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I never thought that I grew up in a bad neighborhood. I scurried to the
kindergarten and school every day right past by the overturned merry-go-rounds
and slides that ended right into the puddle. I hung
out at those broken playgrounds as a kid and as a teen as well. By the entrance
to our house we had a bench constantly occupied by local grandmas. They knew
everything about everyone and would loudly tell each passerby what kind of moral
stamp had already been imposed on him. Some of those old ladies hid weird
tattoos on their arms and distilled moonshine straight in their own bathrooms
to sell it later to the neighbors. Local parents usually gathered in the arbor
in the middle of the yard and drank cheap beer in the evening while their kids
ran around. I always preferred to avoid that part of
the courtyard to escape the avalanche of violent swearing coming out of their
mouths.
