初见
刚从机场坐观光巴士出来，从窗户望向这个港口城市，沿途是大量的集装箱、可以描绘轮廓的小山丘，以及建在其上的高耸入云的建筑。低头看到出租车的红色涂装、弥漫在海面上的雾气、渡轮、潮湿的深圳港，好久没有来到南方。这新鲜而令人疲倦的潮气。
从公交站点下来拖着行李走到酒店，要穿过拥挤的街道，高楼大厦的阴影下是繁华的底商，但是却有一些不知道怎么赚回房租的小店铺。譬如有卖新鲜蔬菜的个体户 ，或许是菜农。我环顾四周，旧的与新的东西直接接在一起。这是怎样的城市。我有的时候都在想，是因为太挤了吗，所以本来在不同片区的东西都被放在了同一图层，所以才有这么激荡的生活景观。
城市漫步（其一）
在中环和上环散步。香港是很个适合散步的地方。店铺的设计很有生命力，在传达着各种各样的情绪和理念，应接不暇、但并不嘈杂，没有在某些城市一看过去就被吵到眼睛的设计。经常徘徊在各种告示栏、海报、广告、路牌等等地方，揣摩各种有趣的东西、拼凑这里生活的图景。经常在店门口就能看到这家店的性格，而许多完全不同性格的店铺推搡着挤在同一条街道，热热闹闹的。建筑与建筑之间有先有后、有高有低，本就是时间与空间的对话。有对话的城市才适合散步。建筑也只是一种对话的形式。商铺、街道，都是对话的形式。散步是在与城市对话。
维港
夜晚，乘坐维多利亚港的渡轮。包裹着黏着的潮气，像是回到了小时候。我出生在潮湿的南方，肌肤已经习惯了这样的包裹感，在外面游学这么久，反而像是失去了保护层。今夜短暂地回忆起吹着海风原来是这么舒爽的事情，舒服得把脚搭在了船舷上，就差像流氓一样吹口哨了。黝黑的水面波滚着远处建筑投下的霓虹。引擎轰鸣、身体短暂离岸，短暂步入时间滞留的场所。城市的心脏在黑水之中，潮湿的风海涌入渡轮。身体也开始呼吸，在触摸潮气。过去与未来被短暂地中断。似进非远的日常，似有若无的轨迹。
渡轮从中环到九龙。下船后看到路边有双层观光巴士，而且二楼是敞篷的。有人在排队，我也不知道它是从哪到哪的，今晚心情很好，可以坐上去再查。沿着尖沙咀往北奔驰，春夏之交的风一反白日的燥热，夜凉如水，坐车好似行船，光影从旁掠过，车在脚底匍匐。心情随着风扬起，只剩一点勾在指尖没有完全离魂。心灵仍旧不知是进是退，但是身体早已舒爽得想要大叫。因为潮气而有些兴奋、以至于有些颤抖。身体传来的感受含混不清。分不清暖与凉、分不清楚兴奋与恐惧。空气中是暧昧的水汽，而风又将一切熨平。不知道为什么，来到香港之后身体苏醒了一些，很久没有再感受过的身体深处的记忆浮现在内在感官之中，关于爱情、关于友情、关于四处散落的心灵碎片。
这种兴奋持续了几站，渐渐觉得有点冷。似乎是某种生活的隐喻。边看地图边看路，尖沙咀、油麻地、旺角，经过的几个站点并没有想象中的繁华。或许这十年来已经见过许多繁华的都市，表象声色已经不太能够满足自己，我看到的是无数的线索，抓着某个线索就能获得某种体验。心灵在熟练地做着排比，唤醒各种或远或近的感觉。但是此刻身体的疲倦、潮湿以及因为兴奋冷却后蔓延的冷是无比具体的。算了，乘兴而来，兴尽而返。
沿着维多利亚港散步。这里似乎比外滩更加广阔（很久没去外滩我也记不清了）。远处建筑的霓虹投在冷冷的水波中，翻滚、堆叠、搅在一起。身边也有许多游客与居民一同望向港口的对岸。这里混杂了哪些人、哪些城市的梦境。
和朋友趴在栏杆上讲些有的没的。讲到痛苦，讲到孤独。波浪涌起，人群和鱼群一样，只不过处在虚幻的河流之中。我说或许痛苦是累积的。未被解决的问题只会不断积累。我们背负着海生活着。时常也会有浪花。我这样想着，星星点点的快乐。但是这个比喻让我更久地盯着波涛，以至于有点晕眩，这一切又被解体，毕竟海水并不是我，痛苦并不会被卷走。
讲到期许的生活。我没来由地想到东京湾的吊车与横来的水汽 。我能想到的只有各种场景，这里的和那里的，说不上来哪种是我期望的。反而这种无关联的联想也成了某种隐喻或者注脚。想到这只感觉自己非人，有点伤心。
海浪是会让我感到孤独。在这点上我确实无法说谎。周期性的海浪不知为何运动。不知我为何运动。但是一切都在运动，一切各有其命。
公园
傍晚去了金钟，路过香港公园。出地铁站便看到立体交通，建筑沿着山往上建。山城的天际线，城市公园的绿茵，旁边是跨时代的现代建筑。公园里有许多鸟，里面竟然还有个小瀑布，水声盖过了车声，挺不错的城市设计。
