ABSTRACT
As I drive through the neighbourhood (which I will refer to as Area Asia), my eyes are wide-open as they gaze upon the luxury of the exaggeratedly baroque villas, the grandeur of fake Roman-style swimming pools, the extravagance of high-end shops, and the seductive look of food outlets selling luscious food. I am not in Beverly Hills or Bel Air. Instead, this time I am a tourist exploring one of the most renowned areas of an emerging Asian megalopolis, which I would refer to as Asiana City. Area Asia is an evident tourist enclave, a temple of consumption where visitors wander around with their cameras and enjoy their expensive beers and Italian Pizzas al fresco. Here tourists are visibly amazed by their surroundings and look (and sound) very happy. As I turn right, I take a one-way road, which leads me to an intersection not so far from Area Asia. I suddenly nd myself lost in a labyrinth of small streets and turn left and right a bit randomly while the radio plays Asian punk-rock music. Surprisingly, the scenario around me has totally changed. What my eyes see now is a group of barefooted children running on a rather dirty street, an old woman begging for money, and a middle-aged man selling food by the roadside. Based on the clothes they wear, I can assume that these people are not wealthy. They do not look happy either. The smell of the drainage canals is pungent and well perceptible inside my car. There are no tourists or al fresco outlets here, only visible signs of poverty and misery. I instinctively reverse the car and drive back to Area Asia to enjoy a beer with other tourists and locals.
