Bit by bit we back off to a more human speed and leave the interstate.

"Where are we?" I inquire.

"She lives in Koreatown."

My head hums from endeavoring to take a gander without a moment's delay. There are brilliantly lit signs and announcements composed just in Korean. Since I can't read the dialect, the signs appear like workmanship pieces with lovely, secretive structures. Obviously, they presumably simply say things as ordinary as Restaurant or Pharmacy or Open 24 Hours.