Yesterday was el Día de Trabajo, the Guatemalan equivalent of Labor Day, and so I had an unexpected day to myself. I stayed in bed, reading a rather-too-admiring biography of Hugo Chavez and working on cards for my kids. When I finally rose, I tackled the daunting task of a dry-run of packing, to see if it will even be feasible to get everything home. After having established that yes, it would just barely be feasible, I decided clearly the challenge had been too small and what I needed to do was go to the Mercado de Artesanías and up the ante.
First quest: get the glorious leather bag, the platonic form of purses, that my mom passed down to me fixed up. Its strap had finally buckled after 30-plus years of honorable service, unstitching around the bit that held it to the bag. So I wandered into the bowels of the market. Finding the shoes, I asked around, got misdirected, asked more, until an only-slightly-sleazy knight in shining footwear whisked me off deeper among the groves of clothing and hillocks of shoes. He deposited me in front of a small counter in front of a cavern full of old fashioned shoe molds, yellow leather sandals, an old fashioned pedal-pump sewing machine, smells of glue and leather, and Miguel Angel. Miguel Angel was to be the hero of the day. He stitched the bits, fixed the zipper, refastened the edges, and made a zipstop to keep the zipper from breaking again, and charged me 10 quetzales (less than two dollars), all while verbally abusing the claimants on a court show on his small TV about a mexican girl who'd convinced her boyfriend to fund her joining him in the U.S., then left him for a guy she'd met on the internet before leaving. Then he undertook to convince me to stay in Guatemala forever.
After leaving his side, I rambled through as-yet-unexplored sectors of the market: the nylon rope sector, the garlic onion and dogfood sector, the flowers and candles sector. And then across the way to the artesanías market, where I proceeded to laugh and bargain with the women for a good hour. I think I could happily live in marketplaces. I would just have to climb up among the beams from time to time and look down on it all, or carve out a space among the empty stalls to reflect now and again.
And speaking of the market, remember the herb lady from months and months ago? Her daughter (I think) has taken a shine to me, and every time I go by we talk about cooking and she tells me how to use herbs. This last time she suggested grinding parsley, cilantro and thyme to make a marinade for turkey. I wonder if it would work as well on tofu. Hmmm...
So yes. Life unfolds around and among the rusting forms of legislation. Today after I pick up a new volunteer at the airport (for the last time... YES) I get to go the quinceañera of Blanca, one of my students in Santa Maria. Things are okay. Really rather good. Here's to that.
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