COFFEE & BISCUITS

Once upon a time, there is a small but sophisticated city in which dwells some of the earth’s most cosmopolitan people.  In this city, highrises tower over your head everywhere you go, developers are always searching for the next property to profit from, and luxury properties are rarely left unnoticed or unoccupied by the rich and famous; it is a modern city where you cannot see the stars at night, where taxis pack the highways like ants on a trail, where the sophisticate and the ruffines alike rule the night, and where silence and peace are elusive animals.  This city could have been any major cities you know, but in the story I am about to tell, this city happens to be Hong Kong.  And in this city of action, there is a quiet residental village at the corner of an peripheral island, far away from the eyes of the bright center. 

Yes, far faraway, at the corner of the Island, this pretty little residential village lies idol and undiscovered by the sea.  In this place, birds sing and the only music you hear is the rthym of the waves.  At night, diamonds of stars light up the sky and rolling waves hum its lullaby like it always has.  A dozen houses with orange Spanish tiled roof and white painted walls line behind the stretch of sandy beach.  White picket fences stand in front of the front yards of houses.  Each house has three levels– living room, kitchen floor, and master bedroom–ach endowed with a balcony with a generous view of the ocean.  Cradled around these houses are the mountains, and where these mountains lead to is something that awaits to be explored.  Walk across this village, you can easily see into the living room of the houses, as no curtains are drawn, and the living room windows are all wide and clear, naked to the view of the ocean. This is a place where you can keep your door unlocked.  The living room window of every house in this village faces the ocean, and every ship and fishing boats that cross the Hong Kong sea channel into Macau or into China can be seen from inhabitants of this village. 

Yet if you look carefully, you see that the white painted walls are not so white, and the picket fences have cracks.  Black water stains marked some of the walls.  And although remnants of past glamour can still be found in the Roman architectural exterior of the club house behind the line of houses, negligence have rendered the exterior a shell with no substance.  With no staffs under its roof, the club house has allowed the Wild grasses outside to grow to knee level.  And if you do manage to explore the mountains, and hike all the way to the top, by luck you may discover the helicopter lot, which is hidden in the grasses that had grown tall enough to obscure its existence.   It has been left unused for years, with the circle target market painted in red fading into the ground.

Residents call this village of peace and dilapitation, the Sea Cove.