I usually travel cheap. Backpackers are my go-to accommodation. I mostly eat at cafés or food courts, or grab takeout from street vendors. I take public transportation.

But sometimes life takes me to unexpected places—like a bar lounge on the 28th floor of the Peninsula Hotel.

For a 29-year-old on a business trip, it was exciting to be invited to one of the most iconic hotels in Hong Kong. The carpet was so thick that I had to be careful not to trip on my heels. From our table we had a superb night view of Victoria Harbour. Those mesmerizing lights reminded me of the Electrical Parade at Disneyland.

Our business partner offered us drinks, and I ordered a signature cocktail. The bowl of the glass was as wide as a peony in full bloom, its stem as slender as the stamen of a Chinese rose. A delicate citrus peel floated on top, cut like a feather. I didn’t know what to do with it.

(How should I drink this elegantly crafted twenty-five-dollar liquid without spilling it—or brushing the garnish away with my eyelashes?)

My boss and the business partner talked about business and the economy. I translated their conversation for my colleagues who didn’t speak English, and interpreted their questions in return. I struggled to soften politically incorrect expressions and give shape to dull jokes. I felt like a liar as I searched for euphemisms. As the only woman in the group, it took effort to dismiss certain suggestive jokes without letting my disgust show.

After a while I grew exhausted and excused myself to the bathroom.

Even the bathroom faced the harbor. The washbasin stood before a large window reflecting the night skyline.

I stared at my reflection in the spotless mirror, lit by soft incandescent downlights. In a sleek black jacket and neutral-toned makeup, I looked like someone who made much more money than I actually did.

Or perhaps, if I continued this life, one day I would.

But what would I use that money for?

I remembered the flashy high-end stores I had passed during the day. I couldn’t tell the difference between them. I thought about the fine dinner we had just eaten. It was delicious—but I didn’t think I wanted to eat Peking duck every day.

If I stayed in this corporate world, I would have to keep working with people like those at the table tonight. They talked about golf, real estate, and their children’s education. None of them interested me. Or maybe, if I continued this life long enough, I would eventually develop an interest in asset management.

Would I? What kind of person are you turning yourself into, Chiyo?

The woman in the mirror pouted. I reapplied my lipstick. I didn’t like its neutral color, but I had bought it for business occasions.

You shouldn’t wear vivid colors at meetings.

I didn’t know for certain, but I wanted to believe there was something more to life than Gucci and Chanel and Moët & Chandon. Something original.

Something money couldn’t buy—yet I could create.

“This is not a place for me,” I told myself.

Still, it was nice to experience luxury. In a sense, it was like traveling to another world—one with its own culture and values: work hard, make money, buy expensive things.

I looked out the window. The city lights of the Fragrant Harbor shimmered below—just a little too bright for my eyes.