Doors are everywhere, and a thousand windows look across to contemplate each other through grimy, glassy eyes. Chinatown, the ubiquitous Oriental's habitat, teems with the humanity of all races. Almost, it seems, the big city rose up to shake impatiently free of its irksome clinging hordes and lo they landed in a heap between Mott and Pell Streets. Add a few hundred tourists who replenish themselves hourly, and you have what is on any day an absolutely wonderful madhouse. The ear-splitting wail of a police car forces traffic to seek whichever curb or sidewalk is available.
People stop expectantly, hoping to witness New York's finest in action.
An old man stoops to wash his hands at an open hydrant whose spill sweeps before it a stream of candy wrappers and cigarette butts, delicately dries himself on his trousers and moves on. Chinatown is its people. The old Oriental, suited in black, sparse moustache and straggling whiskers, and his woman, conservative to the extreme, hair pulled back to tightly sculpt the head, also in black, make their unobtrusive way, ignoring the aliens, in and out of the markets, bags threatening to overflow. Their children, in miniature but very '90's in dress, run and play, shout and cry, adding to the turmoil. The tempting aromas of heavily-spiced chicken, spareribs, and shrimp issue from the many restaurants and fish markets.