HONG KONG — I never thought I’d be so excited to see “Cats.”

After soaking up Western culture — primarily in New York, London and Paris — about thrice a week for more than 20 years , I accepted a job two years ago in the Hong Kong office of The Times. No sweat, I thought: Maybe I was so Mozart-ed and Sondheim-ed to death that I really didn’t need to see another production of “Don Giovanni” or “Sweeney Todd.”

Well, maybe I was wrong. But just give me the right grand Chinese opera house and I’ll gladly suffer through “Memory.”

As summer fades and cities around the world launch their autumn offerings of culture, I’ve already joined in: the Hong Kong Philharmonic’s 45th season opener this month was the violinist Leila Josefowicz under the baton of Jaap van Zweden. Not too shabby. Joshua Bell showed up last weekend. The small but respectable Hong Kong Opera has “Turandot,” a coproduction with New York City Opera, next month. I’m not Puccini-ed out, but after two years I’m looking for a more gobsmacking venue than this city’s nearly 30-year-old performing arts center.

What’s fascinating about living on the cusp of China is the exciting but slightly frustrating cultural pilgrimages I’ve embarked on of late: visiting the extravagant and sometimes half-empty opera houses that have sprung up in the past few years in such megacities as Chongqing, Guangzhou and Zhuhai.