San Francisco, USA. Chinatown
They’re probably more Chinese than the ones hereon this lil crockpot of islanders. Their wares, their fashion, their distinctive reserve and proud firmed lips, neat hands- subtle markers that bore their own clime amidst the brash white brawl.
Everywhere was Cantonese filling the air, as they unloaded fruits, examined fish, and just chatted in strains I could not understand. It sounded familiar enough for me to feel comfortable, but altogether still alien, leaving me happy and not too bewildered on the sidestreets, and them none too bothered with my presence.
I managed to hover here and there quietly, listening in where the best cheap cherries (strawberries, blueberries, all costing a gold pearl here…) might be (USD1 for a good pound!? – we ingested 3 pounds in a day).
All around were signs of a people making a place their home.
I think vans plying this route have a greater chance of getting arted on than those swooshing round Union Square.
An alley I didn’t walk down. Fruit shops like these (with wares in the boxes they came in, or perhaps another recycled, no plastic, no twinkly lights) are along what seemed like every street in the huge multi-streeted Chinatown.
All cheaper than their supermarket counterparts.