Trams clack past; cars jerk by, stopping, starting. The street is a mixture of dirt and slick. Sculptures sit on corners and hang over shop doors. Posters fill their spaces on pillars and walls advertising bands and readings and political action. Cafes and clothes racks spill onto the pavement, immersed in car fumes. Locals with somewhere to be weave past tourists gazing into shop windows; learnt stares of contempt meet glances of curiosity. You wander through it all; wonder about Jess. For two or so blocks you absorb the street without seeing, then get sucked in, you start looking, to be interested. To shop.

You pass a bookshop, a candle shop, a cafe, a shop full of flowers.