从公园出去，穿过教堂，又来到中环的 CBD，这儿和纽约很像，窄路上车流局促但有序，满街的上班族西装革履，以及五湖四海的游客穿着五颜六色，两边是律政、金融等等行业的办公楼或者奢侈品店，摩天大楼的外立面很多是玻璃，整条街闪闪的。原来还有这么标致的 CBD。
太平山
打车上了太平山顶。上次来港的时候还在念大学，我记得自己也来过太平山顶。那时在深圳玩，和几个同学周末一起到香港来，因为没钱住酒店所以住了青旅，还是混住的，上铺有狗男女搞到半夜，也有几个人打呼噜，根本睡不着，凌晨两三点的时候我问室友，你睡了吗，室友说睡不着，于是我们一起去楼下散步，香港似乎有些店铺通宵运营，夜晚散步也不会觉得不安全，只觉得什么都新鲜。
当时因为没钱打车，于是走上太平山顶。山顶上的景色已经什么都不记得了，就记得下山时不知怎么非常累，还起了矛盾，最后我们几个人一商量还是从半山腰打车回了住处，第二天连滚带爬地跑回深圳。今天决定自己直接打车上山顶，算是报当时的一箭之仇。这都是好久以前的事了，当时一起玩的朋友现在也已经飘零在世界各地，谁曾想我们都会跑这么远呢。故地重游时总是感慨万千。
打车时遇到的司机是会说广普的年轻小伙，很精神，有点痞帅，广普讲得很快很激动，像是香港电影里的年轻后生。他山路飙车十分野蛮，我战战兢兢地座在后座，跟师傅说「您开山路还挺猛」，他回我「这才哪到哪」。
开到山顶，走了几步，有雾气横过，如同轻纱带过建筑，有一座很高的建筑顶部亮灯，像是浮在雾海中月亮，小小的船只。走过几段没人的路，夏日夜晚的山道很凉爽，走路带风，四野是蝉鸣，以及极遥远处的引擎声。本来是溽热的天气，在山顶却有着清爽的梦境氛围。想起来小时候总是和小伙伴们到山上纳凉，谈天说地。只不过走远了觉得有点阴森，四处没有一个人，而且道路似乎通向不可知的深山，我才意识到自己走反了，慢慢往回走到有人聚集之处。
接着沿另一边走向卢吉道观景台。雾气移动的很快，时浓时淡，本来刚走上这条步道时还能看到云海之下的坚固建筑和电子光亮，但是走着走着云层就被抹上了厚厚的灰，往下只能看到蒸腾的灰色与头顶的无量深处连成一片。时而云被吹开一点，地面上依稀仿佛是星光。走过一段无人的路，遇上许多架着摄影机的人，我随着他们的镜头看去，除了黑夜中翻腾的云海外什么也没看到，他们或许在等待云散去的那一刻。不过云海足够深厚，在黑夜中有点雄伟，似乎无形宫殿的某处有很深的漩涡。再往前走一段，回望时雾直直地吹来，在灯光下，抬头能看到流动的雾气还在往上，我伸手去触摸，没有抓住任何形体、没有抓住任何感觉。往外看去已经什么都看不见了。走在雾中，四野陡然变暗，下雨了。
维港（午后）
离和同学约好的晚饭还有时间，我沿着海港走到中环。下午的西盘营、上环和中环，在雨水中湿漉漉的。路过许多还未开门的店铺，一方面觉得作为居民而言这样的生活有点逼仄，毕竟底商们承租着老破小匍匐在高楼之下，往上只能望到楼宇玻璃闪亮的外立面与一线窄窄的天空。不过另一方面，作为游客漫步在这样的街市中还是幸福的，因为可以陶醉于这样的生活氛围而不感到约束与局限。
穿过风雨与巨大的立体交通走到海港公园，回望是冷静的高楼、立交桥的弧线以及车的洪流，而眼前是港口。我很喜欢港口的景色，港口是城市的动脉，在离港的地方默默支撑着城市的运作。工业与自然的双重伟力在这里交汇，我为什么反而在这种无人之地感受到安全呢。雨仍旧下着，风也很大，海水波涛汹涌，墨绿色的，将人的视线卷入，远处许多渡轮无声地移动着。短暂离开香港繁华而逼仄的高楼，回望时感受到它们的虚张声势。
雨夜
看时间也差不多，已经到了傍晚，有些湿冷，就往回走到中环。实际上是爬坡爬上去的。
走着走着便入夜了。打着伞，霓虹在雨水中闪烁，被雨水洗刷过的地面反射着车灯与路灯，想起 links 拍的『东京雨夜 』，自由而雀跃的心情若隐若现，一切在雨中静悄悄的。喜悦在寂静中无声地蔓延。雨世界似乎是我内心的外显。
在酒楼里见到了高中同学，虽然是他请客，但是也被香港正餐骇人的物价所震撼到，那这咱也吃不起啊。许久没有见到，聊了各自生活与职业规划。仔细一想高中已经过去十一年了。虽然过去十几年都历历在目，但是事情已经有了实质性的改变。曾经的自己虽然一心想着只有自己可以依赖、但是却下意识地依赖着能依赖一切。如今只是简单、水到渠成地成为了父母依赖的对象、没有转圜余地。人就是会这样成长，自己浑然不觉，仿佛自然规律。虽然这是再普通不过的事，但是我为什么想到这就有些难受呢。
