Upon visiting San Francisco for the first time in 1882, Oscar Wilde described it as “utterly, inexpressively hideous,” but Chinatown seduced him. After wandering through its shrines, shops and opium dens, he concluded the “strange, melancholy Orientals have determined they will have nothing about them that is not beautiful.”
These days, it’s hard not to think of Chinatown as a larger version of the 30 Stockton, crowded with old, cackling women hoarding doorways and throwing elbows over greens. Still, I’m convinced the real Chinatown must still exist in the back alleys we pass by, somewhere in between Wilde’s romanticism and our cynicism. I follow the pink shopping bags to find it.
The Bold Italic article on Chinatown behind the pink bags.
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