IT'S ALWAYS TIME FOR TEA

She looked around with a semblance of the curiosity that normally animated her. There were such interesting people here! Truly, some of them looked so strange! But the feeling of tiredness she felt prevented her from drinking them all in. She rubbed her eyes and face, and leaned against the shoulder of her father. Not asleep, not by a long shot. But not really awake either.
Her cheeks were very flushed. And to the observer, they were nearly the same hue as her rosy lips.
At Clay and Powell the man got up and his daughter followed him. When they were off the bus he took her hand, and gently led the feverish little girl down the street.
He had looked worried on the ride down hill. Clearly he was very fond of her.
Probably only a summer flue.
Once she's in bed, things will be better.


The woman was visibly upset. She and her daughter had run for the bus, but when they got there the doors had closed. It could not be the fear that they would not reach their destination that made her look so anguished - the next 30 Stockton bus was only a block away, and another after that - but the wasted effort. So close! After running, too!
It would have been a very tight squeeze anyway, to me it looked like not one person more could have jammed on board, let alone two. And they were also carrying shopping bags. The 30 Stockton often resembles the last helicopter out of Saigon, but this one was particularly full.
Both females slumped with that defiantly pissed attitude still in their shoulders and on their faces.
They were resigned to not being allowed on board, despite their best efforts at making it before the vehicle lurched forward again. But not 'resigned'. Definitely NOT!
The teenager looked sullen, her mother frustrated.
My bus! I mean, our bus! Dammit!
There's ALWAYS room for one more!


She brought the sausage bun up to her mouth and chomped down with gusto. My heavens, it was delicious! She savoured the meaty goodness, the sweet doughy exterior, the fullness of taste in her mouth.
Seeing an elderly auntie so thoroughly enjoying what was obviously a desperately needed bite to eat was slightly disconcerting. I've never been particularly fond of hotdogs baked in pastry, and truth be told those things have their greatest fans among the very young. A hot dog is mostly filler and fat, with salt added. Those things aren't, strictly speaking, the acme of edible. But if you've been too busy to have lunch, hunger ennobles even pedestrian snack foods.
Evenso, these are not refined eaties by anyone's standards; the round reddened meaty tip sticking out of the pillowy bready part looks rather obscene, shocking even.
Elderly aunties emasculating food - not the prettiest sight.
Still, commendable enjoyment.
The old lady has vim.


I had two steamed chicken buns and some rice-sheet noodle with fresh shrimp. Hot sauce on everything. The buns always remind me of young breasts because of their shape, yet they lack the wonderfully velvety feel of real mammaries, as well as the delightful peachy hue.
Think of them as white white zombie tits, if you cannot get bosoms out of your mind.
They are extremely tasty, especially warm and with a drop of soy or a dash of red pepper sauce.
Finished up with a chindui filled with dowsa paste. So good! So good!
The owner recognized me while she was preparing incense for General Kwan, whose image looked out over the store from his perch high up near the ceiling.
She smiled and gave a friendly greeting.
It's been so very long, ah?
Man-man sik.


Chinatown is filled with the sounds of various funny languages. Does anyone even communicate with those yelps and grunts? Still, I understand that the Germans and Italians manage to share data with each other by speaking their own tongues, and no doubt those dialects sound dulcet to their ears.
Hard though that is to grasp.
The real problem with tourists is that they block sidewalks and crossings, and cluster in oblivious little herds at the doorways to shops. In addition to stopping without warning to take photos or exclaim wonderingly over things that don't exist in Europe.
I flee from their flocking to the alley near the TransAmerica Pyramid. On the way there a desperate young couple ask where Union Square is.
Two streets up, then eight blocks over to the left.
Without a doubt they wish to go shopping.
Ere the Euro devalues further.


Distantly comes the sound of Cantonese opera, closer by various bird vocalizations.
A seagull cries somewhere, and a flock of tweety creatures screech among the trees.
Small fluttery things move among the branches, a hummingbird stands still in mid-air.
The restaurants on both sides of the alley are preparing for the dinner crowd; I can hear the tinkle of silverware that someone on the other side of that window pane is placing alongside the plates.


Finished smoking my pipe and got to the office by tea-time.
Saturday afternoons are meant for puttering around.
Either solitarily or with another person.
There's no one else, however.
Not yet. Not yet.



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