Making my way up and east from Canal Street and Bowery, I snaked in and out of the fire-escape lined streets, seepages of Chinatown still apparent in the fringes of the Lower East Side.

Eldridge Street. Allen Street. I continued.

The Chinese characters that masked the store fronts began to fade away, the clinking of mah joh pieces no longer audible.

I turned on Essex Street.

The language embodied in the streets took a southward shift. The intricate strokes of Chinese characters was replaced by overlapping blasts of bachatas, salsas and meregues. Here, Chino met Latino at the corner Chinese Hispanic mart. A whirl of Spanish was plastered onto storefronts. Bodegas populated every corner.

A graffiti laid out the geography according to the residents, Chinatown to the south, Lower East Side to the north and Losaida to the west.

I arrived at Rivington Street and Clinton.

The cultural fabric knit between the crooked streets of the Lower East Side were abruptly interrupted by a large blue building–the signs of gentrification protruded in the distance.

Reaching Stanton, I was snapped back into New York City as I knew it–the golden arches of McDonalds beaming in the distance. T-Moble, Starbucks, Duane Reade.