these are the people in your neighborhood
Sunday morning, nothing to do. Strap on the sneakers, don the cap (skin cancer, not so much. Does much to hide my newly glowing crown of RED hair, too), and start a'walkin'. Down to Little Italy I go, making mental notes of places to visit once the owners get there (not everyone has this kind of time on a Sunday morning, it seems), and searching to see if maybe, just maybe there is a local place that serves banana smoothies. I had to settle for a spiced chai latte. Strangely, only once the festive "Buon Natale" banners faded to plain tarnished lamp posts did I start to get the uneasy feeling from redolent memories of family car trips to downtown San Diego, hearing my mom's command to "lock the doors." It may have only been for the fact that a police car slowly pulled up next to me, smiling officer inquiring as to whether I had seen a black man running down the street. No, officer, I had only encountered an elderly screaming white man yielding a golf club.