A former British colony, Hong Kong remains a singular enclave in the southeast of China—officially “independent,” yet with each passing year more tightly bound to the mainland. Its throbbing heart, so dense it can overwhelm, rises like a forest of glass and steel: a colossal port, a global financial crossroads, an ocean of skyscrapers.
At its center, the district of Central asserts its vertical elegance. Amid gleaming towers and suspended walkways, the angular silhouette of the Bank of China, imagined by I. M. Pei, stands like a shard of light piercing the urban haze.
But Hong Kong is more than its towers. Travelers come for shopping as well—for its specialized boutiques and its night markets humming with voices. Hotel rooms, often no larger than a box, remind visitors of the territory’s scarcity of land, where every square meter is worth its weight in gold.
And beyond the neon lights, the sea opens wide. Ferries glide out of the bay toward islands with timeless villages, where silence lingers, and where the sea and narrow lanes still whisper of another Hong Kong—more fragile, more human.