im not mad at least not anymore. would like to be your friend to if you still want to : )

In a bustling market, the senses come alive in a vibrant tapestry of experiences:

Sight: The market is a riot of color. Stalls overflow with a kaleidoscope of fresh produce—ripe oranges, glossy red tomatoes, and deep green leafy vegetables. Brightly colored textiles hang from racks, their intricate patterns catching the eye. Shoppers weave through narrow aisles, their movements creating a constant flow of activity. Vendors animatedly display their goods, from shiny metal cookware to handcrafted jewelry that glints under the sunlight.

Sound: The air is filled with the hum of activity. Vendors call out their wares, voices mingling in a symphony of shouts and chatter. You hear the clinking of coins and the rustling of paper as transactions take place. There’s the occasional clatter of pots and pans being handled, the squeak of a cart’s wheel, and the distant sound of music playing from a nearby stall, adding a rhythmic beat to the cacophony.

Touch: Your fingers brush against the rough textures of burlap sacks filled with grains and the cool, smooth surfaces of ceramic pots. As you walk, you feel the uneven cobblestones underfoot and the gentle press of the crowd as people move past. The air is warm and humid, and occasionally, you touch the soft, delicate petals of fresh flowers or the coarse surface of handwoven baskets.

Smell: The air is rich with an intoxicating mix of scents. The earthy aroma of fresh vegetables mingles with the sweet scent of ripe fruits. There’s the smoky smell of grilled meats from a nearby food stall, intermingled with the fragrant spices that waft from open sacks—cinnamon, cumin, and cloves. Occasionally, you catch a whiff of freshly baked bread or the sharp scent of pickled goods.

In this market, every sense is engaged, creating a vivid and dynamic experience that immerses you fully in the atmosphere.

Cacophony of voices. High. Low. The buisnessman’s quick pointed tone. A mother’s reassuring touch. Shuffling consistent with abrupt interruptions. A distracted straggler stops in his tracks confusing the flow. Every movement made seems only to impede another’s route and intention. Lack of movement also a disrupting force. One flow, inconsistent and cumbersome.

Turning the head to the left one might catch a whiff of fresh baked delights. Now only a few steps farther a door must’ve been propped open. Repulsive scents of weed and overused bathrooms drift undesired up the nostrils of the unexpecting wanderer.

Shouts, cries, laughter. A kaleidoscope of tone and volume echoing in low rumbles of constant conversation. No fear of an eve’s-dropping amongst high levels of commotion ever present.

Now sweet relief wafts through the air as one discovers beyond the bathrooms and cracked back doors, the traveler happened upon a section of homegoods; unlit candle scents blend plesantly, coloring the air. Nevermind the overwhelming sensations ever whiffing through the atmosphere. Overarching all is a sweetness. Nearness. Overwhelming to some, yet necessary to all. Connection.

In the midst of the chaos a moment of recognition. The intersection of lives. A hundred thousand stories, too deep to begin uncovering. One little discovery, one heart delighted by the fullness of sweet company, a mission accomplished, the satisfaction of completion even if only one of a million tasks for the day. No longer an introvert’s nightmare if only thought through the mind of a story-teller. Suddenly the explorer discovers deep mystery. No longer a bustling market, but a life-filled library. Walking, living breathing tales. Adventures of yesterday or yesteryear. Dramas, action, romances, bitter heart breaks, wonder-filled break throughs, all brushing past. Shoulders rubbing in the victorious seasons for some. Jostling and bumping against those still deep in process. Below the surface of chaos lies a deeps sea of uncharted beauty. If only one would be curious enough to take the dive.

The red fabric wagon is pulled along the streets, nearing the busy market. Inside lies a little girl - her eyes closed, her breathing steady, she is seemingly asleep. The little girl can feel every loose stone on the rocky street as the wagon wheels bump over them. The little girl is not asleep; she wants to be at the market, she wants to be around the exciting smells and sounds and people, but she doesn’t want to walk, so she is feigning sleep so that Mother will pull her in the wagon. She wants to open her eyes, but if she is discovered, Mother will make her walk. The girl feels the wagon rolling over the smooth cobblestone of the narrow market, and she can hear the familiar “Hello”s and “How are you”s and “Nice to meet you”s, as well as “How much is this?” and “Can I get it in a different color?” They near the milk stand; the girl can tell because of the slightly sweet smell of the fresh milk that lingers in the air. She can hear the milkman pouring milk into Mother’s jars, and feels the cool heaviness of them as Mother puts them in the wagon against the girl’s skin. Next, Mother goes to buy fruits. The girl can hear her voice, can smell the blueberries and apples and oranges. She hears the crisp cracking sound of the fruit lady cutting a watermelon in two, and the crinkling of plastic as she wraps one half for Mother to take home.
They go to the bakery, and the girl is enveloped with the warm smell of fresh bread and sweet cake frosting. She knows Mother is touching and pinching loaves of bread because she can hear a loud crackling sound, and is instantly reminded of her favorite movie, Ratatouille. Finally, Mother goes to buy fabric for her new dinner dress. The girl can feel the smooth silky fabric as Mother places it in the wagon, she can smell the fresh newness of it. As a mother pulls a red wagon home, a little girl slowly drifts to sleep inside.

