|Street market stalls laden with goods|
on the footpath behind me
Loud. Insistent. Demanding.
I turn, maintain momentum, keep pace:
“You seem to be in a hurry. Must be a local!”
A laugh and wide grin, “How did you guess?”
I gesture to the tourist busses, densely packed groups, alfresco diners and coffee sippers, deeply relaxed and at ease.
Muslim women, tightly scarfed, giggle together;
|Cheery red poinsettias.|
Asian groups of mixed ages and genders, umbrellas angled against the sun, wide brimmed hats pulled low over black hair and tied with bows under chins, ponder whether to try the local Japanese restaurant for lunch – their body language is clear.
No, they’re not local, but they are welcome …
or are they?
I was once lost for words when a friend said “I didn’t know we got that type of person down here” when she saw a group of traditionally dressed Moslem women.
As I watch cars inching down the crowded street, sporting jaunty antlers and red noses under the searing sun, I wonder sadly if that sentiment remains.
Isn’t there enough room for us all?
|The Town Crier decked with tinsel making a Christmas announcement.|
|I cringe at the addition of a Santa hat|