同学并不喝酒，我们聊了三个多钟头，在中环分别，约定下次再见，只是不知道下次是哪次，每说一次分别就是再抛弃一次对过去的记忆。我继续沿着陡峭的道路向前，晚上九点，人比先前少了不少，狭窄的道路终于有些余裕，如同岁月。我这样想着。带着一身的潮气。我想着有哪里可以祛寒，于是搜到了附近的一家酒吧。
酒吧
The Old Man Bar
这是一家海明威主题的酒吧，The Old Man Bar。虽说是 speakeasy 但其实 speak hard，位置特别窄，人很多，许多人站着喝，这点倒是非常的美式。酒单单子写得挺好。点了『流动的盛宴』。生蚝、椰子、番茄与咸味，倒是有点凄风苦雨。平衡度不错，还算有意思。伏特加本身没有味道，所以并不抢味。非常适合这样冷冷的雨夜。
我想起来海明威在『流动的盛宴』里写到他那时候没有钱烧火取暖，在巴黎的街头走出很远，到一家咖啡店，写作，喝酒。第二杯，点出了海明威最喜欢的朗姆酒，酒吧人员看了我展示的那几段后说大概是 Daiquiri。酒单上没有专门做这款酒，不过可以用他们的理解做一个经典 Daiquiri。他们好像特别注重柠檬的苦，酒液里面都点柠檬屑。本来朗姆酒有点难以掩盖的苦味，反而被柠檬的苦香味给占据了。如果海明威当时喝的是 Daiquiri，我倒有点能理解他那正不知天地为何物的写作状态了。于是边喝我也边开始写这些。只是身边的人太多，有点嘈杂，不像他在作品里写的那样清静，或者他写上头时也没注意到其它人。朗姆的味道很独特，苦味经久不散。我边喝边读『流动的盛宴』那几章，似乎更感同身受了一些。在苦寒中埋头写作、抬头时身边的客人已经换了一批又一批，因为写出了一些满意的段落，于是心情舒畅，再喝口酒。或许就是要这样生活。
只喝了两杯。按往常我探店一般是三杯起步的，但是因为店内嘈杂，而且我也喝了自己一直想喝的酒，于是便走出了酒吧，重新回到雨夜中。因为喝了点酒，有一些醉意，身体微微有些兴奋，雨气正能轻轻抚慰微微发热的身体，心情十分轻快。
当时海明威在『流动的盛宴』里开篇就是这段故事，我很喜欢这种感觉：
Then there was the bad weather. It would come in one day when the fall was over. We would have to shut the windows in the night against the rain and the cold wind would strip the leaves from the trees in the Place Contrescarpe. The leaves lay sodden in the rain and the wind drove the rain against the big green autobus at the terminal and the Café des Amateurs was crowded and the windows misted over from the heat and the smoke inside. It was a sad, evilly run café where the drunkards of the quarter crowded together and I kept away from it because of the smell of dirty bodies and the sour smell of drunkenness. The men and women who frequented the Amateurs stayed drunk all of the time, or all of the time they could afford it, mostly on wine which they bought by the half-liter or liter. Many strangely named apéritifs were advertised, but few people could afford them except as a foundation to build their wine drunks on. The women drunkards were called poivrottes which meant female rummies.
