When I went to Chinatown with Corey, I found myself thinking of my friend Simon. Back in my college days, Simon and I were nearly inseparable friends. We did nearly everything together, and that usually included eating lots of…well…everything. I wondered where Simon was and what he was up to, and as Corey and I passed various restaurants, I enjoyed unexpected flashbacks involving Simon, his parents, and other members of his family: all of them chattering away in Cantonese, while at the same time giving me impromptu lessons on…well…lets just say that Simon and his cousins were immensely interested in teaching me all of the things you don’t say in polite company. It’s great to have friends who speak other languages…they teach you the most vivid, creative, and hilarious profanity! Decades later, Corey and I spent a vast portion of our day together at the Chinatown arch. People don’t pay too much attention to it, but it’s an amazing structure. It’s a typical piece of Chicago architecture in Chinese drag. The gate was in the process of being repaired when Corey and I last visited. There were scaffolds everywhere, and stickers stuck to the scaffold: most of them were advertisements in Cantonese; others were old and worn things rendered illegible and inscrutable by the elements. I wasn’t interested in the scaffolding. I cared more for the extravagant ceramic tiles covering a nearby building also in need of repair. Tiles were missing. Winter-born cracks had begun to develop. I found myself reading an entire catalogue of venerable Chinese symbols—traditional flowers, fantastic dogs and lions grinning with their well-sculpted fangs, there were even pomegranates which reminded me of Persian food and other friends known to both Corey and myself. There were dragons as well…all of whom bore a lucky number of claws. There were peacocks (that didn’t look much like peacocks) and other things I could scarcely name. There were bricks. Lots of them, and I could imagine Chinese-immigrant masons putting them in place, though Chicago is ironic in that such masons might have been xenophobic Irish city-dwellers…or even Czechs. Whether it’s true or not, I like to associate one of my favorite places in Chicago with Czech people. They fit together: not surprisingly Now, on Christmas—after a day of working no less—I find myself drawn to this image taken in Chinatown. It was a warm day. Corey and I ate great food and found a vertical lift bridge. We went in search for something to drink, only to find English tea with labels printed in Japanese. We drank two different brands, but I liked mine better because served cold it was something “delicious for modern people,” if my Japanese hasn’t failed me, which it probably has since I only studied it for two years, back in 1990/1991. I like tea that is geared to modern tastes, especially if it tastes strangely floral. Yes…my tea tasted like a mouth full of petals with cream and sugar. As I look at this picture, I can taste it again, and smell the incense I purchased as a marker of that day. Corey and I are destined to return to Chinatown. We’re getting hungry. And I’m going for my friend Simon as well. Within a week of my trip to Chinatown, Simon found me on Facebook and reestablished contact. I’m taking Corey to the restaurant Simon and I always went to whenever we wanted savory tripe, though it isn’t called tripe in Cantonese. It looks like I’ll be visiting Hong Kong (preferably with Victor) since Simon has informed me that I must visit and he won’t take no for an answer, especially since I hope to be in Russia and Russia is so close! I’d actually love to visit Simon again, though I know for a fact that for at least 12 hours in Hong Kong, I won’t see much of the city simply because I’ll be too busy spending time with Simon, eating. *** As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting. And Happy Holidays. By the way, Zoom for full detail.