The last time I was in Hong Kong it was the early aughts, swamp-butt sweltering in May and as crowded and jostling as Times Square on a swarming summer night.

Laptop open, I write this on my return to the sprawling urban archipelago, propped on my hotel bed, gazing out at floor-to-ceiling views of striking Victoria Harbor and about ten thousand skyscrapers, a glass and steel thicket that plays exuberantly off the verdant, low-slung mountains that make Hong Kong’s terrain so famously picturesque — columns of concrete hugged by lavish foliage. 

On one side of the narrow harbor is the at once lush and deliriously vertical Hong Kong Island; on the other side is Kowloon, all crackling neon bustle, where I’m staying. It’s January and a merciful 65 degrees and the colorful crowds are maddening and unbudging and beautiful. It’s a blast, really.

Politically, Hong Kong is of course a complicated place, a “special administration region” of mainland China, operating with the constitutional principle of “one country, two systems.” If you follow the news you know how that’s working out, bumpy at best. I vow not to write anything here that will rankle the tetchy government and get me deported or worse. I’m not a big fan of prison meals.

I’m on day four of six, and so far I’ve taken a six-hour walking tour of city highlights; watched the popular Wednesday night horse races at the fabled Happy Valley track; did a day trip to the island of Macau, a Portuguese territory until 1999 and, thanks to its glitzy-kitschy casinos, known as the Las Vegas of Asia; visited two exceptional art galleries and the impressively sleek Hong Kong Museum of Art; relished a private three-hour food tour with the sweet, dynamic and aptly named guide Angel who offered everything from dim sum to donuts as well as cultural and historical appetizers; and strolled the renown Temple Street Night Market, where heaps of cheap souvenirs, name-brand knock-offs, geriatric karaoke, fortune tellers, and grilled octopus and other exotic street vittles conspire for an electric buzz.

Hong Kong is curious. Its population of 7.5 million — unfailingly polite and helpful are these folks — skews palpably young; every other person looks to be between 15 and 35, though officially the median age is 46, which is young, but still. As a former British colony, English is pervasive. I haven’t spoken a word of Chinese, not even a “hello” or “thank you,” which is about the extent of my local vocabulary when abroad. 

In many ways, from the sheer human density to the boisterous food culture, HK reminds me of Tokyo. Excitement reigns. Weaving among bodies on the skinny sidewalks — many of those bodies staring at their phones — you pass shops hawking chunky beef offal, luxury bags and watches, shark fins and sea cucumbers, medicinal herbs and incense. And scads of busy 7-Eleven stores, like two per block. It’s a carnival of smells, sights, lights and humanity — especially as it’s the Lunar New Year, year of the snake — a heady, bracing brew that fuels my love of travel, my intemperate wanderlust that makes my heart pound and my feet ache with throbbing delight.

Some Hong Kong visuals so far: