Sometimes when I'm nearly asleep, these dialects seep into my dreams, and I imagine that I am in Hong Kong or Shanghai, and in a sense I am. I live in Chinatown, a city within a city, an enclave whose inhabitants have created a home away from home. Chinatown is a far cry from Boston, where I grew up, but it is now the place that I too call home. I have immersed myself in a culture unlike my own. At the grocery store I can't ask for things in English.
Storefronts here become Buddhist temples.
There's no Starbucks, nor a Gap, nor any chain store for that matter. Chinatown still holds a sense of authenticity that the more gentrified neighborhoods can no longer grasp. There are no trendy bars or clubs or upscale restaurants, only people raising families, making a living and creating a community for themselves. This neighborhood is probably the most congested in Manhattan, but in this chaos that I find serenity. In the hustle and bustle, I find a truer sense of self.