opening.

Bliss.

Venti Selfie, Extra Foam.

We've addressed this.

Singapore — Today, we have woven new into old.

This morning, we set out down Arab Street, stepping into colourful fabrics and stained glass lamps that wink in panels of red, yellow and blue. The narrow streets nearby carry us into a pocket of hostels and the cheap tackiness that tends to accompany them.

Brightly painted Mexican murals, it turns out, attract selfie hunters. So much for seeing Singapore.

One one side of the street, a shop prints these selfies onto your coffee — no, really. The thought makes my eyes roll, but everyone needs to make a living and the joy of travelling so often involves taking the good with the bad. At least they know their market.

Allah t'a History.

Prayers from the golden-domed Masjid Sultan, built in 1824, soon thunder down the alley, calling my ears to the area’s true majesty. The base of each of the national monument’s domes is decorated by glass bottle ends donated by lower-income Muslims. Everyone’s ability to contribute to the mosque’s construction has helped foster a community.

Our next steps take us back to yet another era as we perch ourselves at the end of a dark, wooden bar. Punkah wallah fans sashay their hips from the ceiling over a staircase that corkscrews at the centre.

Slinging.

Raffles Hotel, in all its colonial glory.

A vintage drink shaker is kept busy as orders flow for the iconic Singapore Sling, invented here. As a writer, I give a nod to Rudyard Kipling instead, ordering the golden milk punch, which was conceived of for the author and topped by a tuft of saffron. As is tradition, we toss peanut shells onto the floor while we wait for the abysmally bad service.

It beats the cockroaches that would be beneath our feet in the hawker centres.

Looking around the room, I can’t help but realize it’s colonialism cum Disneyland.

But we have a great time anyway.

Back to the future, we take in the laser and light show at the Marina Bay Sands, perching ourselves beneath the Merlion’s spit. Lines are drawn across the sky twice-nightly to muffled sounds, crowds with tripods waiting for the Earth to move.

While a fine evening out, it doesn't.

East Eats.

A cut above.

Singapore — In our quest to eat our way through the country, we began the day by taking the four-kilometre walk to the iconic Old Airport Road Food Centre.

Except, we didn’t.

Not initially, anyway. We found a smaller one upon turning the corner, believing it to be our destination. It was Old Airport Road, after all.

Just not 51 Old Airport Road.

It's no wonder the first location was so quiet, in relative terms. Perhaps we were just a little keen. The opportunity to explore Singapore's hawker culture —plate-by-plate — has been my primary reason for visiting, and I've been keen to compare it to my food experiences in Malaysia.

After a little more walking (and a small meal, naturally), however, we find what we're looking for. Built in 1972, and boasting more than 150 vendors, Old Airport Road was recently named Singapore’s best hawker centre.

Lineups for each of its two Michelin Bib Gourmand-awarded (meals under $32) stalls snake between tables and halfway around the building. People are patient and orderly. And yet, there's a non-stop chaos of talk, soup slurping, order calls, bowl stacking and wok clanging.

Colourful chopsticks dance into dishes.

Worth the wait.

I tuck into the line for Lao Fu Zi Fried Kway Teow, which has occupied a spot in the building since 1973. I've ordered the black version, which includes sweet, dark soy sauce. Each stall has its specialty, and kway teow, done two ways, is theirs.

Tan Lee Seng dances with the heat, scooping bits of broth and other ingredients into the large sizzling wok with the flourish of an artist. He makes every order individually.

At $5, it's considered expensive for hawker food, but it's worth it.

Garlic, chillies, Chinese sausage. I’m greeted by little bursts of the sea as clams explode in my mouth, alongside shrimp, crunchy dried fish and two kinds of noodle. Despite vendors’ constant questions about our ability to handle heat, it’s only mildly spicy.

Clean-up crews sort and wash dishes, before returning them to the appropriate vendor for yet another round. Got to keep the lines moving. I love hawker culture.

Sitting for a craft beer with a couple locals, we find we’re lucky: as of Monday, the centre will be closed for five days for a deep cleaning.

My tastebuds are grateful.

I, For One, Welcome Our New Robot Overlords.

Forest of the future.

Singapore — In a garden of glass, a garden.

We have spent the afternoon wandering down to the Marina Bay Sands Hotel — with its ship for a hat — and into the adjacent Gardens by the Bay, from which sprout futuristic-looking Supertrees.

The 50-metre-high solar-powered structures function as vertical gardens, collecting rainwater and venting air. More than 158,000 plants contribute to a living painting on the surfaces of the 18 Supertrees found throughout the park.

At first glance, though, it looks like we've been invaded by giant, wine glass-shaped robots.

That could have its advantages.

Behind them, giant glass beans arc from the gardens. One hosts the Flower Dome — the world's largest glass greenhouse — and its ever-changing horticultural displays from around the world. It's a garden in a bottle.

