Tiny Stanley Hong Kong would be the greatest mafia boss name ever. I can see him, with a wispy, grey goatee and a pork pie hat … sitting at the best table in some Chinese restaurant … running the show over a plate of Peking Duck, while some betrayer gets hacked to death in the back room with a meat cleaver. Yeah. Tiny Stanley Hong Kong hates deserters.
Meanwhile, real Stanley Hong Kong is just a place. I hopped a 99-cent bus a few days back to visit this seaside village an hour south of the city.
In Stanley, you’ll find locals like Mr. Chin, who owns an antique shop – more of a tent and a few dusty relics really – and waterfront restaurants like The Boathouse, a British joint with decent bowls of mussels and passable Pimm’s Cups. There’s a Danish, Ikea-esque home goods store, a playground for dogs and off-the-leash children, and Stanley’s most famous stretch – a market comprised of winding alleys and art for sale.
My personal perch for the afternoon was a rock outcrop, where I took off my shoes to stretch my toes in the sun. It was in tiny Stanley Hong Kong that my brain really caught up with my body. I had a singular moment of realization that I was back in Asia, and I shook off the last of a New York winter.
This is a photo post of that not-so-epic, but very enjoyable journey. If you head to Hong Kong, Tiny Stanley is worth the one buck bus.
