How Returning to My Birth Place Made Me Wonder About the Life I Might Have Lived

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“You can leave Hong Kong, but it will never leave you.” — Nury Vittachi, Hong Kong: The City of Dreams

I was born to a mother from Seoul, Korea and an Italian American father from Brooklyn. 

I grew up nestled in the hills of Oakland, California, one of the most remarkable yet misunderstood communities in the country. 

My friends were of all colors, shapes, sizes, socio-economic backgrounds, and interests. Some came from families that worshipped one god, two gods, or no gods. 

But all influenced me in ways I’m just beginning to appreciate as the second half of my life not so gradually creeps up. 

All of this to say, I rarely consider how my birth place has played a role in my evolution. 

If at all. 

What’s in a birth place anyway? 

This was a question I longed to know as I hopped on a flight for Hong Kong four summers ago.

The first stop on my journey was the hospital of my birth. Canossa Hospital was originally founded in 1929 by the Canossian Daughters of Charity. In fact, the original building had just 16 beds, which were all destroyed during the Second World War. 

Thankfully, I was born in a less tumultuous time though my entry into the world was not without controversy. 

“You’re the reason your mother missed my wedding!”an old family friend joked. “She was giving birth to you when I was tying the knot!”

Just minutes into my life I was already inconveniencing someone’s plans. 

Because my family moved to California when I was just eleven months old, my memories are replaced by inventions of what life might have been like had we stayed.

I thought about the schools I might have attended. 

Would it have been some fancy international academy filled with the children of bankers and diplomats?

Would I have spent my days playing hooky, watching the horses at the Happy Valley Racecourse?

How soon, if at all, would that extraordinary view from Hong Kong’s peak have grown old?

I wonder if such a thing is even possible.

As I ambled through the cramped and muggy streets of Kowloon, I also recalled an opportunity I’d passed up to study in this remarkable city during my junior year of college.

My friends had practically begged me to tag along for a semester of carousing during a reliably laughable workload. But for some reason, running for student body president took precedence over having my passport stamped. 

What was I thinking?

When the final votes were tallied, it was clear I’d lost more than an election. 

A few weeks upon their arrival, I received a phone call from a beach in Thailand. My friends had called to inform me they were sitting on a beach sipping cocktails as I stared blankly at a six foot pile of snow just outside my upstate New York apartment. 

It’s good to have friends. 

But whether studying abroad or traveling for work, Hong Kong is a magical place filled with typhoons, tycoons, and nearly 8,000 glittering skyscrapers. 

It is a foodie paradise that boasts the highest number of restaurants per capita in the world. 

It is a place where dreams are both realized and lost. 

But to me, it remains mostly a place of wonder. 

Of what if’s?

What different life might I lived had we stayed behind?

What, if anything, is in a birth place? 

How I Learned the Cost of Not Living on Your Own Terms

“Declaring something finished freezes its evolution.” — Walter Isaacson

In the summer of 2013 I found myself driving along a narrow country road just outside of East London, South Africa. As if navigating a stick shift on the left side of the road weren’t a big enough dare, the events leading up to my impromptu adventure proved equally challenging.

After finishing my 5 weeks of volunteer work in a town called, Chinsta Village, I felt a sharp pain near my groin one morning. I spent nearly a week in bed half convinced I’d never again walk without a hitch in my step.

After practically inhaling a bottle of antibiotics and laying in bed for a week, I decided it was time to visit the main hospital in East London.

“You have a cyst,” my doctor told me. “And you have two options. First, you can let it burst on its own, which will be extremely painful. Or, you can let me operate on you tonight.”

Even doctors are salesman, I thought.

Needless to say, I paid nearly $3,000 out of pocket to avoid the first alternative.

If at all possible, I highly recommend scheduling your next emergency surgery in an area your health insurance is recognized.

A few days after my operation, I was a little banged up, but in good spirits. It turned out all the fuss was over an ulcer.

Still, the patience of my normally poised parents had been put to the test. And who could blame them? My last note to them before heading into surgery was quite distressing:

Hi Dad,

Hope all is well. Having emergency surgery. Talk soon.

Love,

Nick

This did not go over well.

But it turned out it wasn’t the choice of my words that alarmed them most, but the 4 days it took to confirm I was in fact still alive.

Either way, I learned my lesson.

You might think my experience in a drab hospital room on the other side of the world might have imparted a lesson or two.  

At the very least on the importance of maintaining your poise in the face of adversity, how to expect the unexpected, or the do’s and don’ts of communicating with your folks.

It did all of that AND more.

But it was a radio broadcast of all things that fundamentally changed the way I saw the world. To this day, I refer to the moment as my personal “Sermon on the Mount.”

A few minutes into my drive, I decided to turn on the radio. I felt relieved everything had worked out and excited about the journey ahead. A soundtrack seemed in order.

