I just finished eating my breakfast the other day when I noticed a sign outside the restaurant. It pointed to Golden Friendship Park. I remarked to my companion that I didn't know that the park was called that even though I had already lived almost four years in the city. He said he'd show me why the park carried such a name.
He took me for a walk and pointed at the park benches. Nearly each bench was occupied by a homeless individual. "The park is just like a friend's home," he began. "You can't sleep on someone else's furniture if it didn't belong to your best friend."
He then directed my attention to a makeshift donut shop at the center of the park where street kids, who seemed like they could each down a calf, milled around for yesterday's donuts to be handed out. "Who but a friend would allow such sponsored treats in the morning?"
"In the evening," he continued. "Prostitutes and intoxicated students barely out of their teen years take their turn at other park amusements. No one but a tolerant friend would allow such liberal abuse of his property."
I couldn't help but agree that the park had been aptly named.