culture.jpgThe internet cafe I habituate plays pop music.  I’ve developed a tolerance, but recent ear infections made it imprudent to muffle the volume of pain with spitwads.

So I was forced to move to a more expensive cafe today.  This place plays music.  Pop is an arrangement of notes designed to invoke emotions that adult humans don’t actually posess.  Half of the “tunes” at the evil cafe are marches – you could never dance to them but the same arrangements sung to Maoist jingo’s played to 50,000 goose-stepping-wanna-fit-in-and-get-a-piece-of-the-pie-proto-humans could make a swell MTV video. 

At this cafe I can eat of culture, of the shared human experience of creating art.  Not consuming art.  Creating and sharing it.  The kind of music you could hear at your local bistro, from the talented neighbour and his buddies.  Actual music.  And ecclectic – not ecclectic like your interior designor reccomended, but like you had any sense of quality and style that didn’t depend on popularity.

Travelling as an expat forces you into other people’s dreams.  You live inside their broader culture and especially within the realities of sub-cultures.  Lower class folks and village people get laughed at for ignorance, because they are.  City folks laugh at hicks for good reason.  And yet, as a city folk, I choose to date naive girl-women.  The reasons are too obvious to elucidate, but for the less imaginative: I have higher social value in that crowd and so can get a woman of greater appeal for what appeals to a man, and I can find a woman more pliable to social conditioning for a mutually beneficial love affair; with her social climbing motives already met, we can get down to the good stuff of making each other happy in the ways we want.