About Saturday

I ran into a market fair on the way out of my Saturday at the cemetery. 

And it was fantastic. So fantastic, that I spent two hours there. So fantastic, that I have good intentions of going back there next week with many more a peso. 

(Also, next week when I go, I am going to try to forget about food-borne illnesses so I can try each and every one of the fantastic fried foods surrounding the market. That's what I got shot up for right?)

But just in case I can't go back, or in case it disappears next Saturday, I bought a mate gourd while I was there. 

I walked through the hundreds of makeshift kiosks four times, looking for the perfect mate gourd. 

And by my third time around I had decided exactly which one I wanted. 

I loved that mate gourd, and the bombilla (straw) that came with it. I loved it more than I will ever love the mate that you drink from it. 

I loved it so much, that I decided to turn around, walk back uphill toward the kiosk and gather up the courage to ask the man how much I would be paying for my favorite mate gourd in the whole fair of kiosks with mate gourds.

And just as I was about to ask him, "How much for the red one?", I saw him rolling up what I imagine was some weed. Which, consequently, caused me to look at his fingers. 

Two of them were huge. 

Like, ginormous, huge. 

So huge, that I wondered if it was possible for me to be hallucinating from his drugs. 

Like I seriously sat and pondered that for a moment. 

And then I walked away.

Because I could not do it. 

I simply could not buy a mate gourd from someone who's fingers were that large. 

And I felt a little discriminatory, but I could not wrap my head around the bulging fingers. So I had to leave.

And then I walked around the market 1 and a half more times and found my second favorite mate cup.

It was the most expensive mate cup in the whole market.

And I thought for a minute, I don't even like Mate, why am I buying this?

But then I sucked it up and spent my $15. You want to know why? Because you're only in Argentina once. That's why. 

And because my second favorite mate cup has Argentina's stone in it. And because it's made from real plata. And because according to the man at the kiosk, "others are cheaper, but lower quality." 

And mostly because that man's kiosk was right near the exit. And I could not walk around the market fair one more time empty-handed without people starting to catch on that I was a no-buying peruser. 

And now I have to go to sleep because I think I'm getting swine flu. 

(I probably shouldn't have shared that mate straw with the room full of people. But it was part of the experience. And they didn't even look sick.)

Or it might be a food borne illness from all the very clean restaurants I've been attending. 

Or second-hand weed smoke disease from the mate man. 

Or maybe it's just a sore throat--my self's reaction to constance of cold. 

Goodnight friends, I'm off to drink some vitamin C out of my high quality mate gourd.