The gaudy red signage of Chinese restaurants. The loud bantering of conversations in a cacophony mix of different languages sounding like Vietnamese, Mandarin, Korean, Cantonese. The rustle of the plastic bags from people pouring out of the Asian grocery store. The Superdry shirts. You know you are in Chinatown. But what's behind the main street of Little Bourke? I explore the skeleton of the city.

I secretly enjoy the feeling of venturing into dark alleyways so that I can pretend to be in a post-apocalyptic neo-Tokyo setting, complete with neon lights and shiny motorcars. That is slightly dangerous, so I shall do it in daylight. Most of it is street art, exhausted chefs sitting at the alley taking a smoke, grimy pipes and puddles of expired rainwater from last night. Or maybe chokingly expelled from the open sewage. I don't linger too long. I feel too foreign in this environment. An older man steps into the space, and notice that I'm overly interested in the mundane, the everyday he lives in. He smirks. Another tourist, I can imagine the thought bubble floating above his head. I don't bother to explain myself. Melbourne is full of confident people who would be considered strange as fuck (but cool) if they were to set foot in relatively conservative Singapore. I try to emulate that attitude. Just doing my thang, yo. Till the next time.