Dancing Through the Market
It’s Sunday and I stand amidst the vegetable sellers in Mercado Grau. I’m sleepy after a late night of karaoke- una noche divertida spent celebrating a friend’s birthday. I’m a bit thirsty, my worn Nalgene water bottle at the bottom of my bag hidden beneath a bag of choclo , too inconvenient to take the time to dig for. We’ve arrived late, the trucks that bring in produce from the chacras are gone by now and the press of people is refreshingly light; I can even feel a breeze coming in through one of the main entrances. It must be the sound that catches my attention first, deafening and vibrant and unfamiliar amidst the mercado’s normal hubbub. Bright red, voluminous skirts and small, elegant bowler hats. A statue. A brass band. I’m not sure why a procession is passing through this market, although someone will later tell me it is because of pentecostés . Cat and I buy our potatoes, yelling to our casera over the volume of trumpets and trombones and clashing cymbals. It’s pointl...