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Walking from J‘s apartment on Rue St. Urbain down to Chinatown was way easier than I thought it would be. I pretty much walked into the world of rapidfire Cantonese, wok hei smells wafting in the air, bolo buns and Asian hairsalons. The nice thing about Chinatown – in London, Montreal, San Fran or anywhere else, really – is that for just a little while, I lose the geography and it just feels like a place where I belong, a place where I feel safe and where I know the food is pretty much made the same way as it is back home. The way my grandmothers do it – flavored with soy sauce, oomphed up with sesame oil and served with condiments in little white platters.

Excuse me while I have a tender, fobby moment.

Three years ago, I braved the mad stampede at Leicester Square on the first day of the lunar new year. I did live to take this picture, but just barely.
Three years on, I’m a little smarter and a lot more agoraphobic.

A tame feast with the far-from-home-Asians-trapped-in-London Club will do this year. The wildest thing on the list would probably be the bottle of 15.6% plum wine we bought.

Happy New Year!


Okay. I’ve decided to take my camera and my wardrobe a little more seriously.

[Plaid shirt, tights: Topshop. Shorts: DKNY. Ankle boots: Neu Look. Watch: vintage Alba]

There is no way I am going to put myself through the torture of being in Chinatown the day before the eve of the Lunar New Year ever again. Doesn’t matter where in the world I happen to be.

People can kill. Throngs of people can kill. Throngs of people with heavy red baskets knocking into the back of your knees will kill.

I played with the snowglobe over and over when I got home. Then I got a bit calmer.