The Café des Amateurs was the cesspool of the rue Mouffetard, that wonderful narrow crowded market street which led into the Place Contrescarpe. The squat toilets of the old apartment houses, one by the side of the stairs on each floor with the two cleated cement shoe-shaped elevations on each side of the aperture so a locataire would not slip, emptied into cesspools which were emptied by pumping into horse-drawn tank wagons at night. In the summer time, with all windows open, we would hear the pumping and the odor was very strong. The tank wagons were painted brown and saffron color and in the moonlight when they worked the rue Cardinal Lemoine their wheeled, horse-drawn cylinders looked like Braque paintings. No one emptied the Café des Amateurs though, and its yellowed poster stating the terms and penalties of the law against public drunkenness was as flyblown and disregarded as its clients were constant and ill-smelling.
All of the sadness of the city came suddenly with the first cold rains of winter, and there were no more tops to the high white houses as you walked but only the wet blackness of the street and the closed doors of the small shops, the herb sellers, the stationery and the newspaper shops, the midwife—second class—and the hotel where Verlaine had died where I had a room on the top floor where I worked.
It was either six or eight flights up to the top floor and it was very cold and I knew how much it would cost for a bundle of small twigs, three wire-wrapped packets of short, half-pencil length pieces of split pine to catch fire from the twigs, and then the bundle of half-dried lengths of hard wood that I must buy to make a fire that would warm the room. So I went to the far side of the street to look up at the roof in the rain and see if any chimneys were going, and how the smoke blew. There was no smoke and I thought about how the chimney would be cold and might not draw and of the room possibly filling with smoke, and the fuel wasted, and the money gone with it, and I walked on in the rain. I walked down past the Lycée Henri Quatre and the ancient church of St.-étienne-du-Mont and the windswept Place du Panthéon and cut in for shelter to the right and finally came out on the lee side of the Boulevard St.-Michel and worked on down it past the Cluny and the Boulevard St.-Germain until I came to a good café that I knew on the Place St.-Michel.
It was a pleasant café, warm and clean and friendly, and I hung up my old waterproof on the coat rack to dry and put my worn and weathered felt hat on the rack above the bench and ordered a café au lait. The waiter brought it and I took out a notebook from the pocket of the coat and a pencil and started to write. I was writing about up in Michigan and since it was a wild, cold, blowing day it was that sort of day in the story. I had already seen the end of fall come through boyhood, youth and young manhood, and in one place you could write about it better than in another. That was called transplanting yourself, I thought, and it could be as necessary with people as with other sorts of growing things. But in the story the boys were drinking and this made me thirsty and I ordered a rum St. James. This tasted wonderful on the cold day and I kept on writing, feeling very well and feeling the good Martinique rum warm me all through my body and my spirit.
A girl came in the café and sat by herself at a table near the window. She was very pretty with a face fresh as a newly minted coin if they minted coins in smooth flesh with rain-freshened skin, and her hair was black as a crow’s wing and cut sharply and diagonally across her cheek.
I looked at her and she disturbed me and made me very excited. I wished I could put her in the story, or anywhere, but she had placed herself so she could watch the street and the entry and I knew she was waiting for someone. So I went on writing.
The story was writing itself and I was having a hard time keeping up with it. I ordered another rum St. James and I watched the girl whenever I looked up, or when I sharpened the pencil with a pencil sharpener with the shavings curling into the saucer under my drink.
I’ve seen you, beauty, and you belong to me now, whoever you are waiting for and if I never see you again, I thought. You belong to me and all Paris belongs to me and I belong to this notebook and this pencil.
Then I went back to writing and I entered far into the story and was lost in it. I was writing it now and it was not writing itself and I did not look up nor know anything about the time nor think where I was nor order any more rum St. James. I was tired of rum St. James without thinking about it. Then the story was finished and I was very tired. I read the last paragraph and then I looked up and looked for the girl and she had gone. I hope she’s gone with a good man, I thought. But I felt sad.
