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First comes the anticipation, that initial jet of warm water, that miraculous searching, finding the sweet spot, then heaven on earth as it cleans and caresses. As if by magic, warm, soothing wafts of air gently and sensuously dry my tush. I had forgotten just how wonderful Japanese toilets can be.

It was 5am in Tokyo. I was on my way to Hong Kong, but my ticket demanded a change of planes. Haneda Airport was empty, save for a woman driving a golf cart. She offered me a ride to the other side of the airport where some restaurants were. As we drove off, the cart started playing "Around her neck, she wore a yellow ribbon," filling the cavernous hall with echoes of John Wayne astride his horse, galloping through Monument Valley.

Looming in the distance was a sign: "24-hour Sushi."

First, my nether region was expertly washed and dried—now sushi?

The fish was so fresh, it was glistening. This was some airport!

The flight from New York had started well except that after I had settled in, I removed my shoes to discover I was still wearing my sheepskin slippers. Apparently, when the taxi arrived, I grabbed my bag and left home, leaving my sneakers in the hall. A reminder why it is time to retire.

I discussed politics with the taxi driver who took me to my hotel from the Hong Kong airport. At first he was reluctant to say anything. Draconian laws had just passed making criticizing the government dangerous. I told him I had been in Hong Kong during the umbrella movement, which occupied a commercial district for almost 80 days. The demonstrators used umbrellas to deflect the police's pepper spray. "At that time, people were very angry," I said.

He replied with not a little irony, "No one is angry now."

I recently sold my company, Music Hall, to a hi-fi distributor. I had arranged to meet the new owners in Hong Kong to introduce them to my suppliers in China and Taiwan. I arrived on Tuesday afternoon. My meetings weren't until Friday, so on Wednesday, I had lunch with an old friend, an artist and long-time resident of the city, one of the few remaining expats. Most had by now taken themselves and their money to Singapore, the UK, or Australia. My friend told me that the few expats remaining, including him, were largely ignored by the authorities. The Hong Kong population had changed markedly since I was last in the city, pre-COVID.

The following day, I took the ferry to the mainland to visit another old friend. Hunter is the export manager for Shanling, a company I worked with both as a contract manufacturer of electronics and to distribute their own brand. I met Hunter more than 20 years ago on my first trip to China, when Mike Creek, owner of Creek Audio, invited me to visit a hi-fi show in Shanghai. I was excited. Even though Shanghai is somewhat European in feel, you know you are not in the West. Like most hi-fi shows, the Shanghai show was located in a faceless, colorless hotel, this one on Pudong island. Most of the systems on display were producing terrible, cacophonous sound. Ears ringing, I escaped to the upper rooms.

While wandering the corridors, I heard music—real music—emanating from one room. This was the Shanling room. I entered and met Hunter. He spoke no English, but that didn't deter me. The system was a small integrated amplifier, a CD player, and a pair of two-way speakers. (I love two-way speakers. If well designed, they just play music.) I found someone to translate, wrote down some details, and ordered some integrated amps. I was their first export customer. Hunter was tasked with learning English. Every time I visited, his English improved. Today, he is fluent.

On this latest trip, Hunter met me at the ferry terminal and took me back to his apartment, which was in a very lavish skyscraper. His wife, father-in-law, and 10-year-old daughter were there to greet me. The child spoke English fluently, but she was shy, and it took a while to coax her to talk.

A feast awaited. The table was filled with delicacies including Peking duck, red prawns, fish steamed in ginger, and boiled beef with a fiery soy/ginger/chili/scallion dipping sauce. Most Chinese I know don't drink, but Hunter knew I liked to and offered me Chinese red wine or XO Cognac. Cognac it was, and his father-in-law, a retired farmer, joined me. The evening ended with us two old men sitting on Hunter's balcony, overlooking Shenzhen Bay, drinking tea and discussing life.

On Friday, as planned, I met with Music Hall's new owners, and over the next few days, we visited most of my suppliers in China and Taiwan.

Much as I enjoyed this trip, it was bittersweet for me. Almost 40 years ago, I created Music Hall and turned an idea into a tangible, valuable, respected company playing no small role in the international hi-fi industry. A large part of my business life has been in China and Hong Kong. These are places I have grown to love. Visiting the factories that supported me for so long was delightful. I doubt I will go there again.

The fact that another company has bought Music Hall is a terrific compliment, and I feel they will cherish the brand and help it grow. But what will I do after my contract expires?

My ticket home from Hong Kong afforded me a stopover in Haneda Airport. One more delicious plate of sushi and one final, delightful visit to the toilet. How does that water jet know where to go?