I have never taken good luck too seriously. Unlike the many Chinese who are superstitious to the marrow, I subscribe to the belief that whatever happens, happens.

So on a whim, to counteract the fast pace of Hong Kong, I decided to heed the advice of friends: to slow down and make time to savor the perfume of the jacaranda flowers blooming in nearby Macau. The former Portuguese colony and Special Administrative Region was returned to China in 1999 and has since experienced an explosion of development — land reclamation, high-rises and casinos. At the same time, historic building restorations are keeping pace, especially in the central area recently designated as a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Back in school, we barely touched on this area of the world during lessons on the Portuguese empire. I vaguely remember a teacher commenting that China’s first European colony had something to do with silk,the lesson during a visit to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, where I came across a self-portrait of George Chinnery. The 19th-century British painter, who spent most of his life in Asia, is known for his landscapes of old Macau. spices and trade. Years later, I recalled

Bulleting across the South China Sea in a turbojet ferry, I remember the British painter’s pensive face. Macau is his final resting place; I plan to find his grave.

An hour after setting off from the mainland, we approach the shores of Macau. A sea of taxis ebbs and flows, whisking arriving Hong Kongers to the island’s ubiquitous casinos and dropping their departing counterparts at the terminal for the trip home.

I wade through the crowd and dart across Avenida da Amizade to flag down a trishaw. We negotiate a price after the driver announces, “I’ll take you to see where Macau really started.” Off we go, veering past streets lined with banyan trees, through a city reminiscent of Monaco with its impeccably clean roads and sparkling facades.

At A-Ma Temple, Mr. Ho, my driver, stops and declares, “This is where Macau began.”

Legend has it that a destitute young girl seeking passage to Canton met a fisherman who offered her transport. En route, a ferocious storm hit, destroying everything in its path — except the fisherman’s boat. The girl vanished when they reached port but later reappeared as a goddess sent to protect seafarers.

Grateful fishermen erected a temple to honor the goddess A-Ma. When the Portuguese arrived in the mid-1500s, locals told them the name of the temple — A-Ma Gao, Cantonese for Bay of A-Ma. Thus, the name Macau was born. I pass through the temple gate and head toward the Prayer Hall, adorned with lattice windows and green roof tiles. Inside, smoldering honeycomb incense billows smoke among the rafters. I take in the scene, then make my way to a nearby eatery to ponder my experience and savor the local cuisine.

A Lorcha, just a stone’s throw from the temple, specializes in Portuguese fare. I order curried crabs and a pork casserole with shrimp paste and tamarind, finished off with serradura, a creamy pudding that is a Macau specialty. I indulge in an espresso, something I had missed in Hong Kong, where tea shops are the norm.

I nurse my espresso and watch a groundskeeper water his fruit trees. We exchange pleasantries with the help of the waiter, who volunteers his services as an interpreter.

“He says if you wish to remember Macau, visit Lilau Square,” says the waiter. “It’s where the Portuguese have a saying, ‘One who drinks from Lilau never forgets Macau.’”

Taking the groundskeeper’s advice, I find the Mediterranean-style neighborhood, one of the colony’s first Portuguese residential areas, and make my way to the village fountain — a monument erected in 1994 to mark the source of the enduring supply of spring water that has nurtured locals through centuries.

After skimming my hand through the fountain, I board a bus for Guia Hill, Macau’s highest peak. At its base, I transfer to a cable car and ascend to explore the fortress and lighthouse that crown the hill. From the summit, I spot the ruins of St. Paul’s, once the magnificent Church of Mater Dei, which was destroyed by fire in 1835.

Back at the base, I head south on Avenida de Siddonio Pais where I board a bus to Largo do Senado. The colonial square, close to the site of St. Paul’s Ruins, is rife with bustling markets and Chinese medicine shops. A lively scene unfolds as onlookers gather around musicians plying their craft, one playing a flute, the other an ancient zither.

Closer to the ruins, the cacophony of another era pushes to the forefront as the 21st century takes a back seat to the sound of tinsmiths pinging decorative textures onto bowls. The scene is out of yesteryear. Tailors working in shops tucked into alleys measure their walk-in customers for suits and brocade dresses. Vendors display canvas sacks brimming with dried chanterelles and call to customers from behind tables laden with dried fish.

The day is drawing to a close as I approach Camoes Gardens and the Old Protestant Cemetery. The entrance gate is locked, but the sounds of choral singing draw me to Morrison Chapel. When the choir pauses for a break, the choirmaster obligingly opens the cemetery gate and points me to George Chinnery’s grave, ablaze in sunlight. I’ve fulfilled my goal and collected a day’s worth of memorable moments.

“Whatever happens, happens,” I muse as I complete my visit to old Macau.