Where Time Has No Meaning

I’d like to live in a place where time has no meaning; where “mañana” doesn’t necessarily mean tomorrow; where the noise of traffic and the cries of the vendors keep you alert and the crowd, the hassle keeps you on your toes.

I’d like to live in a place where buying a colorful blanket is a prolonged act of bargaining, a back and forth, a negotiation; where the overwhelming smell of the market varies in each section, depending on the products offered, a place where you know where the nearest public toilets are, because of the pungent smell the wind carried from around the corner.

I’d like to live in a place where super glue seems to be the solution to all your problems, considering the number of travelling salesmen selling it. A place where things are fixed and not thrown out and replaced so easily.

I yearn for a home where you can try the fruit before buying it and where the friendly smile is part of the deal. A place where papaya doesn’t taste like cardboard and where every other fruit stand holds a surprise: an exotic fruit, like the cream-filled cherimoya or the inconspicuous “ice-cream bean”. A place where you can go hiking in a rainforest in the midst of banana and mango trees and where you can get a delicious home cooked meal at every food cart in the street.

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