Night Market

We're addicted to grapes in lieu of the fermented juice thereof, having already consumed our lifetime's fair share years ago.  It's high season for red flames and other varieties of the darling sweet globules piled high at the local farmers' markets right now.   In search of a sweet fix, I went to the last night market of the season in  downtown San Rafael where along with fresh produce, the atmosphere thrums with rock and blues bands in two different locations and the odd solo artist, which tonight was a silver bearded gent sawing jauntily on a fiddle next to a donut stand. 

I turned when I heard a friend's familiar accent, admonishing her son for demanding donuts since he's already struggling with his weight.  Meanwhile the boy's aunt and uncle, standing nearby, offered me their warm bags of the mini fried dough babies drenched in honey.   I don't bother going into the whole celiac disease business, it's just a bore, so instead I say something like, "Thanks, I love them but they don't love me back".  I could just as easily say a simple no thanks, but that wouldn't be me.

There's a band rocking hard and sweet, surrounded by a huge crowd and I am shocked to discover the players look about twelve years old.  There's also an older guy in a hat singing at the mike who turns out to be a friend I haven't seen in a while and who's the father of the genius guitar player. In the break we hug, he brags and I slip a fiver into the tip jar.   A two year old with a blond pony tail leaps out of her stroller and cavorts near the band as her  hip, slick and cool looking grandma grooves close by.
A man and woman dance separately, not a couple but matched in their courage for strutting their stuff in front of the crowd.  She lifts her arms and legs high then patters a few tiny steps, then back to the crane like swooping arms.  He's wearing a hat, is tall and thin with pants too short and does a series of quick hops then a twirl. They look like people who might need to take their meds seriously or else.

The market place is where we suburban condo dwellers get to see a little street action in our relatively crime free county, just north of the Golden Gate, without having to actually rub shoulders with potentially scary characters in the city.   I love being a part of it all and am sad tonight is the last time until late spring next year.   I'll miss seeing the families and hearing Spanish, Thai, Chinese, Farsi and Vietnamese all around, reminding me that the world is a huge place and what a miracle it is that we can sometimes all get along so easily when food and music bring us together.  I was struck by the simple truth the old fiddle player displayed on a bumper sticker stuck to his instrument case: No Farms, No Food.  I slipped him a couple of dollars and he winked his thanks as I slung my haul of grapes over my shoulder and loped over to the boy band for a few final moments of a Stones' tune, whooping my appreciation and just glad to be alive.