As soon as I heard the landing gear deploy, a burst of happy memories came rushing back. I hadn’t set foot in Hong Kong in ten years, which explained the sudden, overwhelming wave of excitement that hit me the moment we touched down.

Hong Kong holds a special place in my heart. From 1982 to 1994, our family spent every Christmas break there before returning home to Manila for New Year’s Eve. Like many of us back then, I grew up viewing Hong Kong as a capital of consumption, a place whose sole purpose seemed to be indulging Filipinos with brands that weren’t readily available back home.

As souvenirs, I would always collect the free city guides from hotel rooms and hoard maps and flyers from the airport. I’d even pack away unused wet towelettes from Cathay Pacific or PAL flights, carefully preserving all these ephemera in my red plastic suitcase.

Shopping for toys was always the ultimate treat. By the end of each trip, I’d be taking home handheld mini arcade games like Pac-Man, Donkey Kong, and Cobra, along with Family Computer cartridges that I couldn’t wait to pop into my console back home. At night, we’d head to Mong Kok for cheap finds. Watching annoyed traders react as we bargained fake goods down to half-price, walking away until they chased us down to give in, was always a sight to behold.

One special place we visited every single trip was Hengton Perfumes, a tiny perfume store in the Holiday Inn Arcade on Nathan Road. It was owned by Newton, a short, stout, bald Chinese man. He was a jolly person, always smiling, a total opposite from most Cantonese merchants we have dealt with. Right beside his shop was a funhouse-style novelty store for kids and adults. That was where I’d stock up on stink bombs to pop in our school canteen. Once, I set one off inside Mrs. Rita’s store, a communal lunch spot across from my elementary school, and within seconds, students and their yayas came bursting out, nose covered, complaining about the stench.

I also bought itching powder and sneezing powder, and I claimed quite a few victims with the itching powder, including Newton himself. One afternoon, while my family was browsing another store, I walked into Hengton alone. I called Newton over to the entrance of his tiny shop and told him I wanted to look at his head. Confused, he leaned down anyway. The moment he lowered his head, I sprinkled a pack of itching powder over his bald scalp and bolted. I didn’t know any better; I was eight years old. Minutes later, my family and I returned to his store, only to find him furiously wiping his head with a towel while telling my parents what their naughty kid had done.

Newton and his family eventually left Hong Kong around 1992 in anticipation of the British handover to China in 1997. On the day of the handover itself, I was sitting in my college class, discussing the massive changes that lay ahead for the territory.

It wasn’t just the shopping I looked forward to, either. There were the cartoons on cable TV: The Smurfs and Disney classics, all dubbed in Cantonese. Then came the thrill of watching trailers of pay-per-view adult films as a young kid, alongside obscure short videos warning about haunted hotel rooms where guests had died.

Hong Kong wasn’t just a playground for shopping; it was also a place of learning. This was where my dad taught me to wait a few days and canvas prices before buying so I could get the best deal. I remember having to wait a whole day before I could buy a pair of high-top L.A. Gear shoes I’d spotted on day one. It was the longest 24 hours of my life.
This was also where I first realized I wanted to be seen. During a meeting with a banker when I was seven or eight, my parents forgot to introduce me. It made me feel so utterly invisible that I sat sulking on the sofa. That was my first lesson in what it felt like to be ignored.

Yet, it was also where I first tasted independence. By the age of twelve, I was navigating the city on my own, shopping, bargaining, and canvassing. Once, while browsing video games, I accidentally bumped a game case, causing it to fall. The shopkeeper yelled at me, demanding I pay for the damages. I didn’t back down; I talked right back, telling him nothing was broken and it was just a case.

Now that I’m back, I am still thrilled by its unrelenting consumerism: the mix of small gadget shops and massive retail stores, the street peddlers, the Indian tailors, and the Chinese shop owners. Yet, I realize I don’t miss the Hong Kong of ten years ago; I miss the Hong Kong of the 1980s. I miss seeing people dressed smartly and fashionably on the way to work, walking at a frantic pace with hair so heavily gelled and sprayed it felt harder than concrete blocks. I miss the loud, fiery conversations in market places that used to startle me as a child.

Hong Kong holds a place in the heart of most Filipino ’80s kid. It may have changed in how it looks and moves, but its materialistic soul remains delightfully intact.