First world country.

Walking to the bus stop near my house, passing young oranges and lemons blowing softly in the slight breeze.
The old Mizrachi man who walks through the hood everyday and calls out in deep gutteral Hebrew is there, like clockwork, walking by me.
And, waiting by the bus stop, I look across the street to see a middle-age Arab man atop a… donkey. He’s smiling and looking ahead, and nothing could be happier.

Whadya got: