Home for the Easter holidays, Becky Zhang, 18, reveals what it’s like to return to an ever-changing DB, and recalls an idyllic childhood of seemingly endless summers.
It’s a sunny spring day. Toddlers in bright sweaters amble about as I sit on the plaza steps. Some of them play hide and seek by the trees, while others sip hot drinks that they hold with two hands. There’s a feeling of renewal in the air. Next to me, a toddler dressed in a bright blue uniform and navy tights takes her mother by the arm and stumbles down the steps. I smile at her.
The structure of the plaza hasn’t changed much since my family moved to Hong Kong 20 years ago. From above it remains a circle, a small peninsula outlined by low buildings and sparse trees along the South China Sea. Instead of the old brick fountain, a swirl mosaic now lies in its centre, surrounded by the same squat steps. The space is still frequented by children and young parents, with their scooters and strollers.
My phone beeps. There’s only an hour until my bus comes, three until the plane departs, and 20 until I’m back at high school in the US. My parents have a business lunch to attend, and so I’ve already said goodbye to them. It’s time for me to bid farewell to the plaza.
At home and yet distanced
There is salt in the air. The sea’s damp breeze wafts across the bus terminus. The sun is beating down today, warming the people, heating the concrete, and feeding the leaves. Though the trees are small, their leaves are broad and bright among the peach buildings and beige floors.
I pull on my backpack and stand up. As I stroll from one point of the plaza to the other, I am a giant from a different time. The surrounding children, in their helmets and on their scooters, remind me of my toddler self – feisty, loving and carefree. Walking among them, I feel home and distance all at once. My suitcase rattles against the uneven tiles on the ground.
Families and teenagers unfamiliar to me lounge at the tables ahead, discussing everything but religion and politics. Next to them is the grocery store, which my family has used for 17 years. Through the glass walls I can see parents, helpers and businessmen hastily placing items on the conveyor belt in hope of catching the next bus home, or the ferry into the city.
To my left I pass the hair salon before entering the juice store, opened by Sam the Juice Man before I was even born. At its centre is a white counter covered by a small fish tank and every tropical fruit you could imagine. Sam used to greet every customer with a grin and a bellow. “Hello, Becky! What would you like today?” he’d say to me in a Cantonese accent. Sam always double-checked my order before he shuffled back to the blender. Now the store is run by his wife, who greets me with a silent smile.
A sense of nostalgia
With my strawberry banana smoothie in hand, I head to the clubhouse, where my family eats dim sum on Sundays and where I learned to dance and swim. I sit alone on the balcony overlooking the outdoor pool; three people are swimming slow laps under the sun.
My neighbours, sister and I used to head down to the pool every day in the summer, our swimsuits still damp from the night before. We’d forget to put on sunscreen and dive straight into the deep end, plunging into the warm water until our toes hit the bottom and splashing an unlucky swimmer in the next lap lane. A whiff of chlorine and sweat was always something to look forward to. Today, the air smells bare.
When the last swimmer leaves the pool, I exit the clubhouse and take a left toward the beach, a prime spot for birthday celebrations. Through primary school, the same group of friends and I would play games in the plaza after school. We’d always celebrate our birthdays together, one after the other, all by the beach.
I remember piñatas hanging from lampposts. I remember cakes and big bottles of soda resting upon sandy, sticky stone. Our bellies full, we’d jump off the concrete and dash to our beloved swing set, our feet making dips in the sand. Though the rubber seat was warm, its cool metal chains sent a rush through my fingers. The rest of the beach, empty, stretched out before me. To my left was the ocean and to my right were our parents, waving at us and laughing with one another. Behind me, an array of kayaks and small sailboats sat in the sand, awaiting their next adventure.
At the end of the party we would hose our feet off on the concrete. We could never really get all the sand out, and so we’d trek along the beach to the clubhouse, where hot showers awaited us. Before entering the shower, I’d stop to face the mirror and grin wildly at my reflection: barefoot and sporting a damp bathing suit, my hair a tousled mess.
Today, my hair stays dry, albeit a little frizzy, as I stand barefoot on the sand and let the salty breeze tickle my ears. I take a deep breath and hear the faint voice of a singer performing in the Spanish restaurant behind me. The clock on the ferry pier rings once. Half an hour until the bus comes.
Frozen in time
I return to the wooden tables. Cigarettes or pens in hand, adults read under the quiet shade of trees and umbrellas. Dogs pant at the feet of their owners, scaring away the otherwise fearless sparrows that hop from bench to bench in search of crumbs and spilled drinks. The chatter of carpenters and construction workers fills the air as they file out from restaurants and return to work. The plaza has returned to its former calm, only to be interrupted hours later by waves of students, their young shoulders weighed down by hefty backpacks and thick uniforms under the blazing sun.
As I prepare to leave Discovery Bay, I recall my arrival just three short weeks ago. It took two car rides, two flights and a bus to get me here from the Absaroka mountains of Wyoming. It was still dark when I stepped off the bus with my suitcases, and glancing behind me, I saw that the bus terminus by the plaza is now an expanse of concrete rubble. Cranes were brooding over the remains like vultures. Footsteps on my left signalled the arrival of my parents, who greeted me with a tight hug. The sun was rising over the sea. Amidst a pungent smell of concrete, I caught a whiff of salt and felt glad to be home.
After dropping off my suitcases, I raced to the plaza to reunite with old friends. As was tradition, we met in the same place by the wooden tables, talked for hours on the beach and lounged on the plaza steps – comfortable and perhaps too much so.
This trip home, the plaza has felt undeniably smaller. The strip of beach feels shorter, the pool shallower. The circle no longer offers ample space to play, even without the old fountain at its centre. Old businesses have closed and new ones have taken over. Each time I return home for vacation, tired and disoriented, a different building is under construction or the walls are a brand-new colour. The beach is busier, and the swing set is gone. Sam the Juice Man has passed away
The plaza changes fast when I’m not in it. I like to imagine that it’s mine; that without me around, my home will remain frozen in time. It’s a selfish thought, but one I can’t help thinking as I board the bus to the airport and leave it all behind.
Images:
By Baljit Gidwani – www.evoqueportraits.com
Courtesy of Becky Zhang
Tags: becky zhang, DB changes, db plaza, discovery bay
