A night down (and it almost always is
down) by the docks is the same anywhere - you find the right sink-hole of a bar with the right mix of vodka, darkness, and reluctant polyglots, and you'll probably come up trumps. It was a little easier back when I was handing out jobs instead of hunting one, but my liver's suffered worse.
And then, wandering desolate neighborhoods - if they can be called neighborhoods - searching for breakfast at seven in the morning is as much part and parcel of the thing as deciding whether to shout at someone in French or in your twenty words of Mandarin, but I've never thought it was quite as much fun. Found a decent stretch of sidewalk with something purporting to be coffee, though, and am now enjoying this lovely view:
( cut for image; not filtered )My stealth photography skills are sadly atrophied, or maybe just outclassed by the instrument, so I couldn't get a decent shot of the interior without looking like I was about to steal the thing. Not that anyone would - it was nothing
so special when it was made, and doubtless still isn't - but it really is beautiful, the way some people take care of their things. Not a scratch on it.