Notes from Buenos Aires: In the Ice Cream Shop

Among my many vices is yielding to temptation, which is why I found myself this morning in an ice cream shoppe, licking around the edges of a large waffle cone. A strange creature, all plumed up with feathers not of his own, entered the place.

Holding dozens of ostrich feather dusters, he pushed through the crowd, and a host of images immediately arose before my eyes: I could see the poor ostriches squealing in pain as their tail feathers were being plucked. I could see the house wife brushing her newly-purchased duster along her furniture, her shelves, her prize possessions, hoping her family would appreciate the renewed shine of things, which of course they never do. I could see this man, counting his coins at the end of the day, so he can bring a nice sum to his pregnant girlfriend, who is going to give birth to the cutest little baby, who is going to grow up to become an Argentinian animal rights activist, and despise her father for dealing with ostrich feather dusters. Most of all, I could see my ice cream, melting.