I walked to Chinatown with the idea that I’d walk up the street and take some pictures, have lunch maybe, and go up till I reached Broadway St., where I’d turn left and go to the Chinese Cultural Museum, which is open 1-4 on Sundays. I didn’t realize that countless shops would distract me (of course, the same goes for countless other tourists). I think a Shetland sheep dog would enjoy herding humans on the sidewalks of San Francisco. Anyway, shortly after I passed through the ornate Chinese gate, I found a shop that interested me. Put Buddhas or lucky cats or dolls in the window, and I’ll go into the shop. That easy. The tackier tourist shops were the ones most likely to be packed with tourists (I say tacky, even though I enjoy such stores myself). The stores that sold expensive antiques were the ones least likely to be packed with tourists, or the back of the store where the antiques were located was less likely to have customers than the front of the store. (It's just as well, given how many inquisitive children there were.)
Some of these stores contained really big old Buddhas that looked like they belonged in museums—these truly were antiques, in many cases. Painted wooden Buddhas, bronze Buddhas, whatever. Not just Chinese—there were Zazen and Tibetan (I must have seen four or five 11-headed Avalokiteshvaras for sale) and Siamese (I bought a two inch tall one) and even one large Cambodian Buddha. Wonderful stuff. I took pictures in a couple of stores—it was like being in a crowded storage room of a museum, and displays in the front of the store seemed as if they were set up for the purpose of being photographed. In one store, a round table was topped with (among other things) a couple of big Siamese Buddhas, and also a one and a half foot tall Sun Wu-King, Great Sage, Equal to Heaven, tagged, “Monkey King.” I thought of the line from the Chinese classic fantasy novel The Journey to the West, “Let Old Monkey take care of it.” Someday I’m going to make dolls or statues based on the main characters from that book—I even have the notes in a sketchpad.
At a corner (I can’t remember the street), not long after noon, a young woman gave me the menu and a coupon for The China Restaurant, which has been in business since 1919. So I went there and had quite a banquet. Spring rolls, veggies and tofu over fried rice, and green tea ice cream with a fortune cookie. It came out to $22.50, but I have enough leftovers for three or four meals. I’m so glad the room has a fridge and microwave.
Since I had these leftovers to carry around, I decided to go back to my room and return to Chinatown, so I headed back down the other side of Grant St. and kept getting distracted by more window shopping. On my way back to my room, I heard loud Indian music and wondered where it was coming from—this was close to Union Square. Coming down the sidewalk toward me was a group of Hindu Indian people with one guy in front singing into a microphone and behind him someone hitting a big drum—I’m not sure if everyone was singing and/or clapping, but I did get a picture quickly before scooting out of the way. There was something about the situation that delighted me, whether or not this has to do with past life experiences. I was compelled to smiled blissfully as they went by. On my way back to Chinatown, I ran into them again—they were walking away from Chinatown, and there was a different singer leading with the microphone. It reminded me that if I could only afford it, I’d be going to Indian in about six months, but I didn’t seriously think I could afford the tour.
After the Hindus drifted past, a white boy in front of me said, "I could live in India."
Just this morning, an English guy behind me said, “This city—it has so much character.”
Back in Chinatown (OK, it was about 4 pm when I was back in my room, so I knew I wasn’t getting to the Chinese Cultural Museum), I did more shopping and moving slowly through the crowd, as I had been doing since about 10 am (and it was 7 pm when I got back to my room). This time, I came to a store that was selling new dolls (some not Asian) but also antique Japanese dolls like the ones at the Japanese Fest in St. Louis. I bought one—in a bright purple brocade robe. That was definitely my most major purchase of the day. I also got a couple of moon cakes at a bakery, and small cat figures in another tourist shop (along with a gift of scented candles for my mom), and at the very last, when I thought I was totally sick of shopping, I spent thirty-one cents on a Chinese foot massage (that includes tax). I have used it already. Several times.
I definitely know the meaning of “shop till you drop.” And I’m glad that tomorrow I’m going to the Museum of Modern Art—hopefully I’ll stay away from the museum shop.
I soaked in a hot bath—so far, I’ve done more meditating in the bathtub than on the cushion, or rather two pillows off the bed—and took a nap. It was 9:45 when I woke up.
I can’t believe I forgot to mention this—
Form the sidewalk in Chinatown, I heard a marching band, like many others I had to find out where it was, what it was. Someone said, “Oh, yes, the parade.” A small marching band came in front, behind it a black convertible with about four people, and those in the back seat held up a framed portrait of an old Asian man, with a wreath around the picture, and it was on an easel. Behind that came a hearse and the usual trail of cars marked “funeral.” I don’t know whom you have to be to get a marching band at the front of your funeral parade.
Much later, during my second walk through Chinatown, I went into a fascinating store that was at least two storeys and had not a a spiral staircase but a spiral ramp, and large paper lanterns hung around. Centered in the spiral of this ramp was a huge dragon, hanging from the ceiling. This shop included a calligraphy artist who was making a picture for a little boy, and on the upper floor were the tiniest mud figures.
