Farmer’s Market

The farmer’s market looks and smells like international markets I’ve been in. And it even sounds like it. I pick out Spanish, Chinese and Bosnian spoken in the short time I am there.

People are streaming in from rusted cars, 2011 SUVS, on bike and on foot. For once, class does not dictate who is at this farmer’s market. There was typical over-priced bouquets, handmade soaps, granola, and art pieces. But those stands are infrequent along the two long hallways, and they are given little attention. The produce is cheap, so cheap. Alex and Steven buy seven avacados for the price of two from the grocery store.

Meat cases are filled with animal parts, included black spotted tongues. And I see lychee for the first time since Taiwan. Several stands have signs hanging above them announcing they accept food stamps. Old women, young couples, and many families stream up and down the packed hallways of the old warehouse. Some carry tote bags full of produce and others drag metal hand carts behind them.

How lovely it is to experience racial and economic diversity unlike any I’ve experienced in Iowa. It just adds richness to life. And I’ll be back soon.


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