Imagine the scene:

Walking down a crowded street somewhere in Asia. We are veritably assaulted by all of our senses at once. Things look different here. They sound different, taste different smell different, feel different. Things are different in every way. The only constant, in fact, is the total lack of constancy.

But then, what is that? Off in the distance? A jangling tune, long remembered: the ice cream man! Oh happy day that the ice-cream man would have penetrated the depths of Asian culture. A symbol worthy of export.

We walk faster, excited to find the source of so much happiness. The jingle grows louder as we turn a corner. There! A mass of people are crowded around a vehicle of some sort, the source of the wonderful sounds. The vehicle is different from that of the U.S. Bigger. More yellow; but I will not begrudge them their obvious progress.

We come ever nearer, almost giddy now. People rush past us holding large bags. How they must love their ice-cream we think!

People rush forward with large bags and hand them to the ice-cream man who promptly turns around and throws them happily into the back of the garbage truck.

The garbage truck!

My childhood happiness has been appended to a garbage truck. I weep.