After an afternoon of culling photos, updating the journal, and sink-laundry I decided to venture deeper into nearby China Town in search of dinner. I walked past the street market where the tourists were just filtering in, and within a few dozen paces noticed a marked increase in the seediness of the neighborhood. Nearly every other person on the street was an obvious addict, or mentally ill, gaunt with open sores and haunted eyes. I rounded the corner and the scene grew unbelievably worse. This was no warzone of thugs or gangs, but an open-air asylum of society’s forgotten, babbling and cursing, quivering, jonesing, reeking of vomit and urine. Doing a prompt about-face was my instinct, but somehow not an option in this scene, so I dialed up the Denzel Washington aspect of my posture and walk (but not too much — I think even some of these cats have seen a DW movie), wishing my wallet didn’t print so badly. I made the next non-alley left with the hairs on my neck bristling, and suddenly remembering my mission (dinner) ducked into the next available restaurant, Foos’ Ho Ho.
With plastic chopsticks I eventually fumbled chicken curry from plate to mouth, but dinner was an introspective one. I’m sure it tasted great.