Smell:

• Overwhelming
• Spicy
• Salty
• Musty from he amount of people crammed into such a small area.

Touch:

• All the different textures of clothing from bumping into to various cilivians
• The roughly textured cobblestone

Sound:

• The sound of hundereds of people talking at the same time

The afternoon sunlight catches dust and the scent of spices. They blend together in the baking heat, so the schoolboy can't tell which ones sting his eyes and which ones cling to the back of his throat. He wipes sweat from his eyes and clasps at the silky fabric of his mother's hem.

He can feel her weariness. It brings with it an almost whispered staccato to her negotiations with the shopkeeper. Her voice is firm and unswaying. It carries the weight of a world outside of here, beyond the echoing hoarse-throated shouts of buyers and sellers, beyond even the rusty tinkling of rickshaw bells piercing through the honking of cars and roar of engines in the intersection just outside.

The shopkeeper's throat rattles responses but gathers no momentum, until it grunts in capitulation. A pregnant pause is followed by tin rapidly scooping powder and the rustle of paper bags being filled.

The schoolboy holds his mother's hem tighter as she reaches forward to pay. Even without touching anything he can feel the frayed burlap of the sacks holding the spices.

On Sundays, we’d go around 4:30 just before closing time. Searching for boxes of mangoes, strawberries, and blueberries. Walking past the fish and clams. Through the stalls of lettuce, cucumbers, spinach and tomatoes. Fragrances of freshly picked apricots, citrusy lemons, and aromas of sweet corns and earthy potatoes.

Late afternoon was the best time to go. When the fruit sellers started packing up their boxes for the day. Ready to make a deal before heading home. Flattened cardboard boxes lined the streets, strewn with corn husks, and broken crates, and paper bags.

People milled about seeing what remained. Cantankerous fruit sellers and patrons from Chinatown exchanged words with fierce looks.

“Don’t touch the fruits! You touch it, you buy it!” yelled the man at the elderly woman holding up a fruit for inspection.

Sign me up for team fruit touchers, how can we resist?

Meli and I would wander over from our apartment in the North End, Little Italy, on the fourth floor walk up. Prince Street. Around the corner from the famous Mike’s Pastry and those gorgeous pistachio cookies, and scrumptious Cannolies - with chocolate chips. Locals, and temporary locals like us, favored Cannolis from Modern, down Hanover Street.

Giacamo’s was our favorite restaurant. Standing in line outside to score one of the eight tables or so, and seafood pasta with homemade noodles. “You want coffee and dessert with that?” “Go across the street to Mike’s, we got people waiting for this table,” the waitress proclaimed.

That year in Boston was like one long honeymoon. Romantic dinners, exploring the city - and each other. Swirl of parades, and Italian Festival, seen from our window above Prince Street. City sounds for accompaniment. We had a few friends living in Boston, and one attending Harvard. Damn, those Harvard parties were boring, shhhh, don’t tell, with talks of Chemistry and cranial one upsmanship.

Young and married; life was fun and full of adventures, big and small. Sunsets and sunrises, holding hands, and dancing under the stars. Sometimes we would be the stars. Creating our own universe, lighting up the night together.

That photo of you is burned in my mind. Walking through the arched brick tunnel entrance out of our apartment on 58 Prince Street. Flashing your brilliant, sparkling, over the shoulder smile at me. Red shirt, and blue jeans shorts, cut high on your tanned thighs. Your brilliance has never faded, My Love.

I pick up a mango 🥭 from the cardboard box and hold it in the palm of my hand. This mango is cool, and smooth, green with a touch of red, and a brush of yellow. Almost ripened, but too hard to eat. When it’s softened enough, we’ll slice it up, smell the fruit peels, and taste the juices.

“Don’t touch my fruits” the purveyor yells at me in his thick Boston accent. Lord of produce. I smile, refusing to take the bait, and he gets angrier.

“Let’s have the whole box, and we’ll see you again next week.” He grumbles and we make the exchange of currency and mangoes.

Time to leave the hustle and bustle, walking home to our apartment, with boxes in hand. Carrying our strawberries, blueberries, and mangoes. Enjoying the never ending now .

Not sure where I am Or where I’m going Or where I’ve been

When I entered the market, I heard people are chatting about the produce, I knew what they are saying, because I had an experience of buying and cooking foods myself, always saying “Is it fresh?”, “Is it good?”, “what can I do with this, and that?”, and so on. Every one wants to eat healthier, right? At the seafood area, I smelled the raw shrimp, very interesting to me, I can’t imagine this will become the dish on the table. I touch it with courage, not that scary afterwards. My mom got used to it, so she just packed up the shrimps and took it to the checkout. What a interesting trip!

There once was a woman buying pears Who was asked in the woods, man or bear? Pondering the evil of two lessers Simply added to her stressors she just wanted to walk without fear