‘Yep.’ He shrugs. ‘But why not go there? You are visiting the place, after all. And it’s touristy in an okay way. Go to Harbour City. Just don’t get any clothes made.’ He leans across the table, in Lacy’s direction. ‘If you’re looking for a cheongsam or a Chinese waistcoat or anything, Western stuff even, I’ve got a tailor . . .’

Two trains in – purple line, blue line – we’re getting off at Admiralty to make the second change when Lacy says, ‘Would the car really have been worse than this? Or is this part of the experience?’

‘Yeah. It is.’ The platform is teeming with people, surging to and from escalators, focused only on their destinations. ‘It’s very un-Girdwood.’

‘And there’s a problem with Girdwood?’

There’s a sheen of sweat across her forehead. I have plunged this Alaskan simultaneously into jetlag and the tropics and a series of crowded underground trains.

‘There’s no problem with Girdwood. Love Girdwood.’ I am hoping the final connection is easy. It’s the red line we need, Tsuen Wan line in the direction of Tsuen Wan. One stop, Tsim Sha Tsui. ‘But travel . . . it’s about seeing other things. Having other experiences.’

‘I wasn’t aware of this mansplaining mass-transit side of you.’

She takes the bag from her shoulder and hands it to me. We have agreed to take turns with it. With the prospect of hours of tropical humidity, Lacy was determined to bring several litres of bottled water, filtered at the house and approved by Jonalyn.

‘I was a ski instructor for years. It’s hard to break the ’splaining habit. It comes out sometimes. But there is no mass-transit side of me. It’s just . . . part of the experience.’

‘No, I think it’s a thing.’ She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘And you’re getting none of it in Girdwood. You know, we could sometimes get all our friends to crowd into Nong’s food truck with you and press up against you while we rock it.’

Nong has a repurposed blue-and-pink caravan in the almost-silent town centre of Girdwood, tucked in behind the weed shop and the laundromat, selling Thai food adapted to the Girdwood palate – both kinds of satay taco, chicken and beef.

‘Sure. Enticing Asian food smells, plus armpits and that nauseating MTR jiggling motion. What’s not to love about that?’

She smiles, puts on a smile. It doesn’t stick. ‘Where’s train number three?’

It’s across the platform, it turns out. No further than that. No escalators, no navigational feats required. It pulls up as we get there, and it’s half-empty. Admiralty is its first stop after leaving Central. We sit next to each other on the contoured steel bench seat. Everyone around us is on their phones, messaging, listening to something.