Cognitive dissonance hits when familiar meets foreign in Hong Kong. I don’t speak Cantonese. Not a word of it. As I set foot into Hong Kong, in the middle of the bustling streets, bright lights, and people hurrying around, as the sound of this foreign language surrounds me, a mix of comfort and alienation overwhelms me. It feels like home; but it isn’t. Familiar, but foreign.    The underground trains passing from Central to Hung Hom, the high-rise flats such as Chungking Mansion, the roadside food stalls near Tsim Sha Tsui, even the elderly men, reading the paper at Sheung…