There was very little to see or do in the city for an outsider. There were ten streets, arranged in straight lines but overlapping at unpredictable angles, like uncooked spaghetti thrown on the floor. Or pick-up-sticks, a woman in a bar told you once. That was one of the two things to do. Not pick-up-sticks, no one played that any more. By decree, I think. You asked. No one would tell you why. No, there were two things to do: walk around and get poked with judging stares from the men and women sitting on their little stools outside their houses; and have shallow conversations with local drinkers in any of the bars that adorned every corner of the chaotic spider’s web, with the hope that one of them would finally let slip the password so you can finally find out what’s underground.