I never thought I would get married. I never thought I would be looking to buy a house with someone. Yet, here I am doing both. It feels incredible, wonderful, and a bit scary, mostly on the buying-a-house part due to age rather than anything else.

Falling in love and getting hitched was never in my thoughts because of my lifestyle, mostly nomadic. People come and go in my life. They don’t stick around. Part of it is living overseas. Part of it is just my nature. It is something I accepted as part of my path until it changed a few years ago.

I met the love of my life – the one who changed me. The one who shaped how I would love many years ago. It began with a clear end – he would move to the United States at some point. We would enjoy our time together and see things, but there would be an unknown end date. In the early years of that relationship, we talked about being together forever, but there would be awkward pauses, so we dropped the topic and enjoyed our time. It ended as expected, and I was hurt. I fell for another, but quickly saw that the future there wasn't going to happen because of timing.

Then I met him with no expectations, no hopes for the future, only to enjoy being with him. We saw each other a lot, then more. We travelled and learned more about each other. There was safety and security as we grew together. It was love, and I felt it for a while, but this feeling or fear – “he will leave me” was still there even though there were no signs or anything, but the thought was there.

He came home with me last year to meet my mom and see my childhood home. He saw the place where I grew the most – Korea, where I spent 7 years. In return, I got to know him more and liked what I saw and what I learned. We grew together and began seeing how lucky I am to have him in my life, and we wanted to build a future together.

The thought has always been there. The talks have always been there. Until we talked last night. He moved in fully near the beginning of the year and has enjoyed it a lot. We have been looking for apartments to build, which is a huge step. Then I turned to him, and we talked, never sure how to 'do it right.' So I asked, “Do you wanna?” and he said, “Sure.” We were joking, but we weren’t. I am lucky beyond words and looking forward to many, many years ahead.

The student said he wanted to talk. They felt lonely. I said sure if he didn’t mind me cutting the egg cartons. They asked me if I had ever cheated before. I was honest and said yes in a French test in primary school. I didn’t want to stay after school. I didn’t think French was important, so I cheated. I could have lied and said no, but I wanted to show I was human – not perfect. He said he had never cheated and gave some praise. They asked if I have any fears. I said the usual – death and the future. Everyone fears death at some point, and well, it is something we need to deal with.

I stopped cutting up the egg cartons. We talked about going into secondary school and how the fear is genuine. I shared how I was afraid of starting new schools, new countries, new lives. It is hard, and it has made me a bit better. I have grown a lot. I shared all of these things and also said that starting something new is hard as a way of explaining how this is part of being human. They worried about making new friends, losing old ones, and the discomfort of being somewhere new. There were examples of the student being on the football team, of always being around friends. I had taught them in P1 but left for a while, and I showed how they have grown since I last knew them. They were surprised I remembered, but for me it is something I do – I can’t explain it.

They thanked me and went back to class before the bell rang. I teach English at this school. I figure out ways to make the lessons enjoyable, and sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn’t. I have questioned moving back to this smaller village school. It is these connections that I have missed, and the reason why I wanted to come back. My work here is more demanding and more rewarding. The connections I am building are still new. I find it critical in teaching them both the subject and the person. There are a lot of students I don’t know. I am working with almost everyone to build something if there is something to build. It can be frustrating and rewarding at the same time.

The view from my old, bigger school.

I have been working in ‘big schools’ here in Hong Kong for the past four years. These are schools with 5 & 6 classes of 25 kids per level. I would teach only the P1-P3 (Grades 1 to 3) without doing anything with any of the upper levels. The classes were repetitive – doing the same lesson over and over again. I would try to modify the lesson to the needs of the students. More fluent classes would have more challenging words and tasks, while less fluent classes would have support at their level. It was stressful in the first year but boring in the second year. It’s this boredom that spurred me to make the move. The work was easy, but a crucial structure was missing, which is often lacking in small village schools in northern Hong Kong.

There are four pillars of a good work environment. They are trust – do you feel like your work has your back? Belonging – do you feel part of something? Recognition – are you valued? And something called collective resilience – in a crisis, can we all come together for the benefit of each other and those we help? In my ‘new job’, I feel I don’t have any of those.

The village school I have returned too.

My school is disorganized. The person I rely on for information about what is going on has been missing for two weeks, and I expect them to be absent for the next few days or more. I had worked with her before and know she takes a lot of sick days. I am the only native English speaker at my school, and no one here feels comfortable speaking English. I feel more out of place than before. I have yet to experience the feeling that my work has value, as I still need to determine the needs of the students and find ways to help them.

In the three weeks of classes so far, everything feels rushed and unplanned, with the only purpose being to complete whatever worksheet, page in the textbook, or other assignment. It doesn’t matter if the kids know it. It doesn’t matter if the kids know their ABCs. It is about getting stuff done. I feel like I'm at the mercy of the local teachers, whereas in my previous school, I had more control over what I needed to do, and I could see students learn. This feeling of pressure, which I put upon myself, is normal, but it doesn’t feel like teaching. I am in a mode to manage the class since my teaching partner may not know how to or may not care. I am too harsh and not having fun in the lesson – when I am not having fun, the kids won’t be having fun.

It is only the beginning of the academic year, and I have yet to form a firm bond with the students. I don’t know the names of the teachers well. There is time for me to change, the school to change and for me to build a more meaningful relationship with the students to make the school year better. I am hopeful that when the teacher returns from their sick leave, things will improve. Currently, I’m filling in the gaps, which isn’t my goal or my role here, but I remain optimistic about the future.

My partner and I weren't sure what to do for lunch. I didn't want something 'western' but felt like something local. There was a large article in the NY Times about the Metropol Restaurant at the United Centre near Admiralty. It has been around for 35 years and is closing. It is one of the last remaining dim sum restaurants where they are served from metal carts in the city. A local university will take over the space to use as classrooms. The number of customers visiting there has been declining for the past few years due to COVID-19 and the shift of people heading to Mainland China, as it is cheaper and easier. It is more known as a tourist place, but don't mind that feeling.

We went up to the fourth floor of the United Centre. It felt like a typical Cantonese-style restaurant with a red-themed entrance, and we were ushered into one of the two doors. There were no differences in which door we went through since they both led to a massive room, which was the restaurant. It is a Hong Kong-style wedding banquet room with partitions that can split the space into smaller areas for private functions, rooms, or for a single wedding reception. The steamers and service were in the middle of the room around the supporting beam. On the outside, furthest from the doors were some private rooms with walls and not partitions. The last time I was here, we sat near them.

The NY Times piece mainly talked about the 'cart ladies' who used to push them around with steamed dim sum and other foods. Some of them had been working in the restaurant since it had opened, but we didn't see any. All the food was at the central station, and we needed to go there to pick it up. They would 'chop' the paper, which we would pay for later. The only carts were those of older men who would deliver the food from the kitchen to the centre, where it would be placed on the steamers to be kept warm and taken off when we ordered. I always find Dim Sum the same. To me, there is no such thing as incredible dim sum since it is steamed with a universal taste. There is bad dim sum – frozen, which hasn't been fully prepared. I have only had this once in Toronto.

We had Iron Buddha Tea, which was good. When we wanted more, we would go up and take whatever was fresh and whatever we wanted. There was a steamed area and a 'fried' area. The fried area featured mostly fried dumplings, fried wontons, and spring rolls, which were all good, but being fried gave them a filling feeling.

The crowd was busy since it was closing soon. It was primarily local, with a few older Chinese ladies and such. I saw a few older men without the typical horse racing forms, since it was too early and not a Sunday or Wednesday, which are race days. There were more 'white' people, but they felt like they were European based on how they dressed. There was an older Western gentleman who chatted up the staff in full-on Cantonese. My partner would poke me and say, 'You should learn.' Yes, I should learn, but I am lazy.

We drank a lot of tea, ate a lot, but there is only so much Dim Sum someone can eat. It is very filling, especially with everything steamed or fried. The man in the suit came and took our paper with numerous signatures, and we paid. The place was filling up as it approached 11:30, prime time. I felt a bit guilty about going here on this day. It is closing, and with most places in their dying days in HK, the busiest tend to be the last days, when, if people had come earlier, maybe it wouldn't need to close.

My first job out of university was working for a Member of Provincial Parliament (MPP) named John Hastings. I wrote speeches, letters, press releases, emails and other small things. I didn’t learn anything other than that everything I wrote was bad, everything I did was wrong, but I was cheap, so they kept me. I never learned and didn’t grow. I would quit and go to school for a year, but I started volunteering at a different MPP’s office.

My boss there was different. He taught me how things worked – the reason why we sent out mailers, and the reason why we do things in the legislature to collect data on voters in a way that allows us to learn more about them and adjust. I would spend more and more time in the MPP’s office than I did in school. There was an election in Ontario in 1999, where I volunteered, and we won the seat and our political party won government. I would continue to learn and grow until I took a job at a different MPP as their Senior Advisor.

I applied what I learned and continued to grow. Working with my MPP, we passed legislation to strengthen the province's drinking and driving laws. I moved to different offices and learned with each move. It was amazing until stress arose. The polling showed the government would lose the next election, and I would be out of a job. For someone in politics, the only viable route is into government/public relations, or to remain in politics; however, the job is challenging, and the pay is not as good as in the private sector. I wanted to see the world, so I took a job as a teacher in Korea, which eventually led me here to Hong Kong.

