With my hometown dining companions trailing behind me as I scurried through the Market St. mass traffic of vagabonds and ill-forgotten street pharmacists, it’s impossible not to spot the lone foreign flag hanging outside the door. As a self-proclaimed unpatriotic citizen, the flag represents more than nationalism. The flag

I remember living on Valencia St. when KFC was still on the block, junkies constantly shouted above the bell of the nearby church and Lost Weekend had half-off Wednesday and VHS tapes. Then, the gallery attendants below me started to leave traces of hispterdom: cans of PBR. They were everywhere.

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