As I headed down the staircase, admiring the lanterns, I started to hear drums. Big drums, or a big drum. So I went out onto the sidewalk. Across the street, there were some Asian teenagers dressed in red and white. Two brought out huge red and white flags. Three dragons came out, as did a drummer boy—it was a very big drum indeed. They all marched down the street, going in the opposite direction from where I was headed.
One or two stores in Chinatown sold DVDs, and I got to thinking I didn’t see how anyone could take the time to watch TV or videos in San Francisco. Going out on the sidewalk and people watching is more fascinating.
Some of these stores contained really big old Buddhas that looked like they belonged in museums—these truly were antiques, in many cases. Painted wooden Buddhas, bronze Buddhas, whatever. Not just Chinese—there were Zazen and Tibetan (I must have seen four or five 11-headed Avalokiteshvaras for sale) and Siamese (I bought a two inch tall one) and even one large Cambodian Buddha. Wonderful stuff. I took pictures in a couple of stores—it was like being in a crowded storage room of a museum, and displays in the front of the store seemed as if they were set up for the purpose of being photographed. In one store, a round table was topped with (among other things) a couple of big Siamese Buddhas, and also a one and a half foot tall Sun Wu-King, Great Sage, Equal to Heaven, tagged, “Monkey King.” I thought of the line from the Chinese classic fantasy novel The Journey to the West, “Let Old Monkey take care of it.” Someday I’m going to make dolls or statues based on the main characters from that book—I even have the notes in a sketchpad.
At a corner (I can’t remember the street), not long after noon, a young woman gave me the menu and a coupon for The China Restaurant, which has been in business since 1919. So I went there and had quite a banquet. Spring rolls, veggies and tofu over fried rice, and green tea ice cream with a fortune cookie. It came out to $22.50, but I have enough leftovers for three or four meals. I’m so glad the room has a fridge and microwave.
Since I had these leftovers to carry around, I decided to go back to my room and return to Chinatown, so I headed back down the other side of Grant St. and kept getting distracted by more window shopping. On my way back to my room, I heard loud Indian music and wondered where it was coming from—this was close to Union Square. Coming down the sidewalk toward me was a group of Hindu Indian people with one guy in front singing into a microphone and behind him someone hitting a big drum—I’m not sure if everyone was singing and/or clapping, but I did get a picture quickly before scooting out of the way. There was something about the situation that delighted me, whether or not this has to do with past life experiences. I was compelled to smiled blissfully as they went by. On my way back to Chinatown, I ran into them again—they were walking away from Chinatown, and there was a different singer leading with the microphone. It reminded me that if I could only afford it, I’d be going to Indian in about six months, but I didn’t seriously think I could afford the tour.
After the Hindus drifted past, a white boy in front of me said, "I could live in India."
Just this morning, an English guy behind me said, “This city—it has so much character.”
Back in Chinatown (OK, it was about 4 pm when I was back in my room, so I knew I wasn’t getting to the Chinese Cultural Museum), I did more shopping and moving slowly through the crowd, as I had been doing since about 10 am (and it was 7 pm when I got back to my room). This time, I came to a store that was selling new dolls (some not Asian) but also antique Japanese dolls like the ones at the Japanese Fest in St. Louis. I bought one—in a bright purple brocade robe. That was definitely my most major purchase of the day. I also got a couple of moon cakes at a bakery, and small cat figures in another tourist shop (along with a gift of scented candles for my mom), and at the very last, when I thought I was totally sick of shopping, I spent thirty-one cents on a Chinese foot massage (that includes tax). I have used it already. Several times.
I definitely know the meaning of “shop till you drop.” And I’m glad that tomorrow I’m going to the Museum of Modern Art—hopefully I’ll stay away from the museum shop.
I soaked in a hot bath—so far, I’ve done more meditating in the bathtub than on the cushion, or rather two pillows off the bed—and took a nap. It was 9:45 when I woke up.
I can’t believe I forgot to mention this—
Form the sidewalk in Chinatown, I heard a marching band, like many others I had to find out where it was, what it was. Someone said, “Oh, yes, the parade.” A small marching band came in front, behind it a black convertible with about four people, and those in the back seat held up a framed portrait of an old Asian man, with a wreath around the picture, and it was on an easel. Behind that came a hearse and the usual trail of cars marked “funeral.” I don’t know whom you have to be to get a marching band at the front of your funeral parade.
Much later, during my second walk through Chinatown, I went into a fascinating store that was at least two storeys and had not a a spiral staircase but a spiral ramp, and large paper lanterns hung around. Centered in the spiral of this ramp was a huge dragon, hanging from the ceiling. This shop included a calligraphy artist who was making a picture for a little boy, and on the upper floor were the tiniest mud figures.
As I headed down the staircase, admiring the lanterns, I started to hear drums. Big drums, or a big drum. So I went out onto the sidewalk. Across the street, there were some Asian teenagers dressed in red and white. Two brought out huge red and white flags. Three dragons came out, as did a drummer boy—it was a very big drum indeed. They all marched down the street, going in the opposite direction from where I was headed.
One or two stores in Chinatown sold DVDs, and I got to thinking I didn’t see how anyone could take the time to watch TV or videos in San Francisco. Going out on the sidewalk and people watching is more fascinating.
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