The plaza on Sunday is much different from the other days of the week. Gone are the young men offering to help park, washing your car while you're away (with the expectation of a tip if you are inclined to keep the integrity of your auto). Two-wheeled bikes are replaced with tricycles and strollers. Girls on roller skates replace boys on skateboards. Joggers disappear with the appearance of dog-owners holding long leashes. The police presence even seems to dissipate.
Blankets are scattered on available ground that is not already taken by small football matches. Swings are full, see-saws occupied, and trees are taped with water-colors by Alma or Sabrina. Mate is present during the week but on Sundays every small collective has the calabash gourd and accompanying thermos. Meriendas of medialunas appear here and there with the facturas disappearing with each walked round. Nearby cafes are full.
The pace of walking the block slows to "tranquila" and the power-walk workout gives way to people-watching and leash-dodging. Questioning eyes are drawn to the solo walker who's obviously not local. Sunglasses help though only teens seem to use them. A bulldog is jerked back from close contact by an owner wearing a "United Kingdom" shirt. I wondered if he sensed he was near another native English speaker.
As the sun sets, the dusk hour doesn't have the Lucinda Williams Sunday sadness. Instead it seems hopeful and the Latin beats go on.
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