Go through the gate of Chinatown on Bush Street, stick to the parallel streets, and you'll see what Chinatown wants you to see, what the merchants have to offer you. But dart down the perpendicular streets and the alleys, and you will see what wares they carry for their own.
Among my most vivid memories: standing outside a fortune cookie factory, the fragrance of warm batter mixed with the sound of mah-jong tiles clacking and clattering. Stand there more than a few moments, and silence falls. Gambling to mah-jong is {I assume} illegal.
Once, while researching ideas for an asian senior services fundraiser invitation, I walked into a tiny tabac shop and found red money envelopes, incense, joss papers, sets of paper clothing for ancestors {complete with watches and shoes} and wads of dollar bills, printed in supersaturated colors on cheap paper. Currency from the Bank of Hell. This money delighted me. "Is this in case Grandpa wasn't nice and went to the bad place?" I asked the proprietor. He assured me that yes, indeed that was exactly what it was for.
I bought stacks of this money and wish I'd bought more. Who can resist wads of 100, 500 and 1000 dollar bills, all for one or two US dollars? Not me, apparently. I folded money rings from some of it, and one day I'd love to use it for a girls poker night.
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