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The forward g-forces caused by the Hong Kong Airport Express train’s breaking distance wake me up like a night terror. Although it was only a short ride, I was out like a light. Something I pride myself on, mind: you know you’re a real traveler when you can sleep anywhere, anytime. It’s nearly midnight, but my arrival has woken me up with excitement. I’m 22 years old, and about to start a new stage of My Big Trip. I just spent a year-and-a-half of working and traveling around Australia and New Zealand. Now I’ll make my way from Hong Kong to the South-East Asian backpacking trail I have heard so much about from fellow travelers. And it has already been such a memorable trip. I gained new experiences and have become a much more confident traveler. One could even say it made me a little blasé about basic preparations for my current stay in one of the world’s great cities. I haven’t pre-booked any accommodation, for instance. But I have seen pictures of what South-East Asia is like. I can take on any city now. It will just be a matter of venturing out of the station and look out for guesthouse signs, of which there will undoubtedly be many. After I left the station, crossed a pedestrian bridge over an empty expressway and wandered through a few dark streets, it starts to dawn on me that Hong Kong’s banking district does in fact not match my mental image of South-East Asia. The illuminated facades of glass and steel go up for as far as my eyes can see, provoking that cliché sense of a city that never sleeps. But the streets around their concrete bases tell another story. There are hardly any people or shops, let alone guesthouse signs. Hong Kong 1, Robin 0. After an hour of wandering around and increasingly cursing my arrogance, I stumble upon an open coffee shop vaguely resembling Starbucks. The barista speaks English and is very helpful. “No hostel in Hong Kong, not this area,” she affirms. Hong Kong scores again, due to spectacular defensive ignorance on my side. Her amusement is palpable. Out of compassion with my certain defeat, she offers to wave down a taxi. “Cheap sleep?” I ask the driver, illustratively putting my hands to one ear, followed by rubbing my fingers together. He nods and drives off. Office entrances, banks and hotels make way for convenience stores, noodle shops and restaurants. Streets are busier and illuminated by countless neon signs. This looks more like it. When we pull over, the driver points at a rather nondescript, signless glass door: “Hotel,” he says. I hesitate - it doesn’t look like one. Am I going to check it out and risk losing the only taxi driver in the city who is aware of my ordeal? I have little choice. I grab my bag and pay the driver, hand-signing him to wait a few minutes. He nods, I close the door, and he speeds off. The hallway inside is empty but for an elevator door, which opens as soon as I hit the button. Now this is odd: next to the alarm, there’s just one floor button. The irony of this metaphorical lack of options isn’t lost on me. With a mechanical hum the elevator zips me up an unknown number of levels. The door opens and just when I thought things couldn’t get weirder, I find myself in the living room of someone’s home, confronted with a massive TV, Buddhist shrine and a six-member strong family around the table enjoying supper. Before I can stammer an apology, a lady jumps up and takes me by the hand. She leads me through a side door to a small but fully equipped hotel lobby. A few minutes later I flop on a bed in a small but perfectly good room. Since this trip, I have been on many others. But I have never skipped at least some basic preparation anymore. That’s a universal travel rule I guess: you’re only as experienced as your last trip. And that’s also why it never gets old.