The voices come from a distance, indirect and indecipherable. Unfamiliar voices speaking in a foreign language. They weave in and out of range, in and out of my drowsy dream.

A child’s shout is followed by the tinkle of laughter. Slowly my mind climbs out of the warm burrow of sleep to see what all the fuss is about.

It takes me a moment more to realise the voices are German. I’m still dancing between dreams and reality, enjoying the gauzy confusion. Why German and not English or Cantonese?

I open one eye, and reality comes creeping back. I’m lying on my back on the lush lawn of a city park. I can hear road traffic not far away, and the metallic buzz of a freewheeling bicycle as it rolls by. The sun peers through the leaves of a tree that arches over my head. I can smell the earthy tones of the lawn, feel its prickle through my clothes, the cool firmness of the ground below.

“This isn’t Hong Kong …” I think to myself.

I stretch and enjoy a deep yawn. Ah yes, now I remember; I am in Hamburg. I spent the morning visiting an art museum and then enjoyed a long alfresco lunch at a Portuguese restaurant. With a table on the pavement, not far from a canal. An extra glass of wine, followed by a rich chocolate dessert and an espresso. Then, full-bellied and drowsy, too much so to carry on sightseeing, I wandered into this park.