The phrase I seized upon to express the difference between the people in my own country and the people in the countries that I had been visiting was "civilizational context." Unlike the US, even when just buying a cup of coffee, it happens within a shared understanding of a certain culture, and everyone involved considers themselves moral participants in the exercise. It's not unusual to see the "rights" of the customers and employees posted near bank tellers and railroad ticket offices, specifying the whole social contract down to uniforms and break times. Of course, "right" has a different inflection in these contexts, as it is synonymous with "law," as opposed to a carve-out from the general social procedure, or a specific protection within it.
Although my country is very prosperous, it is a continental prosperity generated by some fraction of the population for a second, slightly non-coterminous fraction of the population. And there is no general claim of right, and cups of coffee are not served within the general sensibility of the civilization. And many are not included in these engines of industrial prosperity set up after the war, and the decision on inclusion or admission frequently has nothing to do with merit. No one is inherently smart or hard-working enough to think that he or she won't be set aside. The machine needs no additional genius.
Much of this has to do with the loss of religion. And its falsification beforehand.
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I listened to the live broadcasts from the beginning of the Bayreuth season this year in Belgrade. For Rheingold, I hopped on a tram (this was the first visit in which I relaxed the rule to always walk) and went to the sbux across from the parliament building, which was visible through the panoramic windows. As darkness fell and the lights came on, it made quite a scene for the completion of Valhalla.
I also recall going there after visiting the House of Flowers (now, technically the House of Small Pebbles) and reading Pynchon for a bit, and becoming conscious of the two extremes of the earnest socialist and the confabulating Westerner. Each needs the other, of course. The real danger is in attempting to avoid them both.
Would very much like to get back to that world of eight months ago or so, sleeping on a couch in a small studio across from St. Mark's and cooking on a hotplate, with a small wooden table and chair under the window, but it will take some doing. For now, when I remember these times of basic sufficiency in desirable places, I try to remember what I was angling towards there, and try to set my course to those same stars in these surroundings. Hence the days entirely at the libraries, and the nights with the e-readers until the danger of sudden sleep becomes too great, and I stow them in the bag.