The Heart of a City

Santiago’s Heart

Its tin roof shields the sun, making the inside a dim, cool oasis from the invasive heat of the Chilean summer. La Vega, Santiago’s largest market, sprawls, tucked away at the end of meandering, graffiti-splattered streets that seem to vibrate with the energy of the city. The shuffling of thousands of feet kicks a veil of dust skyward that drifts outside, obscuring the madness that stirs within to almost all passersby. The homeless dogs of the city seem to have caught on. They file in and sleep sheltered in the coolness, their fur matted down with mud and discarded leaves of browning cabbage hacked off with the machetes worn at the vendors` sides like a gunslinger’s pistols.

The difference in light causes my pupils to widen with welcome relief from the blazing summer sun and I become witness to a network of cramped concrete walkways. They are littered with chunks of food and dirt illuminated by streaks of light that leak in and dance with the hundreds of plastic Chilean flags that flap overhead.

Fragile-looking pyramids of peppers, apricots and mushrooms are stacked next to speckled stainless steel bowls overflowing with homemade sauces. Each step brings a new aroma that tugs me in an unexpected direction, making me stagger like a punch drunk boxer as I inch myself along. The vendors paw at me with practiced hands, hoping to exchange some homemade sausage or a kilo of gooseberries for the few coins they can sense jingling in my pocket.

The red skin of the tomatoes, the shells of the avocados and piercing yellow peels of the lemons compete and form a kaleidoscope of colors. They breathe vigor and soul into the market and spill over onto the clothes of shoppers. My ball cap and jeans stand out. I seem to be the only person not clad in a fluorescent colored shirt made of light, breathable cloth. The contrast of the fabrics against the dirt-caked floor makes the crowd glow electric like a swarm of fireflies floating through the night.

“America?” Hearing the familiar word causes me to turn and see a man standing behind a counter with several vacant mismatched stools ready to hold the weight of the hungry in need of a rest. I nod.

“Sit, eat.” I do as he tells me. He scoops a bowl of thick corn soup, sprinkles it with ground beef and places it in front of me. It seems like an odd choice given the heat but it is somehow refreshing and I eat quickly. His eyes are softhearted and he happily watches me, pleased with my pace.

“This is our heart,” he says as his eyes dart around at the chaos that continues behind us, and I know he is right. Over the crack of bone bent to its breaking point by the blood drizzled hands of butchers, and past the catcalls of sun-beaten vendors, there is an unmistakable thump, and it is the pounding of Santiago’s heart.