I just wanted plums.

That was the plan. Plums, maybe a loaf of bread and back home. Plans are always simple like that.

It’s market day in town. Big deal for people from all over the region. It’s the end of august. Summer is coming to an end fast. You can see it in the vegetation, in the people, in everything. That is why i want plums. Because this is their time. Because this is when  there’s plenty of them and they are cheap. Also because I want mom to make a delicious jam with walnuts in it. The best jam ever. Reminds me of a lost time, when I was little and my grandmother used to make it in a summer kitchen we no longer have. The building was old and had to be torn down. I have good memories with that building and the jam is the only thing left. So I have to go to the market.

Anyway, back to the present. I was having a dream when the alarm on the phone went off. Don’t remember what about.  I just remember a loud sound just before the alarm. Could be anything. Doesn’t matter. The bus is at 8 but considering it is market day there will be plenty of cars to chose from. The destination lays roughly 4 kilometres  away from my house, in the neighbouring town. It’s a long way to the main road, especially on a road covered in loose gravel. I am surprised I haven’t broken my neck or at least hurt a foot yet.  

There are a few people in the bus station. Don’t know most of them. A nice lady I do know by association asks if there is any bus going into town at this hour. I tell her the 7 o’clock hasn’t run in months but there is one at 8. Everybody is listening. Two minutes later a car pulls over and asks if we’re going to the market. I look away. I am never gonna get into that man’s car for as long as I live. Not since the last time when I was trying to get off, I had some luggage and he, in his never ending rush to get new paying passengers started the car with me half out. I fell flat on the road. Got a little hurt. Was not nice at all. Swore to never ride with him again and so I did. And will do. Felt a little worried for the nice lady and the other two that went with that man. The stories you can hear about him and his accidents. Scary stuff.

Another two minutes and another car pulls. This time I get in. With a man I do not know and a skinny old lady whose name I really do not know but who is very familiar. I am surprised she is still alive. Notice the inscription on her socks. SPORT. Huh. Because it is driven by the  father of one of my former classmates. It’s not the first time I ride in this car. Sometimes is driven by my colleague. We go in the opposite direction to the market because he has to pick up another passenger. Then we go in t he right direction and I’m one step closer to my plums. Funny story, on the ride to the market I think of a former student of mine. Haven’t heard from her in a while. I just wonder. Later, I meet her by chance in the market. I just love these little coincidences.

The car pulls over at the end of a line of other cars. We pay, we get off, he goes for more clients. It’s a known fact around these parts, very few people will give you a lift and refuse to take your money. It is so embedded in our mentality that we find it strange when they don’t want your money. Just the other day, I was waiting for a bus in town to get home. There was also an old lady, seemed to have come from the city but knew her way around these parts. A car came. Stopped for me. I know it because it was the owner of the lumber mill just across the field in front of our house, more or less. He knows me because my father used to work for him. And I know that he doesn’t take money from passengers he occasionally picks up because he is some big shot lawyer. The old lady takes advantage of the opportunity and gets is the car. She tries to pay him, he is offended. She is shocked. However, people like that man are rare. Some are well know pirates that annoy the bus companies for stealing their client.

At last, I get to the market. It’s full. It’s a nightmare. Cars, people,  horse drawn wagons. For now I am spared because I’m going to the ATM to get some money. I don’t think I have enough on me. The road is relatively empty on that side of the world. I meet a colleague. Older than me. She asks how I’m doing, I tell her about the plums. She tells me about her ongoing cleaning of the house and her daughter’s 18^th birthday at the end of the week. 

Back on track, took out the money then went to the grocery/bakery. For bread. Standing in line i decided I don’t want to carry heavy stuff tomorrow so I also took some sugar. For the jam. Remembered I wanted some snacks the other day and didn’t find any so I bought some peanuts. And ice-cream for mom. She would kill me if I don’t get ice-cream.

I return to the crowded market and look for plums. Start with the places where I saw them last time I was here. And see none. Don’t panic! There is an explanation. There must be. Do not panic. So many people around me. Two dark skinned girls are pushing each other as if they own the place. Or they are the only ones there. I remember Mom told me once a story of her visit to the market and one of these creatures tried to steal from her. Mom is not an idiot. And her voice can be heard from across a football field if she chooses.

I almost lose hope on plums. Already think how I’ll come home without the reason why I woke up at 7 on a Sunday morning. Did I miss my chance? Should I have bought them a few weeks ago when they appeared on the market? I go to the Moldavian ladies to see what kind of sweets they have. The smell of barbeque fill the air as I walk closer to the grill. In the shade of a building you can always find something to eat on market day. They are called “MICI”, which one way of calling meatballs that are 2-3 centimetres wide and 10 centimetres long.  I walk past it. Several people are eating. I decide on a box of cookies I had bought before and liked. Peanut-free because I already got those. And that’s when I meet the girl I was talking about.

I take one more look along the market space, swimming through a sea of people, hating every moment of it, in hope I will find plums. What was the point of it all if I don’t find plums? Then I give up and walk towards the bus station. Pass by the grill, look at the people eating. It is a big deal what they are doing, not because they do not have food at home, or because they don’t have meat at home. It is because this is our equivalent of eating out. Yes, in the past few years restaurants appeared in the area, one was opened recently just around the corner from where I am, but the tradition of “mici” is a long one and will not die out easily. In fact, for some people, market day is the one day of the week they break out of routine, serve a coffee at a local bar, eat something, gossip some more. I know some of my neighbours that do this on a regular basis. They feel important, I suppose. There isn’t much entertainment in our village and I can understand their need to be more than the peasants they are, even if it is just for a little while. I think it used to be a big deal for me as well, a long time ago, when I came to the market and liked it. Now it is a torture that I must endure in order to get what I need. You learn to do that as you grow older.

So, on my way to the bus station, shining on a cloudy day like blue diamonds, crates of plums for the picking. Big, juicy plums just as I wanted. “10 kilograms,” I say and the guy tells his son, a boy of about 12, to take the order for a man that only wanted 2. “Do you have a bigger bag?” he asks. “We only have small ones.” “Of course,” I say. Not gonna tell him I never leave home without a gag. You never know when you need one. Not gonna tell him I prepared this one since last night, carefully folding it to fit my travel bag. He doesn’t need these details about me, just as I don’t need to know much about him. He only needs to know I have enough money to pay for the merchandise.

I pay and only now I go for the bus station. It is just across the street from the market place. It’s 8.30. The next bus comes a little after 9. I do not worry I will have to wait. Most of the cars parked here are waiting for customers. I see this guy I’ve travelled with many times. Mom sometimes calls him when my sister wants heavy or bulky stuff from the market. Usually food for the chickens. He can be trusted. He takes me to his car, puts my heavy bags in the trunk and tells me he’s going to find other clients. He’ll be back soon. I get in the car only to get back out and take a few pictures. A general representation of the market, the chicken and ducks, the lines of cars on each side of the road, some horse-drawn wagons trying to go manoeuvre among the cars and other wagons  that are trying to do the same thing, all ending up in a giant traffic jam that, in turn, results in a lot of foul language that should never be reproduced, orally or in writing. Even my driver spouts some words I would have never imagined him capable of uttering because of a drunken wagon driver that stops his vehicle in the car’s way and mumbles some unintelligible words.

Finally we are out on the open road. Going home.  The car stops at my road. I get off and start trudging up with two heavy bags, one of which occasionally touches the gravel because the handles are too long – was probably made for tall people. I stop to rest a few times. I am thinking I will have to crack some walnuts later. For the jam. I am relieved to be home, my hands free of the burdens.

It was a good morning, I guess...