Two restaurants with featured performers, the Andean trio, no fewer than three mariachi bands, it’s Thursday night on the zocalo.
A woman with a hula hoop and a green skirt exercises in front of us for change and applause. A man with one leg and no voice makes gestures to show he wants coins, but I think he wants a chair. Children sell sweets and jewelry while women offer tablecloths (telling me what it is, “for the table,” knowing I need the help) and shawls (which, in my book, might also be table cloths, or vice versa).
A hot dog vendor asks if he can accompany me on one of my walks one night, and i think the date I really wanted was with the little businessman, but he is busy frolicking in the bushes, chasing Julio, and Cecilia is with two other girls.
After an hour or so, I head back up the street to find a man painted red. A performance artist, he has a soet of a tail of butcher paper, some fabric for another part of the show, and a paper mache thinking cap. I hear him explain that there’s a hole at the top for all of the good ideas to get through as a man interviews him about his art.
It’s amazing that despite this afternoon’s wind and rain, the show is back on. And I get to be here, soaking it all in.