I live near an area of Ottawa called the “Market” . In one shape or another the “Byward Market” district has been here for more than a hundred and fifty years. Fruit and vegetable vendors set up stalls alongside flower pedlars and maple syrup merchants. There are stores that sell fish and cheese, and wine, furniture and clothing and restaurants of every description. Bars and nightclubs with summer patios that are filled from lunch to bedtime. It’s a lively place. There is also…like most market areas, panhandlers and crack heads and zipsters babbling on speed…and late at night, gel topped, razor sculpted, gangstas invade the clubs reeking of toxic cologne and rolling in last years Beemer (blacked out) and this years Accord (all white) and high roller Range Rovers and Escalades and Navigators…and the odd matte grey Hummer. They knock fists and slap hands and hitch up those dragster jeans and eyeball the baby Hollywood, fake Kardashians in their elevator bras and polished legs with two hours of effort invested in every face…wobbling on six inch spikes …Oh babyyy…does your mama know?
In the summer there are buskers and performers…hard to compete with the late night show rolling in and out of the clubs but…earlier in the evening the family diners and “this -place- looks- nice -dear” crowds dither over choices and stand around to watch the jugglers and clowns and acrobats…singers and players and a Japanese lady plucking her instrument to the perplexity of many.
And there was this guy…a juggler because what else could he be…but wait…he also played the accordion. I was hoping for a monkey but the shirt was enough for me.
Did he actually look like this? No…I did this a month later. And anyway…it looks like his shirt. And I loved that shirt.
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