By Hart Van Denburg

Have you ever seen one of those New Orleans jazz bands that lead funeral processions through the Big Easy? Dancing and marching, they blow hot and cool Dixieland riffs and old slave spirituals, giving the deceased a righteous send-off.

Well, today I'm watching one of those bands. But I'm not in New Orleans, I'm in San Francisco.

There's the band, all right: a multicultural bunch in natty uniforms led by a dignified black fellow with a small drum and cymbal. And the band is blowing Amazing Grace as it marches up the street. What's different is that the band is leading a Chinese funeral procession complete with a portrait of the deceased in an open convertible. And they're marching past an Irish bar named O'Reilly's in a neighborhood seasoned with Italian names on storefronts and restaurants. The Japanese tourists surrounding me complete this case of cultural whiplash.

Welcome to the regular Green Street Mortuary funeral procession, here on the border between North Beach and Chinatown in San Francisco.

I'm not sure why, but the Green Street routine is the favored method of dispatching the dead from among nearby Chinatown locals. People who know more than I do (and they are legion) say that the procession snakes through the streets and passes under the windows of the deceased person's home. At that moment someone inside opens the windows to release the dead person's spirits. It's a wonderful tradition, but I wonder what happens if the window sticks. Does the spirit have to take a rain check?

The real point here is enjoying that cultural whiplash. I particularly like it in San Francisco, especially where North Beach rubs shoulders with Chinatown on Columbus Avenue.

North Beach is not, in fact, a beach. It was once, but landfill projects moved San Francisco's waterfront northward to the Embarcadero back between the World Wars. Some 60,000 Italians settled the North Beach neighborhood between Russian Hill and Telegraph Hill in the 1940s. By the late 1950s its cafes and restaurants became the favored haunts of the Beats, a raffish crowd of bohemian philosophers and writers intent on standing Post-War American culture on its ear.

The Beats embraced North Beach, waking up to espresso and opera at places like Caffe Trieste on Kearny, trading prose and philosophy at City Lights Bookstore on Columbus. Later they also became a weird attraction on everyone's anachronism tour, glaring like caged zoo animals at the busloads of tourists invading their turf, snapping photos and buying postcards. "Look dear," you can imagine Maude from Des Moines saying, "there's a Beatnik. How quaint."

North Beach started to deteriorate in the 70s, gaining as much of a reputation for its Broadway strip joints as its cafes after the Italians started taking off for the 'burbs.

Things have turned around, though. Legendary lived-in restaurants like Enrico's have been reborn. Trendy new eateries like Bix are hauling in aging yuppies and young dot-commers dining on incentive stock options. Small, scruffy, never-say-die landmarks like Trieste are going gangbusters. And Molinari's deli, on Columbus, still does a killer coppa sandwich on Italian bread spiced with tangy sun-dried tomatoes.

Now Chinatown, bursting with vigor, pushes its way north over Columbus. Its gritty side streets and earthy ambience aside, it's one of the most affluent commercial districts in the city; an enclave created after Chinese immigrants started arriving in Northern California in the late 1840s. Fleeing the Opium Wars at home, seeking riches in the Gold Rush and building the transcontinental railroad in the 1870s, the Chinese had sought out the American dream. What they often got in return was torment and disrespect from Anglos, so they came together in Chinatown, forming an enclave safe from racism, and a place where their customs and languages could survive. Chinatown grew to close to 160,000 residents after Uncle Sam eased immigration laws in the 1960s. Since then, Asians of all stripes have taken up residence there.

The Oriental influence is strong. I walked through the heart of Chinatown - Stockton Street from Columbus to Union Square -- one weekday morning and never heard one word of English spoken. But the culture blends with the outside world the closer it gets to Columbus. At Yuet Lee, at Stockton on Broadway, I've ordered fresh clams simmered with black beans spiced with jalapeno peppers in soy - traces of California, Mexico, Central America and China, all on one plate.

The flavor melts from miso to marinara along Columbus.

Down Columbus at Union is Mario's Bohemian Cigar Store. It's right across from Washington Park, where Chinatown residents practice early morning Tai Chi and Italian guys from the old country sun themselves in shirtsleeves. Everybody knows the dope on Mario's: the best homemade focaccia sandwiches in the city. I watched it being served to a table packed with French artsy types in black sweaters while East London Ska pounded out the rhythm for goateed neo-Beats behind the counter. I took all this in as an Indian working girl sat next to me and ordered espresso.

Is the United States really a cultural melting pot? I say it's a cultural barroom brawl. That's why I think it's worth noting that, generally, these people and their cultures in North Beach have found a way to get along. Maybe there's some tension. Maybe there's some violence. Hell, maybe it's just a truce. But the tension makes for creative collaboration and a fascinating destination for a traveler. So go ahead, catch the cultural whiplash. Grab a window seat and sip an espresso at the Trieste. Maybe a Chinese funeral procession will pass your way, led by a New Orleans jazz band blowing Amazing Grace.