Chinatown Red

Old lady in a red hat, bent over, pushes her cart. Two men are loudly arguing at the bus stop. Florists are loading funeral wreaths into a truck. During all my walks in Chinatown, I remembered the contents of each storefront and schedule of all stores, learned what intersection to look for the best afternoon light, and where to buy the best mandarins, but at the same time, I was never noticed. 
This time again, people pass through without seeing me, and I become invisible in Chinatown once more. This city in the city lives brightly and entirely independently of San Francisco. They speak different language, buy live fish, play strange instruments, put red lanterns over the streets, and completely ignore outsiders. I'm left to observe and record what's happening. Laundry hangs in windows, people smoke in dark corridors: there should be life inaccessible to me. I open a random door and take a step; the men put on their masks and wave their hands at me — "go away". Outside, among faded t-shirts and red paper dragons, I see a black self-driving taxi, and then I remember that I'm still in San Francisco.