As I rode the A41 bus from Hong Kong International Airport to Sha Tin Station, it finally became real; here I was, embarking upon a new life with nothing but an oversized orange suitcase and a year-long visa slip stapled to my passport.

I was in autopilot as I pushed said luggage up the hills of the Chinese University of Hong Kong, into the cranky elevator of my apartment block, and down the corridor of the 8^th floor.  Each girl turned her head away upon seeing me – a blonde-haired, blue-eyed foreigner – trundle down the hall noisily. I began to wonder whether choosing to live in Wu Yee Sun College, 5,900 miles away from home, would be the ‘culturally-immersive’ experience I had proclaimed on my exchange application.

The first outing was no less estranging. One minute, I was wandering around the bright and boisterous streets of Mong Kok (named ‘busy corner’ for a reason). The next, I was being reprimanded in a cha chaan teng for struggling to choose from the thousands of dishes on the menu. For all its visible disorder, this was a place that valued efficiency. While I listened to the man seated opposite me chomping noisily on his char siu, I felt like I had entered another world.

For years, I had studied Sociology to ‘make the familiar strange’, but now it was time to make the strange familiar. I couldn’t tell you when the skyline of pastel high-rises became everyday scenery rather than a postcard image; when Sunday dim sum replaced weekend brunch; and when my default ‘thank you’ turned into ‘m goi’. All I know is that somewhere along the way, the hills of Hong Kong had become home.

During my last day in ‘Asia’s World City’, I was determined to eat and experience as much as possible. In between enjoying pushcart dim sum, my favourite Bakehouse egg tart, and the iconic Chongqing Snack, I walked from Tsim Sha Tsui to Mong Kok for the last time. For old times’ sake, I took a final trip down Ladies’ Market. The stall vendor and I both laughed when he offered me a packet of imported chopsticks for 200 Hong Kong Dollars (I got them for 20).

On the East Rail Line back to University Station, I observed its familiar characters: Chinese ladies watching videos on Douyin at full volume, a young couple embracing as if their lives depended on it, and a child wearing an English t-shirt that read ‘WISH YOU WERE BEER’. After a year of public transport in Hong Kong, the London Underground would never be the same.

As I mentally waved goodbye to my favourite establishments, neighbourhoods, and MTR stations, I thought about how much had changed since that first wandering in Mong Kok. I was still a baby-faced foreigner with a resolve to learn more about the world, but the lens through which I viewed my surroundings had been radically transformed. I felt indescribably sad to be leaving Hong Kong, but I was overwhelmed with gratitude for the gifts my exchange had afforded. I began to realise that none of these things were truly ‘last times’; a return to this home away from home was inevitable.