Chris Gassner | April 27, 2026 |
You walk in, still a bit naive, thinking: just a little stroll, some fresh air, maybe watch a few people. Two minutes later you realize: this is not a park. This is a place where everyone has clearly decided to do something at the exact same time, and nobody bothered to check with anyone else. And now you’re right in the middle of it, whether you like it or not.
The heat is still sitting there. The air doesn’t move. Thick, heavy, almost solid, like you’d have to push your way through it. It’s just there. And you quickly realize it doesn’t take long before the sweat starts making its own plans, and those plans don’t stop at your back.
So you stay. Not entirely by choice. You look around, and then your eyes land straight ahead.
Right in front of you: Tai Chi.
A group of older people moving as if every single motion had to be approved first. Slow. Not “I’ve got time” slow, but “time waits for me” slow. And then you see it: these arm movements. Careful, elegant sweeps, as if they were gently… brushing something out of the air. A mosquito maybe. Or a whole swarm of flies. But respectfully. Like: please move somewhere else, we’re not here to hurt anyone.
One arm forward, a polite escort for an imaginary fly.
A step to the side, two more are gently guided out.
A turn, now the whole swarm is being redirected.
And all of it at a speed where real flies would already be gone, complaining in the next park about how stressful it was here, or starting a family somewhere else.
And while this silent, diplomatic insect negotiation is going on, you turn your head, and get pushed straight into the next reality.
The grill guy.
He just stands there and works. Ten skewers on the grill at once. One almost falls, gets flipped mid-drop, another goes out to a customer while two more are already getting too dark. Hands everywhere. No pause. Oil hisses, fat drips, smoke rises, something cracks briefly, and he just keeps going.
In front of you, a fly is being slowly dismissed.
Right next to it, ten skewers are being saved at the same time.
Yin and Yang, just a little different from how you imagined it.
And just when you think the contrast can’t get any stronger, you hear it.
A soft buzzing sound.
You look up. A drone. It drops off fries and a bubble tea, and it’s gone again. Nobody finds this remarkable.
No one really looks. No applause. No surprise.
Of course there’s a drone. What else.
And while you’re still trying to process all of this, the next thing hits you.
The sound.
Not loud. Not quiet. More like everything is switched on at the same time and nobody bothered to turn anything off. Cards clacking on wood, music somewhere in the background, slightly distorted, children laughing, running, shouting, metal hitting metal, oil hissing. Someone calls out an order, someone half answers, someone else not at all.
And then, suddenly, a flame shoots up.
Not a small kitchen flare. A real one. The kind that makes you instinctively take half a step back.
And there he is.
Cigarette in the corner of his mouth, wok in hand. He tilts it, flips it, tosses everything up once, catches it again without really looking. The flame comes back, briefly, like it booked a second appearance. He doesn’t react. He just keeps going. For him, it’s not an effect. It’s part of the process.
One burst of fire, one quick toss, and on it goes.
And around you, everything continues at the same time. Nothing gets quieter, nothing pauses, nothing waits. You stand there, hearing everything at once, and at some point you realize: this is exactly how it’s supposed to be.
And then you see them.
The card players.
Men sitting there as if something important is at stake. Not loud, not dramatic, but focused. Cards are placed, examined, commented on. That mix of calm and total seriousness you usually only see in very old, well-practiced rituals.
Next to them, a group is dancing. The same movements, the same music, over and over again, and yet it doesn’t feel repetitive. It feels… right.
And then the kids.
They don’t arrive. They’re just suddenly there. One moment there’s space, the next there isn’t. In their hands, these little propellers. One pull, and the thing shoots up, disappears for a second, and lands exactly where it’s least convenient.
And then it starts.
Running. No warning. No plan. Just after it. And here’s the interesting part: they don’t go around. They take the direct route. Straight through. Through Tai Chi, through dance groups, through everything that moves, or doesn’t move. As if that’s exactly how it’s meant to be.
And you keep waiting for someone to say: hey, stop.
Doesn’t happen.
A boy cuts straight through the Tai Chi group at the exact moment someone is in the middle of an especially elegant “fly dismissal.” And nothing happens. The movement continues. The boy keeps going.
No one gets annoyed. No one steps in.
It’s just accepted.
And at some point, you understand: this isn’t chaos.
It’s a system that works without visible rules, because everyone adjusts just enough without making a big deal out of it. Half a step to the side, a slight change of angle, and suddenly everything fits again.
And while you’re standing there with your lamb skewer, slightly sweaty, slightly overwhelmed, you notice that outside the park, the next scenes are already waiting.
Self-driving taxis.
They stand there like normal cars, just without the part that used to be called a driver. Doors open, people get in, they leave. No big deal. Just everyday life.
Inside: Tai Chi. Outside: autonomous driving.
Here: waving flies away. There: artificial intelligence.
And everything at once.
Complete madness, really.
But it works.
And that’s the point where you stop asking if it makes sense. It doesn’t. It just is.
One last look: a woman slowly raises her arm and escorts another imaginary fly into the afterlife, the grill guy is still fighting his ten skewers, a drone disappears into the night, a kid launches the next propeller, cards clack on wood.
And you’re standing there, no longer thinking: what is this.
But rather: interesting. I can’t even organize my own weekend.
Chris Gassner
April 27, 2026