Last weekend Rachelle and I took our nearly three year-old son Jones to soccer.

He’s too young for soccer, as are all the other toddlers in the class, but it still felt like a virtuous way to spend the morning. And so all the parents sat on the picnic tables scattered about the unmowed patch of green that was the field, while rosy-cheeked Coach Nancy, all of 13 years-old, benevolently led our children through their “drills.” This, a summer job she would surely look back upon as amongst the best of her life.

Above us turrets set against an easy, deep blue, and in front of us about a dozen children either ignoring or doing some improbable variant of the stretching exercises Coach Nancy was encouraging them to follow. Jones was in the totally ignoring her camp. Putting the tiny, orange pylons on each of his arms he declared himself Iron Man, and after acting like a robot for a minute or two, carefully placed one of the pylons on my head.

And then he ran away and across the field to the perimeter where beds of stones lay waiting for his curiosity. He marvelled at them like the precious jewels they were.

He then climbed a tree. Saw a bear. Heard a plane. Did a somersault. And as he was riding a horse back across the field to the rest of the Little Kickers, he stopped very suddenly and pointed up at the sky shouting, “The moon!” And there it was, a barely visible silver edge up there in the morning sky–classical music drifting over from a nearby estate that just sort of hung there, as if a cloud, as if the most natural thing in the world.

Jones then found another bed of rocks, this one directly in front of a fenced gate. He started to throw the rocks, playing a game in which the point was to hit one of the metal bars of the fence and make a “ping” sound.

Unknown to him, a small crowd of Asian tourists walking down the street to Casa Loma had stopped and were watching him as he went about his joyful labour. When he came close, they would all lean to the side, softly exhaling an “Ooooh,” and then when he made the “ping,” they all shouted and applauded,  and Jones spun around, utterly amazed at this encouraging surprise, and so happy– happy, like this was and always would be the world.

When one of them reached up to the overhead compartment she modestly held her top down so as not to expose any flesh above her waist. She looked so very young, almost like a doll. She passed the time by watching videos, her face a shifting map of unfiltered responses, each one blossoming and becoming a kind of sunlight that illuminated her face.

The other one had short hair and the fleshy round face of a Buddha. She asked her friend to put some drops in her eyes, and one of them missed the mark, forming a tear just below her eye where it stayed unattended, as if a moment of sorrow now suspended in time. She was perfectly impassive, and as she sat there staring out the window her eyes grew heavier and heavier. Dazed and almost given to sleep, she seemed in a dimensional fog, just flickering in the limbo of this world, and capable at any moment of becoming more spirit than person and simply floating away.

I was listening to Sigur Ros on my headphones and it all felt like a movie, everything holy and beautiful, as if present only for my attention. Outside, as snow fell, farmlands, retreating forests and tiny homes sped past, more like memories than the architecture of the world. It felt profound, somehow, and then out of the camouflage and dull wash of scrub, a deer stepped from invisibility, so suddenly and magnificently manifest that it could only have been an angel.

You have to curl and curve a bit to get there, navigating the narrow, broken roads until you come upon a small, rum shack set back a bit from the road. Remote from the perspective of a tourist, it seemed that this just happened to be where Rita lived as opposed to being the result of any sort of opportunistic business stratagem.

It was early afternoon and we were the only people in the two-table place. The pair of middle-aged women we encountered seemed indifferent to our arrival, maybe even a little bit confused by it, as if we’d gotten lost, happened into their kitchen and awoken them from naps. Without being particularly eager to impress, they decided they’d cook us some lunch, moving heavy and wordless back to the kitchen.

It took a long time, and as it was a very hot and humid day, Rachelle retreated to the protection of the AC of the car. Shortly after, the rain came in relieving torrents. The chickens that had been roaming freely in front all scattered, but the Blackbelly sheep in the field across the street were completely immobilized, as if cast under a spell. It was mysterious, almost mystical for me to see them frozen like that and I was utterly transfixed. One of the women looked at me and shook her head, “Sweet Jesus, it like you never see sheep before!” she said, as she shuttered the windows and closed the doors, the scent of pot drifting in with the wind and spray.

