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In the National Folklore museum I stand in front of the usual montage of Bronze Age (or is it Iron Age? I have always been a bit vague about these things); life in a Korean village; how many times have I seen this before? folk in sacking garb grubbing around, fiddling with pots and fires in front of conical huts. A hunter returning dragging a stag. It doesn't matter where you are in the bronze age. In the museums of Colchester, Lausanne, Mexico City, Seoul there they are, doing the same things; same clothes, same fires, same pots. And they say that life today is the same everywhere. Ha!

Back down town; as I come out of the subway I almost trip up over a recumbant beggar with withered limbs who is propelling himself across my path singing into a karaoke mike, loudspeakers slung under his cart.

To the Tombstone again, and then I stop off to eat mussels sitting on a bench in the street served by a cross and suspicious woman who is not at all happy to have me there. Cautious but friendly fellow eaters offer me rice wine, more and more of it. I try to buy some bottles to reciprocate but she won't sell me any. She wants me out of the way. I leave, and weave back to my hotel at midnight. I pass a videoscreen in the otherwise dark empty street offering gardening advice in English, French, Italian and Korean. Back in my room I turn on the TV just in time to see the two newsreaders seated against a backdrop of glittering skyscrapers bow gravely, as one man, to concludetheir bulletin.


need these streets
city sublime
seismic city
chopper shot
perfect city
dark city
global flaneur
shanghai and seoul
city tourist
loathsome centres
krung thep
sex city
hong kong
nightmares dreams
new sublime
dickens in la

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