I'm half expecting a bungee jumper.

The other is home to the Cloud Forest, which replicates cool, moist conditions found in tropical mountain regions. It claims to have the world's tallest indoor waterfall.

But, as of a couple months ago, it's no longer even the tallest in this tiny country. That distinction goes to the newly constructed, 130-foot-tall Rain Vortex at Changi Airport.

Which doesn't mean it's any less impressive. A mane of tropical plants and flowers punctuate the 35-metre mountain set at the facility's apex. The climate offers respite from the swelling heat being kept at bay beyond the building's dizzying array of angles.

I can't help but think I'm stepping into the plant zoo of the future — one that harbours the last remaining species not yet lost to climate change or habitat destruction. Despite the facilities' efforts to increase awareness of sustainability, it strikes me as an apt metaphor. The irony is not lost on me that these gardens are indoors.

Alas, as we wind through each of the facilities, people, one by one, take time not to smell the roses, but to arrange them as backdrops for Instagram selfies.

My imagined dystopia may not be far off.

Sari, Not Sari.

Sri Krishnan Temple.

Singapore — Singapore’s India Town is fragrant and alive.

Stopping at Komala Villas for rava dosa and masala tea, we’re chatted up by a curious tablemate. He wonders how we found the place, which seems to be a popular breakfast spot for locals.

It's also one of Singapore's oldest vegetarian restaurants.

Casting a bushy eyebrow, he worries the food will be too spicy for us. Instead, there's just tremendous flavour. Like everyone who has spoken to us the past couple days, he asks if there are many Indians in Canada.

The friendliness here — and the willingness to engage — is far more immediately evident than it was in Hong Kong.

Freshly picked garland.

While still running at half speed, the Tekka Centre is much busier today, ringed by tailors marking lines in chalk as sewing machine whirrs dissolve into the cacaphony of butchers and fishmongers breaking down the day's product on solid wood blocks.

Still, the colour of saris swirls into fruit stands and freshly cut rings of flowers. A rainbow of drinks sits on blocks of ice, rising in small, swirling clouds in the mild heat.

It's like the start of a rock show.

But with better aromas.

Yesses and Nose.

Add hawk.

Singapore — My nose is on a journey.

The garlic, the incense, the curry. Cardamom, charcoal and fry oil. Fresh fish. The sweat. India Town’s flowers. It’s a strong argument for the invention of olfactory photographs as nothing else can do this justice.

In the neighborhood, colours burst from buildings like ripe fruit. Ripe fruit bursts with flavour.

In the Tekka Centre, fans oscillate over the market and hawker stalls as a pigeon pecks at our feet. A vendor weaves between orange tables, offering to sell us beverages.

It’s a community of religions and backgrounds breaking bread and it’s individuals serving their hunger, sitting alone, eating curries with their hands. Crushed beer cans stand unevenly at the centre of tables, huddled beside crooked cigarette stubs. It’s also men catching up.

More than half the shops are closed and still, the clanging of woks, the heat of the tandoor, the boisterous laughter.

The aromas.

This is amazing.

Lights, Camera, Action.

Alighting for an evening.

Central, Hong Kong — Birds fly across the International Commerce Building — once the fourth-tallest building in the world — as laser beams and search lights streak across the sky.

Their feathers are built of blinking offices.

The Symphony of Lights takes place across the Hong Kong Harbour every night for 10 minutes at 8 p.m. and draws quite a crowd. You can even listen to accompanying music performed by the Hong Kong Philharmonic Orchestra through an app — if you can hear it over the revellers on the party boat.

Or the amplified singers down at the pier.

Buildings on both side flash like strobes, celebrating the city. Choreographed images light up otherwise boring office windows. Neon signs blink in unison.

There are worse ways to spend an evening than with a box of takeaway dumplings — pork, and kimchi — and a beer, sitting on the pier.

Nearby, a model preens to her own portable lights as five photographers take their best shots. A bride and groom stride down the pier to capture their own memories.

The hearts cascading across the tower across the bay, it seems, are appropriate.

Macau, It’s Hot Out.

I suddenly feel like having sherbet.

Macau — Green molars rise from the water as we cross the South China Sea to Macau.
The sun is already a flamethrower.

I’ve taken an impromptu journey aboard a Turbojet hydrofoil with a colleague’s spouse — it’s like we’re collecting Chinese Special Administrative Regions. (Now, with fewer human rights violations!)

Upon reaching the island, we’re greeted by brightly painted concrete buildings in teal, yellow and a mosaic of ice cream flavours.

White marble scattered outside the mint green St. Michael’s Chapel is ornately carved into angels (“angles,” as we see a couple signs say), crosses and the Virgin Mary. The cemetery also boasts a bust with an epically robust moustache.

