chinatown is not all that

After ordering my tricked out bike from Bikes not Bombs (amid various interruptions: street urchins borrowing a wrench to use on their new bike --"no man, it was there when I went to school, and still there when I got out: I didn't just take it cause no one was looking."; a middle aged lady with toddler, smitten with the shiny pedals and crank shafts in the display case, coming in to drop off two old bikes for the $5 tax write-off; an older sanitation worker whose pedals had somehow disconnected from the gears) I decided to stop by Chinatown to stock up on bun and sticky rice. It's not just that Boston's Chinatown is small, but also that it must compete with the aggressive urban growth of the city.




Not without its own beauty, yet not the taste-centric experience that means Chinatown to me. My eyes, not my tongue, took it in.




And then there are aprons.

on the sofa

Nonplussed by the new camera, too lazy even for the hairy eyeball. Tuncer set the pace for the day, in a ball on the sofa.

from my desk

I'm writing from my desk. So this letter home originates at home. Still, one must begin somewhere.
I don't know whether this will work--I've never been tempted to have a blog, the public nature of them has always made me jumpy. But I am, naturally, curious to give this a try. For the nonce.