Driving through Hamilton Hill, my eye takes in so much variety and nuanced snapshots.

Today, for instance, I saw a raid and watched a man put his hands up and cops pat him down. All in total silence, like an old time silent movie. One of the police officers was a woman, a tiny wee thing, but still all business and tough as cheap steak. I happen to know this woman, not well, but well enough, and she is knowledgeable and easy and fun to talk to.

I drove by this still life, and the sun was shining, and across the street, some children were playing on a large water slide. People walked to and fro and about their business, so used to this kind of drama in their lives. Mr Ding-a-Ling was present and even he was doing a brisk trade in ice cream products.

Just a block away, an older man was standing on the side of a terraced and fenced-in hill, bending over to tend to his vines and vegetables. He was bald and wearing shorts and was stocky, and you could have believed you were touring Tuscany, that he was a local farmer who would show up later at the local taverna to hoist a few with his friends.

Just for a minute, I remembered my grandfather, his house on Bridge Street and his garden of roses and all his vegetables at the back of the yard. My mouth filled with the exquisite taste of a tomato at its height of ripeness, still warm from the sun as I plucked it off the vine and popped it greedily in my mouth.

Driving up Albany Street from the county jail, you will pass a small groceria that specializes in Halel meats. There is a large van parked on the street, a moving, though stationary, billboard to all the epicurean delights served inside. Plastered across the whole windshield is a large handmade sign which reads "Dutch Masters sold here only $.79."

Hmm, I hope you all know that this is not to promote cigar smoking, which was quite an upper class fad a few years ago, but something darker and more primal and definitely illegal.

Then there was the walking tour, actually led by a guide with a mini-megaphone. He pointed at Quest as he went by and then at the Smith house (a rehab facility), always talking and gesturing, and his small group of white followers (about 15 in all) were actually taking pictures. It was truly reminiscent of the Magic Kingdom at Disneyland. We were the exhibits on view to be looked at and scrutinized. Frankly, we all stopped what we were doing, and everyone stared at each other in a perfect stop action shot, then continued on with our life.

My vote for the best things of this day would be the head scarves. One of my dear friends died this past winter. And this morning I and three Questors went to her home to pick up some things her husband wanted to donate. The house itself is a treasure, a geodesic dome on the top of a small mountain with a long private road winding up through the trees to the very top.

I brought my personal assistant and her two young children with me, and we all stood overcome by the majesty of the moment in a small clearing in the sun and basked in the glory of that spot. Then Carl invited us in and very gravely shook hands with everyone and gave us a personal tour, including a four-story excursion to the top of the tower, where we arrived at a large, railed deck and just looked and looked and felt the wind and the freedom in the air. Even the children were silent.

Among the things he gave us was a small box holding 15 silk scarves. Later, back at Quest, we opened this box, and girls and women appeared from all directions to lay claim to these treasures. And then wore them in various ways around their heads and necks, and in less than 10 minutes I was surrounded by a bevy of butterflies, glowing in the late afternoon sunlight, all of them chattering and smiling and shushing their children.

I felt as if I were in an exotic eastern village or maybe a small town in Africa. And I was reminded of the foolishness of our local disrespect of cultural differences. How many places would not allow these wonderful creatures access to their buildings just because they were wearing headscarves?

And I thought of my beloved friend Gail and how she refused to wear a wig when her hair fell out, but instead chose to wear these scarves like bright shining nimbuses around her gaunt but serene face. How she would have smiled at the irony.

Headscarves as a sign of courage for those with cancer and headscarves as a sign of disgrace for those who were born to wear them. I like to think of her looking down and saying "You go girls, this parties on me!"

And lastly there's the Buddha baby - fat and full of chuckles - who's been coming to Quest since the very first day he came home from the hospital. Passed around always from lap to lap, cossetted and crooned over by everyone he comes into contact with, there he reigns in his stroller, wearing only shorts and his ever-present tummy. Sucking on a juice-pop and covered, literally, in green slime from his melting treat.

Does he care? Is this a problem? No, we wipe him off and pass him around. And we rub his stomach for good luck, and he laughs and laughs, and we clean him up yet again and again. How lucky we are to have him if only for just a brief moment on a lovely afternoon.

And Le'asia says "Look at me" as she spins and spins in her hat of Gail's with all the roses on it. And I tell Alberto, "Look inside your hat. It comes from Ecuador. Let's go find it on the map." And really he looks just like Tom Sawyer in it, rafting down Craig Street.

Maybe it's no wonder people stop and stare, because all of us together look like a magic entity - sparkles in the air and glory rays streaming down and the music of small children laughing and playing while their moms sit and watch a dream, all on one special afternoon.