mercado

I walk down the crowded streets filled with swerving buses, honking cars, teenage lovers on a bench, homeless men sleeping in the shade, and older woman congregating to talk. As I enter into the mercado (market) I am bombarded with color and sound - red, green, and blue tarps protect the fragrant and exotic fruits from the warm sunshine. The flowers are in full bloom and are being thrust upon me by the workers persuading me to pay $2 for the fresh batch of roses that smell so good my knees get a little weak. The reggeaton music blends with the 90s american pop blasting from opposing stereos in a decibel war; where nearby an old tired man sells parrots hopping from perch to perch. Everywhere I walk I'm surrounded by people offering me their goods and a smile comes to my face every time they call me "huera" (white girl) or "reinita" (princess/little queen). I walk slowly through this cocktail of senses drinking in the baskets of blackberries for $1, the perfect plums, the sweet oranges, the strange fruits that look like small cherries but I can't pronounce their names. The variety of chiles, red ripe tomatoes, and mountains of green limes catch my eye as my ears hear the squeaking of the tortilla machine, cranking out beautiful corn tortillas from the hand-made masa the old woman has spent all morning preparing. The cacti are being de-spined, lines form, food is weighed, people negotiate and coins are counted as mothers and grandmothers alike rush home with their treasures to feed their families.

(not my picture)

Just another day in the mercado.