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Third World. Must we identify countries by political orientation? Wealthy nations divide the world into two, then profit on the margins. Here in Chile, I ponder this division. The road from Santiago to Valparaiso is not so different than the New Jersey Turnpike, tolls every so often, cars in a hurry to get so far. The price of food my not par to New York City or Los Angeles, but on the middle-class budget, Santiago is no escape from the United States dollar. Dining here is like ordering an overpriced appetizer in a sleepy little town, just because you are a little bit richer.

The Chilean peso is not so behind its first world compadres; nor is the infrastructure. As the corporate takeover begins, the beaches have capitalized on the roaming wealth of the privileged. Echoing Panama, precious stretches of sand have been corralled into a Mini Miami. The skyline of Santiago brings life to the steel giants of capitalism, intimidating the locals into worshiping their new God. While the joints here ache, the bones are strong. This is the world we live in, so it must be.

Alas, the label of Third World has been bestowed upon Chile. This is what they get for not picking a side during the Cold War. Western society has claimed the First World, labeling the communists as second rate. All others are Third. We sit in golden handcuffs and are thankful we were not born here. Oh, so wrong. The biggest and baddest banks do not live here, but neither does the cold shoulder of the materialistic man. Here, locals show love to the faces of the world. Tight rope walkers perform between red lights. Vibrant murals reflect the optimism and unity of the community. There is room for kindness and individualism here. Is this not what makes society beautiful? The money mongers have power by the nuts, and yet they dream of escaping the vortex, to faraway beaches.

Yet they have the agency to do so. And to do anything. In Valparaiso I am having fresh seafood for lunch, served in a wooden boat. What a riot. This is because we have US dollars. Global power. I could buy anything. A car. A liver. So what? Now I am happy. Then I go home and face the reality of life. What shall I do for more of this power? Sorry, money. Whatever you want to call it. The fruit I buy is poisoned, water the same. Or maybe not. Communist propaganda. Fascist control. You can never tell. All this is nice, but I am told I must think about my future. What? That is okay, no need. I don’t believe in such nonsense. I am going to the beach now, to drink more and to live in the world I wish I resided. We need to escape. That can be work, a book, a stiff drink. Or simply a new country. I continue to run from the dark cloud overhead, the pressure in pursuit. Wish me the best, as I do to you.