Humble bumbles

The colour splashed across the street ahead looks like the result of someone dropping hundreds of cans of paint from a very great height. Shrill shouts and loud costumes demand my attention; the smoky smell of celebration mingles with restaurant aromas, thrilling the tiny hairs in my unaccustomed nostrils. Rows of crispy bronze whole chickens dangle in the windows; fat red lanterns are suspended in the air like jellyfish. Shop signs bearing different symbols poke into my peripheral vision, jostling for wall space like trees for light and shimmering in the mid-afternoon haze. The sound of firecrackers clips rude holes in the air and every shop front teems with children loudly waving sparklers. Fortune cookies break to reveal promises for the coming year.

It’s early afternoon, and Chinese New Year in San Francisco’s Chinatown.

I wind through the pulsating street past a meandering dragon parade, following first my nose, then my ears, until I am drawn to an old Chinese man on the corner. His limbs twist around a raised stool like the roots of an overgrown tree; above is head is a battered umbrella for all weathers, below him a flat and faded cushion. The tiny, gleaming eyes framed by his round walnut face leak wisdom. But what is most intriguing about this living anachronism is the instrument he holds, the thin high notes of which I had heard as they laced through the air towards me. He informs me that this is an erhu.

“I do classical training. Very hard.”

A sprinkling of tourists has settled to listen. The erhu is like an ersatz violin with two lost strings, its spindly base propped upright on the old man’s crooked knee. It seems like an extension of his gnarled body. Through jerky yet somehow elegant movements of his wrists, he produces a grating rendition of a traditional children’s song, nodding contentedly the whole time. He receives some scattered applause and high-fives from children passing by; he is evidently well-loved here.

“I live here all my life!” he says as his audience disperses.

“You’ve never left the city?” I ask, reiterating.

“No.” He bequeaths me a gummy grin. “The city. It never leave me.”

---

Ten days later, I am towelling my hair after a shower at my hostel when I am stopped short by the faint smell of firecracker smoke. My eyes glaze with kaleidoscopic memories; suddenly I am craving crispy fried chicken, and excitement leaps in my throat.

I think of the old man’s words. I just can’t seem to get Chinatown out of my mind.