A visitor's colours immediately wakes
up a sleepy Sunday. His floral Hawaiian
shirt forecasts the day's elements.
Sea breeze. Sunshine. At the San Telmo
market, a riot of senses hurtles us
into the ancient intricacies of bazaars
and souks. Elfin figurines rest easy
on neat glass shelves as waiters scurry
past touristy patrons addicted to
the scent of smoked chorizo rising
through the sky-high ceiling. We follow
our stylish friend in absorbing the smells,
the sounds, this sudden brushing of bodies.
After two unending years of isolation,
this takes some adjustment.
It's not too long before the day seizes
us. With antique cups, wall art, crafted
leather belts, dulce de leche. We
surrender, as if under hypnosis, to this
bustling deity. With their bouncy leaps,
shiny tango dancers help us remain
faithful. Our friend, a memory conjurer
shows us what significant fortunes can be
found by perambulating in an old market.
Bonhomie. Fresh pesto. Ice cream tub to share.
The anti-insomnia soreness of tired limbs.
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