Thursday, June 7, 2018 5:27 AM

Outside the market, where five streets meet, a guitarist is playing and singing through a portable amp. His voice is beautiful. I sit down in a lawn chair in the square and take paper out of my pocket. A notebook lies, apparently abandoned, on a table nearby. Two men, walking a small dog, stop and pick it up. One reads something dramatically in an accent that I can't decipher. They put the notebook down and walk away. When I look up from my writing, the guitarist is gone.