~o:> Another Day at the Market

Here you see my nearly life-long friend Katherine the Gorgeous, who is now the Farmer’s Market police.  “Hmmm.  Do I see you on the list here of subscribed vendors?  Oh.  Street Musician.  Do we give out space numbers for that?”

And when she got through with him, he had to face G, the Universal Guitar Police: “Hmmm.  Is this in tune?  Can you play ‘Stairway to Heaven’ on it?  No?  Well, we’ll give you till next week to come up to snuff.”

Mostly, I just followed Chaz and Rachel around, taking pictures of them going wild.  Here we are at the booth of our own personal glass blowers and lamp workers.  Note that Rachel is wearing a sarong.  This is not unusual for her.  It would be unusual for me.

Personal Lamp Worker: Noah Coleman

I didn’t mention that while I was following Rachel and Chaz, G was following me.  Until I turned around and realized that I had lost him.  G does not spend money.  Until lightning hits.  Which it evidently did in front of this booth. A bunch of African students got together to sell these cloths.  And I liked the cloths; I really did – the colors are really nice.  I just didn’t understand why G was motivated to buy one.  And then Rachel came along.  She evidently understood more than G himself did.  See how solemnly she hands over her money?

While Chaz and I wandered off to listen to this violin.  Oh, this violin.  He was playing something classical, but when I said something about fiddle, dropped dead down into a perfect Irish reel.  This is where I solemnly left MY money.

But where was Rachel?  Back at the ranch, evidently, where the students (rejoicing that we had bought two cloths?) had broken out their instruments  – the very “African drums” stuffy adults used to huff about in the sixties.  (“That rock music is nothing but african drums!!!”)  I took it on faith that this castigation must actually mean something – until a couple of years went by and I realized that – hey, I really LIKE African drums.  At which point I folded up the sixties and put them in a drawer  (deep in the attic).

What you are seeing in the background is one of the boys trying to explain to Rachel how to wear what she’d just purchased.  Suggesting that she maybe try the thing on.  Little did he know that American women think wearing a sarong somehow counts as wearing jeans in that you are nicely, safely covered.  So you can’t just take the thing off and try on another one in the middle of a city park.

How did it end?  With Chaz and I and a couple of extra cloths playing the part of dressing room walls, that’s how.  Cheeky girl, that Rachel.

The result.

At yet another African booth.  At which I bought something totally charming, which will belong to someone special very soon.  If I can pry it out of my grasping little fingers.  If you look very closely, and you are the person it is meant for, you’ll see the very thing. Hint: someone pretty darn far away , smack in the middle of the continent.

And then the Native American booth we love.

And then we had to buy some tiny plants from a red-haired, pint-sized herbalist.

After which, we adjourned to share otter pops.

And strudels.

We were chased by wild children.

And staged races for two-year-olds.  What?  They do it with horses.

Jump ahead two weeks, and Chels is with us.

Rachel, who actually HAS worn other things in the interim.

I was enlisted to take portraits (not so easy in the broad, bright, glaring afternoon light).  She has adopted the cause (students wishing to be able to buy food while at University – ah, I remember it well), and now considers herself a walking billboard for them.

More instruction.  I actually tried doing this today with our as yet un-used cloth.  I should have watched closer.

Actually, I remember now – the first week we hit the fair, these guys were performing on the green – drums and dancing.  And I danced like the perfect idiot I am, on the sidewalk, watching them.  Middle class American culture is SO STODGY.

So, here they are, drumming up business.  No pun intended (wanna buy a bridge?).

Oh!  Whoops!  What stodgy, middle aged American might THIS be?  And if I looked half as good as she does in that Kikoy, I’d have been right up there with her.  But then, how would you know it had happened?  You aren’t allowed to take self-portraits while you are dancing – OCEA has some regulation about it.  Dancing and trotting horses – no cameras allowed.

“We think you are actually African,” one of them has actually said to her.  Well, surprise, surprise, perhaps there is more to the American heart than some people realize.