by Ray Jason
When
the world weighs heavily upon me, I find comfort in a modest little
cafe that overlooks an even more modest little park, here in the
Archipelago of Bliss. Many people would probably describe it as a
run-down, dilapidated park. But I love it because it is a refuge
from the frenzy and artificiality of El Norte.
It
is full of authentic, ordinary people chatting with friends while
their kids play on the swings and sliding boards. They are keeping
an eye on their children, but they are not hovering over them like
Smother-copters.
Scattered
on the perimeter are benches where Indios from the out islands sell
produce that they grow on their little homesteads. The police do not
move them along and code enforcement does not ask for their licenses.
These officials realize that non-First World folks are smart enough
to know how to clean their own vegetables, and that they don’t need
the government to sanitize them.
Every
once in a while someone brings a box of baby chickens to sell. The
Indio kids are ecstatic
