PACIFIC AVENUE

There are stretches here between Chinatown and Polk Street that because of the trees present a pattern of speckled shadows cast on the pavement from the streetlights at night. This is most noticeable after a brief rain, when the air is cleaner and crisper and the light contrast more sharply with the darkness.
Usually fog smoothes out the sharp edges.


Pacific Avenue long after dusk is one of the most enjoyable short walks in my neighborhood. The incline is gradual, and it takes little effort to crest the hill. For two blocks it is level, before descending down to Polk. There used to be sewing factories in every block, but the last one may have closed over a year ago. It’s become a little “gentrified” – that is to say, many of the shop fronts are now ‘art spaces’, which means that something odd is in the window to indicate serious aesthetic labours within, and a full curtain hides what is beyond. Which, usually, is a young couple, possibly tattooed and pierced, living a Bohemian life in a city very far away from their bourgeois families elsewhere in this country.

Sometimes they have parties.

At three in the morning, after it’s all over, the attendees stumble home to their own art spaces. Depending on how erratic their zombie-shuffle, one gives them a wide berth. Not that they might erupt, but they’ve been known to crash into large easily avoidable walls.
Which jump right out at them.


During the day, Pacific Avenue can be described as 'Le Rue Vieille du 台山', traversed largely by country Cantonese who live above the art spaces and store fronts, as well as further uphill on the several cross streets. There are two bus lines that pass along in either direction, and except for rush hours it is rare to see white people riding. Leastways, rare for the Caucasian element to dominate.
Right around six p.m. there may be standing room only, as the conveyance fills up with Cantonese people lugging home fresh vegetables and seafood to prepare for dinner. Unlike the artistic types, they know how to cook, and do not eat out nearly every night.
There is an Italian Restaurant between Larkin and Hyde, and a Spanish joint at Mason Street. As well as a Wine Bar (Café Meuse) right on the intersection of Hyde.

Green leaves, yellow lights, and drifting mist.
The sound of cablecars heading down Hyde Street after turning north at Jackson.
Fat raccoons ambling up from Trenton, where they investigated the garbage cans outside West Ping Yuen beneath the tall leafy trees. Empty green painted wooden racks under the awnings of the Cheung Hing Market on the corner of Powell Street, not too far from both the Kam Po (excellent roast meats till around eight) and Ma's Dim Sum & Café, where all the way till early evening one may eat superior dishes with that real home town taste. Good food.


There are quiet alleyways in the sloping blocks on either side of Pacific: Lynch, Bernard, Phoenix Terrace, Salmon and Auburn, John, Wayne Place.......
Crows, pigeons, seagulls, cats, possum.
Something dark and glowering.
I know that it eats fish.
Maybe a demon.



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