Friday, May 09, 2014

Feral Hippies

This sort of self-reliant self-employment was employed at various places on the island. And of course, since the weather was always warm and pleasant, there were also the Feral Hippies.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Darque was telling about letting some Feral Hippies stay in the back field of the property for the winter while they figured out what to do with it.

“What is a Feral Hippy?”

“Makes perfect sense to me,” said the Artist.

The entire concept was foreign to me.

“What is a Feral Hippy?” I asked again.

“Well, it’s kind of a hippy that has gone to seed. They have gone completely wild here, uncaged, free to be and do whatever they want.”

The explanation was difficult for me to follow at first, but then it started to make more sense. In a land of sunshine with hardly any rain, where food grew so easily that you could actually make money by keeping food from destroying property, where there was sand and beaches to sleep on, few dangerous predators, and not much need for cash if you didn’t spend to excess, it would be very easy to go to seed here.

“Feral hippy.” I rolled the concept around on my brain until we finally packed up to go to lunch. The car poured down the coast where waves lapped against the shore, the wind blowing, and riding on it a thousand colorful windsurfers on the water. The air was moist and humid, with mountains ringed with circles of fog and clouds in the distance. Everything smelled fresh and clean, and vibrant there; it was impossible to ignore the pleasantness all around. My hand slipped into the Artist's and we smiled and talked as we drove toward the town.

Darque took us on a quick tour before dropping us off, pointing out shops we might enjoy, giving us directions to the local wine shop (of course!), and finally leading us around to the grocery store before heading off to her class. The Artist and I worked our way back around to the Mexican place that had been pointed out for some pleasant afternoon tequila, margaritas, and fresh food. With limes.

And guacamole.

We basked resplendent and perfect in the afternoon, sitting on the balcony and watching people go by. At one point a man wearing old shorts, dreads to his knees, a grey knapsack, and a ukulele strapped to his back walked by, shaggy beard, worn sandals, and all.

“Feral Hippy! I get it now.”

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