I closed up the story in the notebook and put it in my inside pocket and I asked the waiter for a dozen portugaises and a half-carafe of the dry white wine they had there. After writing a story I was always empty and both sad and happy, as though I had made love, and I was sure this was a very good story although I would not know truly how good until I read it over the next day.
As I ate the oysters with their strong taste of the sea and their faint metallic taste that the cold white wine washed away, leaving only the sea taste and the succulent texture, and as I drank their cold liquid from each shell and washed it down with the crisp taste of the wine, I lost the empty feeling and began to be happy and to make plans.
Now that the bad weather had come, we could leave Paris for a while for a place where this rain would be snow coming down through the pines and covering the road and the high hillsides and at an altitude where we would hear it creak as we walked home at night. Below Les Avants there was a chalet where the pension was wonderful and where we would be together and have our books and at night be warm in bed together with the windows open and the stars bright. That was where we could go. Traveling third class on the train was not expensive. The pension cost very little more than we spent in Paris.
I would give up the room in the hotel where I wrote and there was only the rent of 74 rue Cardinal Lemoine which was nominal. I had written journalism for Toronto and the checks for that were due. I could write that anywhere under any circumstances and we had money to make the trip.
Maybe away from Paris I could write about Paris as in Paris I could write about Michigan. I did not know it was too early for that because I did not know Paris well enough. But that was how it worked out eventually. Anyway we would go if my wife wanted to, and I finished the oysters and the wine and paid my score in the café and made it the shortest way back up the Montagne Ste. Geneviève through the rain, that was now only local weather and not something that changed your life, to the flat at the top of the hill.
“I think it would be wonderful, Tatie,” my wife said. She had a gently modeled face and her eyes and her smile lighted up at decisions as though they were rich presents. “When should we leave?”
“Whenever you want.”
“Oh, I want to right away. Didn’t you know?”
“Maybe it will be fine and clear when we come back. It can be very fine when it is clear and cold.”
“I’m sure it will be,” she said. “Weren’t you good to think of going, too.”
说起酒吧，那就再讲讲自己去过的另外几家值得记录的酒吧。
Bar Leone
晚上去排了所谓的世界第一酒吧 Bar Leone，一家意大利风格的酒吧。五点开门，顶门去是没法第一波进去的，于是提前半个多钟头去排队。跟香港的朋友以及吧台隔壁的两位姐姐拼酒，刷完了他们家的酒单。很好喝的就那么两三杯，其他几杯酒预调得不够成功，经典的功夫也不太到位，虽然确实好喝，但并不觉得有到世界第一的水平。不过服务确实很好，酒不喜欢的话可以直接换，短暂离席去上洗手间的时候店员也会把酒放到冰箱里保存控制温度，店员也会经常过来提供服务，老板也会很热情地问我们喝得怎么样。因为是意式的酒吧，热情奔放，可以喝得很放松，是一家和朋友们聚餐时能爽喝的酒吧。如果酒能再好点就更好了。
COA
之后还去了 COA 喝酒，曾经的亚洲第一，以 Tequila 和 Mezcal 为主题的酒吧，特调很有特色，经典倒是一般。他们家特调跟做菜一样，味道剑走偏锋，不过平衡感做得很好，至于味道则见仁见智，因为风味太独特，喜欢的人会喜欢，不喜欢的人做得再平衡也会不喜欢。总之是我喜欢的类型。这家的店员也很有意思，我让她给我推荐酒的时候，她用的形容词非常简单，她说这杯酸，我问「酸？」，她说很酸……
城市漫步（其二）
深水埗
书店
这边的独立书店选书都很有特点。书以外的各种小物件也很多，非常能展示店主的趣味，至少这家『猎人书店』店主应该是个二次元。没有经典书目，都是最近的作品，和香港相关的写作占了一大部分，然后再是女性相关的写作，再是漫画。
去另一家。很多独立书店和唱片店就开在居民楼里，非常逼仄，但是很有趣。
海报店
仿佛来到天堂。有很多想买的东西。一到这种店我就会把汇率换成美国汇率。有非常灵活的汇率转换系统。
唱片店
最后
这次只是借道来短暂待上一会就去其它地方了。相比于上次九年前来港，我意识到香港比我想的要小很多。可能是自己见识变多了，看到许多东西都不会感到很新奇，而且习惯性地从地图、轨道线路等等来理解城市。接纳了这些认知以后，城市在眼里就变小了。另外香港也确实很小……