There’s a guy that sits outside borders bookshop on the streets of Santa Cruz. He looks older than his years, around 60 years old but maybe around 50 years old.
His face has deep lines, his long hair is parted with a large bald spot on the top, his clothing is dirty almost but not quite like rags. His eyes are blank, looking into a void of nothingness, they rarely blink, turn or even look up.
Between his legs is a small Africa bongo drum. The guy hits the same beat daily, from morning until 11pm I have seen him there, almost in a hypnotic state.
What is really sad is he isn’t alone. I have never seen so many men of his age that appear to be brain damaged by drugs or totally out of it on drugs of some kind.
And here’s the enigma – this place is stunningly beautiful and probably the coolest, hippest, friendliest happening place I have ever been to during my global travels.
The variety of people are huge; imagine hippies, punks, cool dudes, rappers, bikers and more all in one place. Buskers of the highest degree in musician ship literally on every single corner. Magicians, smiling faces, well-to-do types, artists, poets, musicians and so much more, this place is truly a magnet for truly high quality people.
But there is this sinister side. Drugs, drop-outs
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