Odessa

Odessa is a state of mind. Crossroad of 
civilizations.... Turkish coffee and hookahs...
Mahjong and chess  played by ancient men
with time left and nothing  better to do...
harbor hoots and toots of barges and fog
horns...you can see laborers with their
burdens  from the cafe table...women in
dresses, saris, jodhpurs...men in long robes,
leather coats and fedoras, linen suits and
Panama hats...nobody taking anything for
granted...you're here, but you want to be
somewhere else...catch 22...mystery 

because the streets aren't laid out in a grid...

you never know what's going to be around the 

corner...a tuval throat singer, a snake charmer, 

a boy that promises he can get you anything

you want, women with baskets on their heads, 

the whole scene out of place and time, as if 

someone took a sample  from everywhere and 

every era and put them here just to see what 

would happen.

It's a rave without the music and drugs...people 

grooving without a grid, a template, a uniformity 

to judge yourself against.. a whiff of Burning Man 

that's been going on for thousands of years...
every generation has to rediscover the truth, even
if it means reading a book... that's why oral
traditions were/are still the best way to transmit
knowledge and wisdom: because oral traditions
are able to communicate not merely concepts,
but actual experience. So, in Odessa, you're not
just looking at a Matrix inhabited by simulacra of
habitual patterns, but, rather, awake beings
navigating a living stew of creativity and change.
No artificial flavoring. It's good because it's real,
even if it's a little screwy...it's got a beat; you can
dance to it. 

The fishermen are bringing in their catch...a 
man wheels a cart full of pots and pans down
the street, tinkling and clattering its own
ambience...a mandolin player comes by, does
a few numbers, gets a few coins....grandpa comes
into the cafe with his grandson...the boy is wearing
lederhosen, carries a pop gun....they're both
smiling... the proprietor brings them drinks...must
be their usuals...looks like grandpa has expresso,
the boy sarsaparilla...a policeman and two  men
wearing fezzes come in, look around seriously,
and leave...I order another aperitif. The afternoon
feels as if it will go on forever.