It's all a façade.

From the ruins of St. Paul — the former ‘Vatican of the East’ — and its massive facade, which looms over the centre of the city, to the colourful Senado Square, the island’s Portuguese heritage is obvious in much of its architecture, particularly in the UNESCO-recognized historic centre.

The colours are vivid, as is the history.

Vendors hawk jerky, laid out in sheets and cut into strips. Bakeries perfume the air, packaging endless bags of flaky egg tarts.

Setting itself up as a dystopian counterpoint, every third shop once we leave the historic centre is a Nike Store. Something about the frequency, paired with the plastic-wrapped shoes, gives me a sneaking suspicion they’re not legitimate. Or, the Macanese really, really like their sneakers.

At least their colours match the buildings.

Racy.

Neon and on and on.

Kowloon, Hong Kong — It’s a sprint to the finish. And we took a wrong turn.

We’ve spent the evening at the Temple Street Night Market in Kowloon, and the last ferry to Hong Kong Island leaves at 11:45 p.m.

Time spent sifting through cheap knockoffs and knicknacks that cut out the middle man has left us running to the pier. We left behind the dai pai dong with grilled meats and delicious looking spiced crab as shutters began falling sharply over storefronts like steel blankets.

Prostitutes don’t bat an over-lacquered eyelash. Even the purveyors of pastel cat-printed t-shirts, hand-held fans and Cucci purses barely raise a wrist in limp protest at our rushed departure.

This side of town is a far cry from the opulence of Canton Street — where a Lamborghini passes a pair of Bentleys — underlining the region’s vast wealth disparity.

Only a few blocks separate them, but their worlds could not be farther apart.

With the clock barking in our ears like a drill sergeant, the blocks feel even longer. We make it just in time.

Naturally, I try to pay with my room key.

It has been a long day.

Communal.

I'd be shellfish to eat all of this.

Wan Chai, Hong Kong — At home, communal seating in restaurants isn’t the norm.

Which makes it that much more fun when I find myself seated alone in a half-empty restaurant that suddenly fills up for the midday rush. The menu is a choose-your-own-adventure of what-will-this-be to an English speaker.

A woman then tucks in to the seat across from me and casts her eyes to the side as I tackle my bowl of noodles. Likely improperly. The gulf between us is greater than just Formica. Perhaps it’s caused by the chillies I added, which not only added flavour, but drained my sinuses.

Regardless, the cuttlefish balls, shrimp dumplings and noodles in broth hit the spot after walking around all morning.

Leaving the restaurant, the skies again cave in, leaving vendors tucked under bridges used as umbrellas while unpacking newspapers. LEGO constructions of cardboard boxes, meanwhile, appear on every corner; it seems Monday is re-stocking day.

Women wrapped in trash bags push stick brooms, scratching at the sidewalk; others drag carts to collect garbage and recycling. If nothing else, the city is clean.

As they bustle to work, men and women alike daintily hold thin cigarettes and give them feminine puffs. In the market, fish flop in styrofoam boxes, orchids bloom in great volume and brightly lit produce is haggled for and bundled. The skies clear anew.

Five spice hangs in the air.

Just another day in Hong Kong.

Court of Approval.

Baseline for a great experience.

Pok Fu Lam, Hong Kong — I emerge from the rainforest and onto a basketball court, looking to rain jumpers.

I’ve always wanted to join a pickup game during my travels and have only ever found soccer. Even at mid-morning, it’s 30 degrees, with 87 per cent humidity. And, the court is longer than normal.

“You wanna play?”

The request, in stilted English, comes my way not long after I start leaning on the fence to watch the game already underway.

Perhaps I should have had breakfast.

From five-on-five to four-on-four and two-on-three, the heat dribbles off us more than we do. The ball moves. We catch passes, and our breath, swallowing steam.

The men speak Cantonese, but a screen is a screen in any language — especially with my size. Together, we applaud each others’ efforts and enjoy the boundary-breaking nature of sport. In this case, travelling takes on a couple meanings.

Turnarounds, a game-winning three to cap the day, and smiles all around.

I’ve imagined this moment through many countries.

A Peace of the City.

Stream of consciousness.

Pok Fu Lam, Hong Kong — My plan had been to wander through the University of Hong Kong, past pools of carp and turtles, and through labyrinthine covered walkways.

But, a wall of green falls onto the back of campus. And, nestled into the peak of jade, a steep, narrow staircase looms like a beacon.

How can I not?

The slopes are polka-dotted by drainage holes, like insect burrows. Giant palms fan themselves in the lazy heat, and a golden silk orb weaver the size of my palm keeps its witch-like eyes on me. All eight of them.

In the tangle of vines, the mossy carpet offers only nature sounds like those that have sold millions of relaxation CDs. Thickets of bamboo stand sentry.

