AMONG THE WEREWOLVES

My usual spot was taken. A homeless person slumped there, half awake, mumbling, and occasionally bellowing. Imagine hearing the wild elephants across the muddy tropic estuary. Precisely so. But not quite as loud. Boys, I think this intersection is haunted and I can hear daemons, let us go elsewhere. Quite a slice of local colour for the tourist families that wandered past. Probably added a special quality to their American trip.
They'll never come here again.

San Francisco aims to permanently impress itself on your memories. Somewhere between traumatized for life and permanently scarred. Hearing things out of the corner of your ear.

They had already passed the karaoke bar where innocent souls were being tormented.
But by returning to their hotel early, they were assured of breakfast.
Get up too late, and the good stuff is all gone.
Nothing left but toaster strudel.
And boxed donuts.


Despite there being no very great shakes to breakfast in San Francisco -- just regular greasy Midwestern morning muck, pastries, and fancy schmanzy new age cuisine at fifty dollars plus per plate -- we're great when it comes to non-Anglo stuff as a wake-me-up. Best burritos in the country, plus darn good sushi, some excellent Italian food and pizza (often cooked by Mexicans), and Chinese food out the wazzoo.

You want curry and naan to start the day? We can do that!
Noodle soup with pork meatballs also.
Strong real coffee.

If course, because of the chill wind and moisture in the air in the evening most restaurants close by nine. Nothing but coke fiends and stoners staggering in after that time. Real San Franciscons will go have a late night burger or a burrito if they're peckish. Perhaps in some areas you can find a bacon-wrapped hot dog with grilled onions, salsa, and chiles en escabeche.

Sadly, we don't have a Waffle House in San Francisco, and this isn't new York where you can get "real" Chinese food at four in the morning. You know, kung pao, general Tzo's, ehrliche egg rolls (crunchy, chewy, brown), and echte emmese duck sauce.

What I had for lunch earlier was salted fish and eggplant over rice (鹹魚茄子飯 'haam yü ke ji faan') at a chachanteng. With lots of sambal, and a cup of milk tea.
Which isn't Hunanese or Szechuan at all!

My friend the bookseller often doesn't have real food till he gets out in the evening on pub crawl night, and we end up at the burger place. I had already finished my pipe by the time he arrived, and we passed the karaoke bar where lost souls where howling, deciding that it would be off the agenda later. A wise choice.

Louder and more tormented when we passed by again.
Something meaningful, possibly with banjos.


We remembered disappeared business along Grant Avenue on the way to the bus stop.
Bank branches duplicated barely a block from each other.
Things gradually changed.



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