Friday is market day…

…and I have yet to go.

I haven’t been since last year.

The old textile (?) factory where my mother used to work has been torn down, and in its place every Friday morning, a market sprouts up. You can find almost anything you need from cast-iron pots to shoes for Friday night to smoked meat that is probably best bought earliest in the morning or you’d risk yourself a case of food poisioning. What I’ve learned about the market, or pijaca, is that the clothes sold there can be of a surprisingly good quality. What I can buy here for about 15-20 KM, I could easily find in a New York boutique for a $100. So, yes, I’m not ashamed to say that I would actually “stoop so low” as to buy my clothes there.

Another phenomenon that is synonymous with market day is the saturation of the town with people of the neighboring villages. Today, I finally found a parallel between the typical American small town and Olovo: when Friday comes, all kinds of people come-and that’s how you know you’re a town and not some rinky-dink village. The villagers aren’t hard to spot. When they’re older, their faces are tanned and leathery and they often, well, smell. The younger ones try to hide, but are often overdressed and thus stick out. They gather at the local “disco”, Caffe Dalma (not a misspelling), where a fight inevitably breaks out almost every time. If you have any sanity, you avoid Dalma weekend nights. There have been times I’ve been in there just before a fight breaks out, when the first bottle smashes to the ground. The place is so crowded that when people start pushing, the entire crowd feels it. Sitting outside seems to be the only option and it’s very nicely set up, but the seats are generally taken up. Needless to say, I only go there if the people I’m with absolutely insist on going…or just to eat some really good cake.

And now, I must go and rest so I can enjoy the rest of my market day.