The flower market was a pleasant surprise. After walking through other narrow streets whose leaning buildings turned the sky into a cloudy slit, it felt good to find myself in the flower market. I had picked my way over flattened snowdrifts of garbage in the other streets of Parry’s Corner, passing a block of bicycle shops, a street of fireworks merchants, and two streets of comparatively less exciting stationers.
Turning off of Broadway, with the red High Courts behind me, I watched as the usual stands of fruit and vegetables gave way to stall after stall of flower sellers. Men squatted and dealt over baskets of yellow marigolds and small roses with yellow centers that gave way to red petals. Women in simple saris haggled over the price of blossoms to put in their hair. The alleyway floor was covered in leaf litter, palm fronds, cast out greens, all being trod into whatever strata was beneath them.
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