Two young men, between bites of burgers, recount recent travels. As one destination piles atop another, their stories swell. They wear a nonchalant freedom and  I wish I could don their wings, if only for a day.

They are at the table beside us, in the Hong Kong airport McDonald’s, while we finish food before we fly. They talk of touring exotic locations – we talk of going home. Tension seems as foreign to them as I am to my Chinese neighbours. But not to me.

A series of circumstances left me exhausted and as we navigate the airport, I try to decide if Hong Kong offered the refreshment I craved. Inside, our family of five squeezes into one room. Outside, we get jostled by the rush of the throng.

But the guesthouse we stay in includes a private, outdoor space, something we don’t have in China. And I don’t feel like an outsider in Hong Kong. The crowd is composed of people from all corners of the earth. With such diversity I can even imagine I belong.

In mainland China I’m referred to as hen gao – very tall, and hao bai – so white. With this profile I can’t escape the curious eyes of those around me.

Even now as we walk through the airport – with ceilings high and passages wide – two young women step close to gaze at my family. I know they are from the mainland. And I know, when I step off the plane today, this will be our norm again.

In China, people often stop and stare. “Don’t look back,” I tell myself as I pass. I’ve done that and met the stranger eye to eye. His gawk seemed to label me an alien.

On this trip I’ve enjoyed elements of rest and privacy but not enough to erase the tension of the past few months, as I hoped. I still long for green pastures and still waters. Instead, I’m going home to cement and smog. Since I can’t escape, tour Asia, I have another idea. I reach into my purse, check for my book. My pseudo-adventure.

Approaching the signs displaying the multitude of departing flights I see a list of exotic destinations. “We should try to get on the wrong flight, land on the beaches of Bali,” I say. Instead, we look for our own.

We’re ahead of schedule so I project a quick check in. I’ll soon be seeped into my story, discovering if the lead can find resolution to her crisis. “Our flight leaves from terminal two,” I say. “Only a two-hundred meter walk.”

I lead the way.

*

With boarding passes in hand we approach immigration. No line. I can almost feel the book resting in my hand and I begin to relax, too early. I hand an officer, whose face looks as starched as his uniform, two passports. I peer behind him. How far to our gate? He opens the first, glares, and waves at my husband at the counter beside us.

“I guess we got them mixed up.” My voice sounds apologetic. The officer stares at me, devoid of emotion. My eyes reach to the boarding pass he is holding. “I think it’s yours,” I say, calling my son over. The man grumbles to his co-worker. He throws me an annoyed look. Finally, he flashes the picture at me – it’s my husband’s. The two men sort our confused documents in silence. I feel like a kid in the principle’s office. I made an innocent mistake.

Brian and the boys finish but the officer helping my daughter and I moves lazily, as if to give weight to our error. Does he know he is keeping me from my book, which is now almost as attractive as a day at the beach? There is still no one behind us. No one to hurry him. I stand trapped.

I watch the familiar process. So we got our documents mixed up. It wasn’t that big of a deal was it? He eventually hands them back to me. I offer him thanks. Surely he is glad it’s over too. Surely I haven’t committed so grave a sin, surely he will say a simple, “You’re welcome.” Not a word.

*

“Okay, let’s get to our gate.”

“Number 213,” Brian says. There are no gates in sight. We’re travelling a budget airline. We’ve already left the main terminal.

Is our gate hidden in the farthest corner of this labyrinth?

*

Read Falling Behind Part 2