But after several minutes of carefully turning the dial as if I was opening a safe, I hear nothing but static.

Just as I was about to turn off the radio, I heard a voice leap from the speakers. It was the distinct rhythm of a South African preacher in the middle of a sermon.

“Take my house. Take my car. You can even take all my money,” he said. “But please, DO NOT TAKE MY TIME! Do not take my time because that I cannot replace.”

Seconds later, the station mysteriously faded out like some apparition into the night.

That moment changed my life.

Travel

There’s nothing like visiting a foreign country, but you don’t need your passport to explore. 

Each place, near or far, offers a chance to challenge the assumptions you have about the world.

There’s nothing quite as humbling as realizing you’ve been clinging to an idea, or worldview that hasn’t been stress tested and is just plain wrong.

Adventures in the Most Religious City in the World

This morning I woke up and glanced at the henna stamp on the palm of my hand. It was a sign of just one of the many strange, but mostly memorable events that happened the night before.

After a day of mostly aimless strolls, I arrived at my friend’s apartment on Ruth Street. I watched as Rony hastily changed clothes, trying desperately to get ready before his folks arrived.

In just a few moments we were all hopping in a car en route to Jerusalem.

I hadn’t seen Rony’s parents for nearly 8 years. They were two of the kindest people I’d ever come across. Now here we were in Israel, nearly 6,000 miles from New York getting ready for their son’s wedding.

The five of us crowded into a Subaru 4 x 4 and made our way south for the pre-wedding ceremony. Rony’s fiancee, Ella, a Yemenite Jew insured us we wouldn’t be disappointed by the food and traditions that date back thousands of years.

“Nick, I can’t believe you are actually here!” Rony’s mom said.

“Yes. I’m here,” I assured her.

I caught up with Rony’s folks as he and Ella made frantic calls to friends and family confirming there whereabouts, and that they were in fact coming to Jerusalem as advertised.

We talked about travel and art as Rony’s father offered interesting tidbits of history.

“He’s my Google,” Rony’s mom joked.

Our ride to Jerusalem felt strangely familiar. I felt almost as if I’d returned home. I had only been to the Holy City once but felt as if I was visiting an old friend.

It wasn’t until later I appreciated the irony of feeling such peace in a place fraught with tension and complexity.

Before we entered the synagogue for the festivities Rony asked me to wear a yarmulke and to remove the crucifix around my neck. Neither turned out to be necessary, but I wanted to make my friend feel at ease.

I’m told getting married is a bit stressful.

Soon, the guests started to arrive. At first it felt like a light rain before giving way to a steady downpour. Each person beamed as they approached Rony, offering some congratulatory prose and a hug.

I spent much of my time speaking with Yuval, Rony’s brother, and his in-laws; a delightful elderly couple originally from Jerusalem who happened to have a son who lived in Pasadena. We nearly fell over when we discovered I’d lived just a few blocks from him.

Yuval’s father-in-law told me he and his wife had recently moved from Jerusalem because they felt more and more unsettled about being secular Jews in a community where it no longer felt okay to be so.

I also spoke with Ella’s cousin, a young man named Anthony who’d lived an extraordinarily interesting life, especially for someone so young. We traded stories about living in Shanghai.

His father approached with a full plate of food and listened attentively before offering some theories on business, the world economy, and history. He was a nice gentlemen but I couldn’t always tell whether he was talking to me or lecturing.

The ceremony itself is hard to describe. It was delivered in Hebrew, the garments worn entailed large golden coats, and a tall triangular shaped head piece replete with elaborate jewelry.

Even I took part in the action wearing a traditional Yemenite robe and dancing the night away wondering when, if ever, I’d experience such an event again.

There were also elaborate sweets, lots of delicious Kubaneh bread, fruit, vegetables, and did I mention bread?

Eventually the night came to a close as Ella, Rony, and their close friend Karen drove us back to Tel Aviv. Earlier in the evening, I wondered if Israelis had ever tried to make their own cars to which Rony responded, “Once, but it did not go well.”

I finally arrived back at good ole’ Pinsker Street. Karen dropped me off at about 1:30 am just in front of an argument between a young man and woman; a couple in or around love.

I don’t miss that, I thought to myself.

I thanked Karen for the ride and made my way inside the apartment. The lights were dim and the air conditioner in my room had been turned on. It was the only sign I wasn’t alone, something I’d started to doubt the past two days.

I laid down without bothering to change, exhausted at all I’d seen, heard, and learned — most for the first time. After a few moments of trying to get comfortable I felt myself start to drift away.

I fell into a deep sleep.

My first in a while.

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How Not to Upset a Bosnian Cab Driver - Adventures in Not Having a Clue Where You're Going

My trip to Sarajevo was a memorable one. As I crossed the Serbian border into Bosnia, I took in dramatic peaks, verdant valleys, and lakeside towns.

During one of the many pit stops, I asked the young man sitting across from me where he was from.

“Bosnia,” he told me.

“Can you understand people in Serbia? I asked. “How similar are the two languages?”

“Pretty similar,” he said.

Eventually, this opened up the floodgates for a conversation that would span nearly the rest of the journey.

Milan, a 24-year old law student from Bosnia, took the seat next to me as we spoke for hours. His English was impressive, impeded only by a stammer he was thankfully unconcerned about. It sounds strange to say, but he was perhaps the most earnest person I’d ever met.

We spoke about politics in his country and mine. He asked nuanced questions like the relationship between African-American men and the police, my stance on gun control, and my take on the upcoming presidential election. I felt at times as if I were running for office.

This guy knows his stuff, I thought.

I offered my thoughts, however flawed. I tried not to claim I knew more than I did and told him how impressed how I was with the scope of his interests.

The only problem was he went on and on.

I nodded politely before becoming gradually more nauseous from weaving around the steep mountainside. He was so consumed by his own thoughts it seemed at times he didn’t even need me to share his musings.

There were brief respites, like when the bus broke down. I joked with three travelers from Poland about our chances of making it Bosnia.

“Are you staying in Sarajevo?” one asked during the delay.

“I don’t know anymore,” I joked.

Eventually, we were on our way as Milan got off at a stop just outside the city. We shook hands and agreed to stay in touch.

Soon after, I arrived on the outskirts of Sarajevo. Why the bus stop was not in the heart of the city confounded me but I had bigger fish to fry.

My AirBnb host had been shaky with communication. He’d informed me to contact his partner, Imran who I never heard back from. After nearly half an hour of waiting to hear back, I asked for a refund and connected with the other AirBnb host I had considered.

“Hi Aida, hope you’re well. Very last minute, but just curious if you’ve arrived back in Sarajevo. Just got in and haven’t heard back from my host who I believe is on vacation. Just wanted to quickly see if your place is still available. Very last minute. Understand if you’re out. If it is available I can make my way…”

After a few minutes, she responded telling me the offer still stood.

I hailed a cab and followed her instructions, which read:

‘The address is Aleja Lipa. Take care this is Grbavica and not Hrasno. You need to tell that to the taxi driver.’

A few moments after our exchange, I received a confirmation phone call from her.

Or so I thought…

I made my way to a cab parked nearby. I was tired but mostly relieved I’d have a place to hang my hat for the night. The man driving the car was probably in his 50s. He was tall, bald, and looked to be fit for his age, certainly not someone I’d want to upset, which I later would.

As we inched closer to town with a loud Bosnian news broadcast blaring in the background, it was clear the driver was disoriented. He stopped the car to ask for directions, but we were both totally confused as to where exactly the apartment was.

Of course, I had a slightly better excuse.

Just as we seemed to be on our way, I received a phone call from my host.

“I’m just checking to see where you are,” I heard someone say.

It then dawned on me the voice I was speaking to wasn’t the host I’d been texting.

“What is your name again?” I asked. “And what is your address?”

“This is Aidan. I am on Ferhadija,” the voice replied.

I’d made a huge blunder.

The person who called had a very similar name as my previous host, and both addresses ended with the number 9. And because Imran had failed to return my messages, Aidan had taken over communication duties; something I wasn’t aware of.

“I’ll be right there,” I said.

I texted back Aida explaining the mix-up to which she graciously said wasn’t a problem.

My cab driver did not share the same sentiment.

I showed him the new address as he mumbled something in Bosnian, which you didn’t have to be a scholar to know wasn’t good.

All of that hassle in finding the first place was for nothing. I had caused him (and myself) several minutes of meaningless aggravation.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated profusely.

We arrived in one piece a few minutes later as I offered a very generous tip. Not surprisingly it seemed to settle everything.

Funny how money has that effect on people.

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Musings in a Jordanian Cafe

I can’t sleep. I wonder how many times my mattress has played host to the insomniac tourist; too many to count probably. I just hope this bed has learned not to take it personally. 

“It’s not you it’s me,” I feel tempted to say.

This evening, I had a cup of tea at a place called the, Art Gallery Cafe on the corner of Al-Rainbow and Uthman Bin Affan Street. It was a cozy little spot that reminded me of a sidewalk café in Europe.

I overheard four-twenty something’s philosophize about travel, dating, and work. The most notable sound bites was one man’s claim that whales didn’t have faces. 

I'm still pondering that one.

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If you enjoyed this article, sign up for my bi-monthly newsletter with my favorite book, film, and travel recommendations in addition to my latest articles on productivity and inspiration.

Plus, I’d love to share my free Creativity Day Planner — a simple two -page template on building good daily habits.