At dusk, the Chinese gold shops roll down their steel grates locking piles of 24k solid gold safely for the night. Lights come on and nighttime shops spill onto the sidewalks. Stacks of brilliant tropical fruit under draped umbrellas splurge up against dried root and Chinese medicine shops. Tarps come off rolling food carts as tippy tables and chairs set up crowded seafood restaurants on the sidewalks and into the streets. Wires of bright light bulbs swing over hundreds of people eating noodles cooked in seconds by expert hands over orange-hot woks and battered pots billowing aromatic steam. Brightly lit carts hang chains of succulent, spiced sausage and long-roasted duck. Rapid hands work over old, thick chopping blocks as others count money. Big-assed black Mercedes pulls up curbside, blinkers on, tinted glass window slips down as a high-class Chinese lady orders food from a cart vendor in the street. Pushcarts, taxis, and motorcycles swarm around in eddies, pushed up against the busy food tables.
My Western ears hear a screeching mixture of Chinese songs, motorcycles, and crowds of voices. Night sky is filled with Chinese characters lifted up, way up, on the sides of buildings, with a sea of bright lights down in the crowds. A million things are happening at once.
A scattering of splattering sparks, I look straight up at towering Chinese signs, hanging on soaring rusty towers. An arc welder high overhead showers sparks raining down around the food tables. We just laugh and carry on.