Smoke billows from gangs of barbeques lined up as far as the eye can see. Bunches of Hello Kitty balloons neatly tied together gently wave in the afternoon breeze. Tourists click their cameras incessantly and nearly trip over each other with excitement. Traditional arts and costumes from the eight Chinese provinces are featured on stage and performers under intricately embroidered red-silked dragons dance through the streets.
My nose leads me to open-air street vendors selling skewers of pork and beef, fried rice, lotus paste sandwiches and steamed breads; at times smelling putrid, rotten, rancid and sour and at other times sweet, aromatic, and occasionally perfumed like a newly-planted taro bush on the Hawaiian coast. Fused together, their fragrant flavours transport me to the Orient with a single inhale.
I saunter through the colourful displays and can’t help but bite into Takoyaki and curried fish balls, while double fisting a strawberry bubble tea and a fresh coconut sliced open specifically for my consumption. I sip the last bit of coconut water, and spy both boiled white radishes and chocolate wasabi ice cream. Something tells me I’m required to make a detour, as the streets of Chinatown invite me to indulge, again.
