I knew my journey home would be complicated, but I wasn’t prepared for the sense of isolation as I moved from one dystopian scene to another
When I booked my flight home after spending more than two-and-a-half months in Europe, I knew what my journey would entail. With no more direct flights between Paris and Hong Kong, I would have a brief layover in London. I knew that when I landed at the Hong Kong airport, I would be tested and held at a facility for roughly eight hours until my results came back.
In the best case scenario – if I were negative – I would be spending two weeks in home quarantine, my whereabouts tracked by an app and a chunky device worn on my wrist. If I were positive, I would be sent to the hospital.