Whenever I am back in Toronto, I always walk around Queen’s Park and wonder ‘what if?’ What if I stayed in politics, or if I only went to Korea for a year and returned, perhaps working in Ottawa when my party regained power there, or even back in Queen’s Park many years later, where my party also regained power? A lot of the regret is the time away from my mother and my father, who passed away in 2019. I wonder if my life would have been more settled earlier – would I be married in my 30s rather than dating someone long-term in my 50s?

I love my life in Hong Kong. I have travelled around the world and seen things I would never have seen if I had lived in Canada. I like to think I have helped thousands of students as their teacher and a few as their counsellor. There have been struggles abroad, but I have learned to accept who I am more so in the past decade than at any other time in my life. I have been lucky to find love a few times, only to lose it and find it again.

Still, every time I am in and around this building, what if?

It was 5 years ago, and I walked through. The sunflowers are beautiful in yellow. One could buy them, and they encouraged you to purchase the seeds and the oils they made from them. It was away from the school. It puts one in a frame of mind away from work. It calms me, relaxes me and puts me in a different mood.

I was frustrated by a student I hoped would do better than he did. I needed the fresh air and went there to recharge. It was tough, and I came back. He was playing basketball, and I joined for a bit. His English was not the best, but he liked the game. I was in my teaching gear, but played anyway. We didn’t have the best relationship, but there was a bit of respect over the game. Maybe the boy saw me differently, trying to play basketball, but more wanting to build a deeper connection with him. He would shoot, and the ball would go nowhere near the net. He’d apologize, but I would respond, ‘There is no apology in basketball.’ It would continue for a while in the heat. The kid warmed up to me for the first time in 6 years. There was respect, and I felt it. I thought I made progress.

Maybe it was the calm of the sunflowers or getting him to play and talk without me being a ‘teacher’, but a guy who likes to play basketball. I made a connection, and it meant a lot to me. I remember going home feeling good.

The next morning, I got a call from my brother. My father had passed. I was broken and in some ways still am. I remember the sunflowers and playing basketball with the students during those days. I can’t believe it has been 5 years, it feels like yesterday.

My father enjoyed going to the bar after work. My brother called it the ‘Old Man Gay Bar,’ but no one was gay there. They were mostly men over the age of 70. The bartenders were mostly women, the same age as my father. The conversations were repetitive – usually about the ‘good old days’ of a city and a time when things were easier, according to them. It never was, but there are always new challenges as we move through life. Throughout my high school years, his bar would change every few years as new places opened and closed. I would go with him to bond over what is going on in my life and his.

Dad worked early in the morning and late in the afternoon or evening when I was in High School. He would get up at 1 or 2 in the morning to pick up vegetables, then take them to the Ontario Food Terminal in Toronto to sell them to grocery stores and small vegetable and fruit stands around the province. The hours made it hard since when he would come home, he’d be tired and worn down. The only time we would talk would be in the bar.

His last bar was J. Taps near the beer store and the Queen Elizabeth Highway that cuts through St. Catharines. I wasn’t sure what to expect after COVID. Many bars and restaurants in Hong Kong have been struggling and closing shop. With the guys, my father’s age, and remembering how much they drank, I wasn’t sure if anyone would be around. It has been in operation since the early 2000s under various names.

Today, it is called Pitchers. It is similar to most Ontario bars I have known—many TVs showing sports at various points in the day. The woman at the back of the bar asks for my order, and I get a Labatt’s 50. It was my father’s beer when I was a child. He would switch through his life, but it was always 50 for me. It’s a pale lager that was popular long ago, but now it’s not as popular. It’s known as ‘old man beer.’

On the bar, there were plaques, and I asked about them. They were long-time customers. I remembered some of the patients coming in wheelchairs. My father held court at a small table at the front, where he would sit with his co-workers who complained about work, the government and how things used to be better.

When I go in today, there is none of that. The place is quiet except for the bartenders, who look younger. There is one lady who remembers my father. She talks about that ‘crew of guys’ my father ran with. A lot are not around anymore – death, sickness, tough personal lives. The bar is still around and will be for a while.

I’ll keep coming back for a 50

It's early, but that doesn't matter. The path from where we sleep to the temple isn't far; it hugs the river and passes by small tea trees, which will soon be harvested in April for their leaves. A breeze blows, but with plenty of layers, it doesn't feel cold. The monk walks up and down, banging the wooden fish (목어), a hollow wooden shell that produces a soft bell-like sound when struck, to awaken anyone who wishes to join the morning chanting.

