If you’ve spent any time in China, it’s easy to slam the Chinatowns of America. They’re just a lot of red lanterns and restaurants with Americanized Chinese food. Yeah, there are Chinese people around, but people don’t really live there. It’s all for tourists and people who want to pretend to be somewhere exotic.
I admit that this was my attitude toward Boston’s Chinatown, the third largest in the country, at least until this past Saturday, when I spent half a day just walking around the neighborhood. As someone involved in translation and the Chinese community in general, I thought I knew the area pretty well. I mean, I’ve eaten hundreds of meals there, hung out in the square by the gate where the old men gather to gossip and play chess, bought DVDs in the sketchy basement stores, even gone to the travel agency where the agents only speak Chinese and can get you surprising discounts on plane tickets to Shanghai.
But this was different. I was there to participate in a charity event for the Boston Chinatown Neighborhood Center, a very valuable organization that helps recent immigrants adjust to life in the States. They teach English language skills, how to apply for government programs, and how to deal with that strange beast called American culture. The event involved a scavenger hunt through the neighborhood, and it took me to places I’d never before thought to go, like through the surprising housing developments that are hidden entirely by mangy office buildings. And dirty alleyways that reminded me vividly of the sort that used to be everywhere in Beijing and have mostly disappeared. And the grocery stores in hidden storefronts that you mostly find by the peculiar smell of fish that floats out from the doors, where you can buy fresh fruit for seventy-five cents a pound. Here was (and how Chinese!) a hidden city, layered behind the storefronts that, yes, are meant for tourists.
Most of all, I was fascinated by all the associations of uncertain purpose (The Chinese Progressive Association, The Wong Family Association, The Chinese Consolidated Benevolent Association), each of which sports a plaque over its door that springs into view only once you know to look for it. On a Saturday morning, the steps to many of these buildings were busy with parents and children, groups of men smoking their first cigarettes of the day, and venders peddling fresh fruit or water. This is where the life of the neighborhood happens, yet even for someone with a curious eye, it’s easy to walk past without noticing.
And then there was this, one of the nicest surprises of the morning, a little concrete park between buildings with a mural taking center stage:
It imitates a traditional shanshui painting, in this case in Qing dynasty style, with its pointed peaks, arched bridges, and wispy pine trees. I’ve walked down that block more times than I can count and never noticed it. It turns out that even in touristy Chinatown, as everywhere, there are treasures to discover if you just pay attention.