Monday, September 7th, 2020

The nightly dance party in the town square has grown. A dozen wheelchairs and shaded motorized carts sit in a vague circle near its southern edge. An equal number of young people dance among them. The music plays from a small karaoke system. Some of the young people sing into the mics. They appear to be livestreaming tonight, perhaps to a single person, perhaps to more. A mic stand holds a telephone in a spring-loaded clip. People hand the mic stand around and set it down at spots within the circle. Some speak directly into it. I stop into a shop and get another cryptically labeled sandwich. The worker behind the counter rings it up and unwraps it. He warms it in a small oven as he meticulously cleans a carrot juicer. I sit at a table on the square with the sandwich and a bottle of juice. I’m surprised when I drink from the bottle. I thought it was grapefruit juice. It’s lemonade. The innards of the sandwich crumble as I eat it. Bits of dry cheese and diced vegetables fall to the ground. Pigeons will feast on them later. At the near edge of the party, two of the young people, holding mics, sing a slow song in Tagalog to a woman in a wheelchair. While singing, one of them reaches forward and adjusts the woman’s clear face shield. When the song ends, the beat picks up again. A man with two children dances at a distance. So does another older man with a cane. The people in the circle wave to them. They move closer, but not too close. I wander off when I finish eating. At the far end of the square, two men at a small table sing as one of them strums a guitar. An older woman at their table digs a pack of cigarettes out of her pocketbook. A few meters from them, another woman talks to a tall soldier with a gun. She seems to be trying to interest him in calling her daughter. He doesn’t look convinced. Traffic pauses at the circle as several people, including me, cross at the zebra stripes in the street. I think of getting an affogato at the cafe. I don’t.