Seonunsa Temple (선운사), known as 'Taoist Cloud, was established in 577 CE in Gochang, South Korea, is renowned for its 1,500-year-old camellia forest. The temple features important cultural treasures, including the Daeungbojeon Hall and Mokjogwaneum Statue.

I need to cross the stone bridge lined with lanterns for Buddha's birthday, which is just a few weeks away. The lanterns look beautiful and calming at night when there are barely any people around.

The first gate is known as Cheonwangmun (천왕문), also known as the Gate of the Four Heavenly Guardians. I practice the Hapjang by pressing my palms together, then raising my hands to my chest and making a half-bow to the four wooden sculptures representing the guardians. This act is a sign of respect; the wooden statues are carved to appear fierce, warding off evil and dangerous spirits. They protect the temple and those who enter from harm.

The monks, clad in grey robes and slippers, are walking towards the main hall. I worry about being late but reassure myself that I won't be.

The main hall of the temple, known as Daeungbojeon (대웅보전), was rebuilt in 1472 after being destroyed in 1592 and again in 1613. This building is considered a national treasure. At night, adorned with lanterns, it is beautiful and calming, just like the rest of the temple. Shoes are removed before entering, as is customary in most temples. I am early and have time to find a spot and sit cross-legged on the floor. There are three Buddha statues in front: the Vairochana Buddha in the middle, representing pure consciousness and universal wisdom. The Amitabha, central in the Buddhism practiced in Korea, is on the left. The Medicine Buddha encourages physical well-being on all is on the right.

As the monks enter the temple through the center door, the banging of the 'wooden fish' begins. However, we enter through the left or right doors. The chants, sung in Korean, are rhythmic, though I don't fully understand the words. My thoughts slow down, allowing me to focus on the present moment. The monks perform 'full bows,' the ultimate sign of respect, where they touch the floor with five points of their body (legs, arms, and head) while raising their palms upward to the Buddha. This bow is performed three times or sometimes 108 times, though, in this setting, it is done only a few times. The chanting centers my mind, and worries about the future fade away. Everything that exists is the present moment.

As the service concludes, we walk back into the darkness—alone, yet not.

Snow and cold shrank my world. Usually, I am home in the summer and spend a lot of time walking, biking, driving, and wandering, causing a lot of reminiscence and nostalgia. It was too cold to stay outside for the 4-hour walks I once did. There was too much snow for me to feel comfortable driving anywhere. With only ten days, it was hard to move about the area, and the reasons – my grandmother's physical health and my mom’s mental health made me want to stick close to home.

I brought a lot of books and things to keep me busy at home, thinking I would be bored without the ‘freedom’ to wander. I didn’t touch any of it from when my plane landed until it took off. The cold and snow shrank my world, making it deeper.

The time I spent with my 98-year-old grandmother was valuable in words I can’t express. During my time, she realized she could not live alone at home. There’s a lot of fear in finally accepting it, and I am grateful to help guide her. I don’t know how much time is left, but I am lucky to have had a meaningful time. With her health and her mental health frailing, it has caused a lot of stress on my mother. I did errands and was a sounding board for her frustrations in caring for her mother. I listened; maybe, being in problem-solving a bit too much, but I was able to help in the ways I could. It meant a lot.

No one travels a lot during winter since the kids are still in school. In two weeks at home, I felt I reconnected with freinds who I haven’t seen in a while. I had a beer with a high school freind. I reconnected with a freind whom I taught with in my first year in Korea with her husband. One freind always arranges to meet up with me somewhere, which I am always grateful for. There were others I wished to connect with but were busy. I don’t have contacts and there is always another time.

The trip home was short but it was deeper.

I have been living in Asia for almost 23 years. During this time, the bonds between family and friends have become looser. Yes, people pass away, and there are funerals and memorials, which provide an opportunity to reconnect with family, even if it’s under sad circumstances. The last memorial or funeral I attended was in 2019, and I barely knew anyone there. Over the years I’ve spent in Asia, many family members have passed. They meant a lot to me, but time and distance have made the loss feel less impactful than it should.

My family is getting smaller, which is understandable at 52 years old. I often look at social media to see friends from home and notice closer connections among them, which causes some regret about being away. This feeling of regret is something I’ve never felt since I moved away. I’ve had amazing experiences here: exploring, learning, and growing as a person. But the cost of this has been a lack of connection with my extended family—the aunts, uncles, cousins, and others who formed my family and to whom I was once close. It has made me more distant to former secondary school, university and workmates. It is hard to maintain a relationship with many kilometers between us. I try, as best as I can, and there is always a feeling it not being enough. It hurts when a death happens and fades as time goes on.

The thought of those Christmas dinners has only come up with the death of my Great Aunt. The last time we were all in that house for Christmas was in 1997. I don’t think the thought has come up since then.