The rain stopped before the lunch was made, and I stepped outside as the women swept the accumulated water from out of the shack. The chickens had reassembled, each cock now crowing, creating a network of communication echoing down the streets. Nearby at a sheltered picnic table, three young men sat smoking and drinking. A gentle looking Rasta called me over, curious about the off-season tourist, and the group of us chatted for 10 minutes. One of them, just a boy, was hard looking, as if already preparing for a difficult future, the other one, chilled-out and fleshy, smoked dope with lidded eyes, the tattoo Self Made inked onto his hand.

They were going to be there all day. More friends and acquaintances– buying little bottles of rum from Rita’s—would be joining them as the hours passed. None of them had ever been off the island or expressed any particular desire to do so. The Rasta, rolling a new joint, asked me, “You like Barbados? It’s paradise, eh?” but he said this hopefully, like he was looking for an outsiders reassurance rather than expressing a known certainty.

Passing a variety of irritable and dehydrated looking people, I took the dog for a short walk and popped into a local take out place to order a sandwich. It was empty and the guy working the counter looked sad and drained, like he had just been defeated in a five set tennis match. There was a large fan on the floor blowing hot air and dust all over the place, and a small AC unit in the window up by the ceiling that was chugging away. The interior temperature on the air conditioner read 91.

Me: “Hey, how’re you doing?”

Counter Guy: “I’m hot.”

Me: “ You’re doing great! You’re not covered in sweat, your breathing seems to be fine– you’re a champion!”

Counter Guy:  (Employing heavy sarcasm) Thanks for the shot in the arm, Mister Motivation! And what are you doing taking your dog out in this weather? It’s high noon, her tongue’s hanging out and she’s completely exhausted!”

Me: “ You’re projecting. My dog is fine.”

Counter Guy: “ I bet she has a different opinion on that.”

I gave him a hard look.

Me: “You don’t know what my dog thinks,” I hissed.

Counter Guy: “Right. Fine. Just tell me what you want.”

As I was talking through my options and trying to decide what to have, a family of miserable European tourists, all wearing khaki shorts and money belts, entered into the place. The two parents, both covered in sweat, had clearly been fighting and were exhausted. Their two children looked sullen and limp.

The wife, standing with her hands on her hips while her husband and two kids sat slumping on stools, immediately took charge.

Woman: (In perfect English) “I need to feed my children now. Give me something with chicken, something else with ham and two Cokes.”

Me: “I think I was here first.”

At this point the husband, speaking in some language that for some reason I took to be Danish, began to argue with his wife. This lasted for about 30 intense seconds. The woman put her hand up to shush her husband and then turned and fixed me a look.

Woman: “Look, who cares that you were here first? You were just standing there, idling.”

Me: “I was making up my mind,” I stuttered, “and anyway, it’s the rule of law here, first come, first serve, okay?”

Woman: “You’ve never had kids, have you?”

Me: “I have a dog.”

When I said this, the husband bolted upright.  Noticing Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund, sitting at my feet, he abruptly got up and pointed at me.

Man: “Dogs aren’t allowed in here, this is an eating establishment!! Your animal is dirty and bringing it in is no better than bringing in a rat. And do you ever think about other people, whether they might be allergic or scared of the creatures? No, of course not, you North Americans, you all make babies of animals, you disgust me!”

And then he gathered up his kids and stormed out of the place leaving his wife standing alone at the counter. She breathed very deeply and very slowly, and then after about five seconds she looked me square in the eyes.

Woman: “My marriage is hanging on by a goddamn thread, and you, you have not helped matters.”

And then she flicked me on the chest and hurried out after her family.

I sighed and looked up.

The AC now registered 93 degrees.