Why would anyone want to forget Chinatown?
San Francisco's Chinatown is the best place on earth, assuming that fictional places I was fixated upon in childhood are definitely not real.
Until I one day move a cardboard box away from a wall and find an entryway to an underground labyrinth of rascally muppets, I submit the following photographic evidence for your consideration:
She doesn't take questions.
The other city lights.
Until this trip, the worst thing that had happened to me in San Francisco was a strange man with a thick accent making a phlegmy sound in his throat and growling at me to brush my damn hair.
This time, I was walking the streets with a millstone tied around my neck, its silent, oppressive weight alternately exhausting and infuriating me as I attempted to delight, to cajole, to entertain.
Fortunately, I kept looking up.