Farmers' Market down a small lane further along the coast (don't ask where, ask what). Natural produce, kombucha tea, coconuts, white puppies up for adoption, amazing food and music, beautiful people. The market is dotted around a building that rests on a column of flat stones. They emerge from a stone basin filled with water, filled with green leaves.
People greet each other with small bows and hands united as if in prayer. Light clothes and bleached hair flutter in the breeze. I try the same gesture and manage to look like a rhino experiencing mild alarm in the savannah. One needs conviction (note: work on it). A woman falls into a sudden crouch with her arms around her head - a yogic technique? a human cocoon? hyperventilation? (I won't be trying that - beside looking ridiculous, my knees might pop).
I realise what it is - people look so happy. This place has got an inordinate share of strong, toned, tanned bodies - but that's not all. There's a general smile and an overall friendliness that give you two choices: a) join or b) delve into your own, isolating depression.
I do the happy, floaty impression for a while, sip the coconut, buy the coriander. Then my lord notices that Kiwi has scoffed the whole jar of kombucha all by herself, what? No sharing? A cold cloud descends. Such a small thing and pop, where is the day? where is the man? and where am I? Hmm. I feel like falling into a low crouch, arms tight around the pounding head.
Kiwi is the wisest. She scuttles off to a hanging pod with her book.
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