Corn at the Saturday market. Mexico City. November 2018.
Last night, new refugees arrived, this time from the second caravan. They were a group of LGBTQ folk from Honduras, including one group member´s younger sister.
One of the young Salvadoran men from the earlier group of refugees has been looking assiduously - so far to no avail - for an affordable place to live, as his shelter time at the guesthouse is to end in the next 24 hours. There´s not only the tangible anxiety involved in the search -- money + safety + suitability + location to potential employment -- there´s the anxiety of leaving the intangible comfort-warmth-camaraderie of the guesthouse.
Today I went to the nearby Saturday market, where I bought fresh cheese made with peppers, a kilo of carrots, a jicama, some fresh basil, a tomato, and a bag of fresh rolls.
The cheese is less salty than what I bought last Saturday, and a bit creamier.
I subsequently learned that what I thought was the minty-version of basil was really yerba buena - more minty than anything else.
Closed market stall across from San Felipe de Jesus church, near Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.
I heard about a local church that drew many, many folks from the countryside for the first Mass of each Sunday. This same church was allegedly the home of some miracles.
Obviously, I had to check it out. I like to go to places of miracles.
Like the Santuario de Chimayo in New Mexico, where I gathered up some holy dirt and placed it in empty receptacles of some sort that I had in the car, and which I later gifted to my mother and, I believe, re-gifted to my Georgian hostess, Neli, after I discovered my mother did not have the full appreciation for such things like Neli did:
Although sleeping in on the chosen Sunday morning was inviting, I got up early so I could walk to the bus terminal, find the bus to the village, and arrive in time for the early-morning Mass.
My intel was that I'd find the right bus behind the municipal market down this lane and over by this other place. I went to where I thought it was. No buses yet. Upon asking someone, I learned the first bus wouldn't depart til too late. So I grabbed a tuk-tuk, paid too much (though negotiated it down), and was dropped in front of the church doorway.
Well, I was damn early. But I did see the makings of a post-Mass breakfast at various stations in the area next to the church, plus the stirrings of a Sunday market across the street from the church.
Truth be told, the church wasn't all that memorable for me. It was yellow. Which makes it just like all the other churches in and around Antigua.
Ooh, but the blues of the market across the way! The blue of the tortillas! Seas, skies, pools, precious stones of myriad blues!
Closed market stall across from San Felipe de Jesus church, near Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.
Blue tortillas in San Felipe de Jesus, outside Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.
My blue breakfast, San Felipe de Jesus, near Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.
I've got to learn to ask folks to just leave off the various sauces from the main dishes. The red sauce added nothing to the meat. Alas.
The blue masa from which the blue tortillas are made. San Felipe de Jesus, near Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.
OK, OK, here's a photo of the church - but through the veils of blue tarps:
San Felipe de Jesus church, near Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.
Municipal market chef with platter of frijoles volteados. Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.
On my very first foray into Antigua's municipal market, I met the chef-owner of one of the market cafes. An exuberant, charismatic woman, she introduced me, as a drug dealer might, to a seductive substance called frijoles volteados. I'm embarrassed that I cannot remember her name. And that my photos suck.
But moving on ....
Municipal market chef. Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.
Literally, "frijoles volteados" means "flipped [or turned] beans."
The color comes from small black beans.
The texture is like the loamiest, most fertile, most lovingly-worked-over earth. A soil so rich that fruit pushes out from its depths, like a baby being born.
The flavor, too, is earthy, bean-y, with a hint of chocolate.
For my meals, I spread it sparingly on my bread, so as not to consume it too quickly.
My Spanish teacher, that ever-pragmatic, never-romantic woman, told me I could get the same thing in a can at Walmart. That she had done so herself when visiting the US.
"No!" I exclaimed. We must be talking about two different things! It is not possible that this sacred stuff could come in a can, buyable at .... Walmart!
Municipal market chef. Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.
I've not yet tried any canned version of the frijoles volteados. Some day.
Shortly after I arrived in Antigua, my multi-talented hostess (speaks 3+ languages, has a piercing sense of irreverent humor, is gracious, a determined survivor/thriver of what life throws at some of us, with a fascinating professional background) gave me a quick verbal list of various local places to get groceries.
First, a visit to the supermarket
La Bodegona was the supermarket that was closest to my home-school-home walking route, so I checked into that first.
Ohhhh. First impressions. I'm afraid it was so depressing. Poor lighting, the kind that you think about in an old-timey hardware store that has dusty shelves, creaky floors, and dark corners with stock items that have surely been there for decades, gathering an oily layer of residue from the particulate-filled air. OK, maybe I'm dramatizing a bit. But still, depressing. Produce looked tired. Limited selections of things. Seemed expensive.
I put some stuff in my basket, and then, incredibly, after walking around some more, put them back. I don't think I bought anything.
Antigua's municipal market. April 2016.
The municipal market
The same day, or maybe the day after, I went through a wide doorway of a building that was adjacent to an outdoor stall market, whose vendors sold ubiquitous Guatemalan souvenirs, rather expensive fruits and vegetables, plebian plastic ware and other humble housewares for buyers who live in Antigua.
Inside the building .... oh, this was the hidden magic kingdom of produce, cafes, seafood, breads, cheeses, grains, sausages, spices, herbs, flowers, and also the household stuff, along with clothing, music, et al.
Antigua's municipal market. Dried fish. April 2016.
It is like such markets the world over, which I've met in city-center markets in the USA, Caucasus Georgia, Ethiopia, Mexico, Dubai, and Istanbul.
Although actual "market days" fall on Monday, Thursdays, and Saturdays, the market is open every day. I'd say til 5 or 6 or so. I could get most of my stuff on any day, then, it's just that the vendor population, along with produce choices, swelled on the three market days. (But that bread I loved - likely only available on the market days when more vendors came in from the country.)
Antigua's municipal market. Chorizos. April 2016.
Some sights and sounds of the municipal market on a Saturday afternoon, part 1:
Mmmm, look at those carrots at 0:32!
Some dried fish, tortillas, spices and more in part 2:
I went to the municipal market a couple of times a week to stock up on vegetables, fruits, and cheese.
