In Hong Kong’s winter we sit on rocks next to the ocean and talk to our friends. The breeze is brisk, and we wear jackets in between climbs. The months of shorts and tank tops, of sun screen, hats, and seeking AC feel like a distant memory. These spots, on the rocks near the water, are our hideaways. We found them first during covid, when there were no other places to go, and still they feel that way, refuges from the city.

The children are two, three years old now. Children who were not born when we first found these rocks. Children who were carried down to the boulders in slings, in backpacks, in carriers. Children who napped strapped to us, or tucked into shady spots, now rumble around moving snails industriously from one tidal pool to another. They cut their feet, or slip on the rocks, and keep going. We are building the next generation like this, outdoors on the rocks. Unafraid, at least for now. It’s a great break from airplanes and urban spaces, from rooftops and parks, from restaurants and malls. It’s a great break from the years since covid, where we’ve all gone back to our old lives, to our busyness.

Out here on the rocks we look at the ocean, at the tiny sailboats and the huge container ships, and talk about schools, about moving. The conversations aren’t urgent, because it’s Sunday and the sun is shining, because in the winter Hong Kong is a fantastic place to live, and because we all are, underneath, happy and lucky to be here. The questions about moving, about public schools in Canada or private schools here, are for future parents to solve, for our own future selves.

Those are Monday problems for Monday people.