A SMALL SURVEY
It starts with a triangle of grass.
Between two apartment blocks, under a banyan throwing its one good patch of shade, there is a bench, maybe a swing, and — without fail — a slide. Sun-bleached red, sometimes shaped like a dragon's tongue, sometimes just a plain steel curve gone warm by ten in the morning. Okinawa doesn't seem to build its parks so much as plant them, and every one grows a slide the way it grows a Shisa lion by the gate.
I started keeping notes on this, half serious, on a walk that turned into an island-wide habit. Big parks with real jungle gyms, roadside parks the size of a parking spot, parks that were really just shade and a swing — the slide was the one thing that never once went missing.
Maybe it's a building code. Maybe it's just what a park means here — heat, salt air, and somewhere for a kid to go down fast. Either way, I stopped being surprised and started just looking forward to finding it.