And suddenly I am not in this old blue stuffed leather chair in Dallas, watching the late hours unwind in a outspread city that hauls itself wearily through the dog days of August. I am in an Israeli cafe in Taipei, eating hummus and pitas while a tired-eyed woman sits nearby with her small white dog and smokes a cigarette. The moisture-laden street air wanders inside to hear The Doors playing on tiny speakers affixed above photos of the Masada and the Dead Sea. Now it's Johnny Cash's Ring of Fire, and a scooter passes by. Life flows on here, slowly to the muffled hum of traffic and pedestrians and the sounds of preparing food. I am aware of its passing, as the afternoon sun beats down on a faded awning outside.
And now it is night. The sky an amber glow of light pollution, the blurry air ablaze with store signs and neon, the asphalt damp and shining. Countless people throng the bright and narrow streets, their conversations rising to the upper building floors looking down on them from either side. One cannot lose one's self in that crowd, for to plunge into it is to join it, become another unique piece of it. Smells assault from all sides, sharp and pungent, strong and savory. The senses are fully engaged. To be at rest is to walk, moving slowly along the streets which will not clear for many hours yet, for here the night is also alive.
