It's not you; it's me

At sea level, Sheung Wan is cloaked in the pungent smells of clove and cod. Higher up, not so much.

The excursion to Sheung Wan, on northwestern Hong Kong Island, started out so promisingly. Winding streets, mysterious shops with apothecary jars, huge drums containing dried caterpillars, lots of signs with the words "Fat" and "Trading Company" ― I almost felt plunged into a 19th-century opium haze.

But after exploring Wing Lok Street and Bonham Strand, staircases appeared, and human nature takes over and you climb the stairs, and after a while there are more staircases and a lot of Malaysian nannies pushing around prams with tow-headed British infants, and all the signs say "Soho" or "Artisanal" and everyone is wearing Buddy Holly frames, and the sickening realization that Sheung Wan has been "discovered" hits you like a big slice of ruined culture. Hipsters gotta hip, but I'm moving on.