Otherwise, it’s absolute peace in the city.

This path circling Victoria Peak leads to a waterfall, its slippery, moss-covered rocks pushing me away. The only chatter is the stream, telling me ghost stories of time eternal.

With nobody knowing where I am, and the risk of injury high, I decide to turn back prior to reaching its source.

Perhaps I’m getting smarter with age.

Ferry Hot.

A colourful rain boat across the harbour.

Kowloon, Hong Kong – Perched atop wooden benches on the legendary Star Ferry, we bob like rubber ducks across Victoria Harbour to Kowloon. The trip costs about 33 cents.
The ferry has been in service since 1888 and carries 26 million passengers annually (or 70,000 a day). And, for the first time since we've arrived, the sun is out.

Last night's rains, however, have made the air woolly.

I’ve been surprised at how relatively quiet and unrushed Hong Kong has been for a major Asian city of 7.4 million people that is also the world’s fourth-most densely populated region. Saturday has changed that somewhat.

I have to imagine it's just a matter of the areas we have visited.

The day's Star.

Along Canton Road in Kowloon, lineups form in unwrinkled fabrics and cart wheeled luggage bags outside Hermès and Salvatore Ferragamo. They await the nod from black-suited security; I drip in a t-shirt.

I also imagine they would shoo me from the door. The sequined stores drawing daydream eyes are beyond my pay scale anyway.

The rising heat, paired with a looming fatigue from travel, has lowered our lids, cutting short our venture across the harbour. There will be no Temple Street Night Market for us this time.

Along the shore, two ladies sit with a large bag of Cheetos and a 1.5-litre bottle of red wine.

For today, that would be more my pace.

Peaking Doug.

Just a peek.

Victoria Peak, Hong Kong – The day’s journey begins as a slalom between cheap umbrellas spitting the morning’s weather onto my face. It’s a rushed blur of colour set against the mist.

At my height, it’s also a risk to the eyes.

Incense and pungent dried herbs paint colourful scenes as shop owners toss cardboard and styrofoam boxes into the road while setting up for the day. Streetside butchers bathed in bright lights cleave their wares to barked orders.

As we make our way up steep, bamboo-lined hills toward Victoria Peak, cicadas scream like small saws from moss-covered trees. With each step, skyscrapers fall into the sea behind us.

I pity the Foo (Dog).

Our lungs fill with clouds as we make our way up the 2,800-metre trail to the summit. All the while, the humidity reminds us of our humanity. Butterflies with jewelled wings flutter by like ballet-dancing broaches. A flautist, out for  a stroll, sets the scene as our sweat nurtures the soil.

The hike has taken us close to an hour in the rain, the start of which was quite steep, before settling in for an even, circuitous trail.

As the skies finally open up, though, so do the views, glass stalagmites rising into the rainforest.

It's why we made the trek.

Take a Bao.

I was the only thing not steamed.

Sheung Wan, Hong Kong – A steel trolley rattles by, its front-left wheel inevitably catching and, like a figure skater, doing a pirouette.

On it, bamboo steamers stand stacked, filled with cha siu bao, steamed pork meatballs with quails’ eggs and other traditional dim sum. (Your tally card is emphatically stamped when you see something you like.)

Pointing is our language of choice in the absence of common words.

Another trolley carries a large steel pot of congee. A woman pushing a third tut-tuts me when I refuse her offer of har gow. She is right — it’s immediately evident it’s my mistake to miss out.

But, we’ve been travelling a long time and have immediately thrown ourselves into the fray. Our whole breakfast comes to $20.

The Lin Heung Tea House was founded in 1889 and has stood on this spot for nearly 40 years. It offers loose leaf tea, filling your pot from a large kettle, while food comes down the dumbwaiter, or is carted out of the kitchen before winding around your shared table – women doffing the steamers’ lids like an old British gentleman tipping his cap.

We don’t know the language. Don’t know the food. But we know it’s exactly what we’re looking for.

And I have the heavily red-stamped order card to prove it.

Nature Versus Nurture.

We've been building to this.

Sai Ying Pun, Hong Kong – Lush, green hills hooded in rain clouds unfold beside us. They’d be more lush without several layers of weathered vellum laid over them.

The phallic machismo of shipping cranes and industrial steel, meanwhile, thrust from the water on the other side. Again, I question progress in the face of scarred beauty.

With a smooth purr, however, the train ride from the airport into the city strikes a balance: past versus future; beauty versus enterprise. Sometimes it's just a matter of the side you choose to look at.

Our arrival is like velvet.

And yet, I’m unsure what’s foggier: the landscape, or my mind after a 15-hour flight that left at 1:30 a.m. old-local time.

At what point do daydreams evaporate into the clouds around us?