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The illuminated shop in the darkness
Translated from Dutch. View the original post
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A mixture of melancholy and the beauty of the image impresses me when I see the taco business. That image that lights up during the incident darkness and the darkness around. The woman, undoubtedly the owner, sits in her chair, in sight, the artificial light on her face. She looks on her phone, waiting for patronage. Romance in optima forma. In a unique way. It reminds me of myself.
The space itself looks like a painting; there is always something new to see. Taqueria El Gran Taco is called it, ending with a striking point. She apparently sells longaniza, bisteck, buche and cueritos; all taco variants. On an orange paper, above the hot plate where she makes the tacos, hangs the price list by hand. Ternely with an adhesive tape, it can whirl down any moment. Around the baking tray are the sauces, open and exposed. In the back there is a table, with various kitchen tools on top. A blender. Pepper and salt. An empty cola bottle. A power outlet that hangs loose. A blue bucket. Under it the drink supply, which for the time being should be more than enough.
In the eye, of course, falls the altar, with the yellowish dress. A statue of Mary stands among the dried out flowers. She is the guardian angel of this space. The green-white-red ornaments still originate from quince de septiembre, Independence Day in Mexico. She'll probably clean it up one of these days when September ends. Or not, of course, it looks pretty nice. You can keep watching. Gas cylinders in the corner. The colakast. A mouthcap on the wall. The on the one hand engaging and on the other hand more than sad interior, consisting of red plastic chairs and tables.
The space itself looks like a painting; there is always something new to see. Taqueria El Gran Taco is called it, ending with a striking point. She apparently sells longaniza, bisteck, buche and cueritos; all taco variants. On an orange paper, above the hot plate where she makes the tacos, hangs the price list by hand. Ternely with an adhesive tape, it can whirl down any moment. Around the baking tray are the sauces, open and exposed. In the back there is a table, with various kitchen tools on top. A blender. Pepper and salt. An empty cola bottle. A power outlet that hangs loose. A blue bucket. Under it the drink supply, which for the time being should be more than enough.
In the eye, of course, falls the altar, with the yellowish dress. A statue of Mary stands among the dried out flowers. She is the guardian angel of this space. The green-white-red ornaments still originate from quince de septiembre, Independence Day in Mexico. She'll probably clean it up one of these days when September ends. Or not, of course, it looks pretty nice. You can keep watching. Gas cylinders in the corner. The colakast. A mouthcap on the wall. The on the one hand engaging and on the other hand more than sad interior, consisting of red plastic chairs and tables.
Station
This is the bus station of Zacatlan, a village with about 70,000 inhabitants, but with considerable attraction for tourists. This Taqueria has acquired itself an excellent spot. Right before the departure hall. Right, where people are waiting. And from here it's at least three hours by bus to Mexico City, so some food is never a crazy thought. In the Netherlands you pay the absolute top price for such a spot. This lady, most likely, is not. The rent will be cheap. This shop feels like the real Mexico. Could just be a symbol for it. See what you're doing with that room, ma'am, even if you're gonna sell toilet jars there. It's all right, it's your business.
This is the bus station of Zacatlan, a village with about 70,000 inhabitants, but with considerable attraction for tourists. This Taqueria has acquired itself an excellent spot. Right before the departure hall. Right, where people are waiting. And from here it's at least three hours by bus to Mexico City, so some food is never a crazy thought. In the Netherlands you pay the absolute top price for such a spot. This lady, most likely, is not. The rent will be cheap. This shop feels like the real Mexico. Could just be a symbol for it. See what you're doing with that room, ma'am, even if you're gonna sell toilet jars there. It's all right, it's your business.
Newsstand
My melancholy is in the translation to the Netherlands. Or rather, my career at the Newsstand. The Newsstand, that also solitary, glowing shop on that usually dark station of Breda. That beautiful place between arrival and departure. That could provide heat in the cold. Yeah, the shop was old. Clumsy of intent. Unique. Attractive by disorder. Stored by romance.
The move to the new station simply wiped that out. It has given way to a sterile unit sausage without heat. Just a shop selling products, amidst an already illuminated station. The glorified candy shop made a brave attempt to professionalize and could do so on that also sterile station. Too bad it didn't have an absolute hotspot anymore. Turnover almost halved.
I myself have been gone for about two and a half years now. The move to the new station meant for me actually the beginning of the end. The retirement of the older guard idem ditto. Ger, Petra, Yvonne, Leny, with their own characters. With their different work and sales style. With snug handwritten notes, to highlight some offers. Their familiar appearance. They went away. And with it the soul.
Sterile
I got fired. Did my job less and less well — or the requirements were getting more and more stringent, so you can see it. A six or seven for cleaning was no longer enough. That was supposed to be a nine or ten. They were right, by the way. It was the best move to get out of there. Because maybe I wasn't just standing there selling stuff, either. Not with commercial motives. I was there to be there. To meet. The fact that I was selling stuff was always a side-issue. Cheh, they were absolutely right to let me go.
I'm waking up. The woman has a client. When a market merchant communicates, she screams, she sells. She's here to stay alive. That's where she sells stuff. That gives it character. That's what makes it own. This is her shop. It warms me, it moves me, I keep watching. Inhale the situation.
Watching. Don't buy it. It looks a little too romantic to me for that. My stomach still prefers clean, sterile and professionally prepared food. That's the way it is again.
My melancholy is in the translation to the Netherlands. Or rather, my career at the Newsstand. The Newsstand, that also solitary, glowing shop on that usually dark station of Breda. That beautiful place between arrival and departure. That could provide heat in the cold. Yeah, the shop was old. Clumsy of intent. Unique. Attractive by disorder. Stored by romance.
The move to the new station simply wiped that out. It has given way to a sterile unit sausage without heat. Just a shop selling products, amidst an already illuminated station. The glorified candy shop made a brave attempt to professionalize and could do so on that also sterile station. Too bad it didn't have an absolute hotspot anymore. Turnover almost halved.
I myself have been gone for about two and a half years now. The move to the new station meant for me actually the beginning of the end. The retirement of the older guard idem ditto. Ger, Petra, Yvonne, Leny, with their own characters. With their different work and sales style. With snug handwritten notes, to highlight some offers. Their familiar appearance. They went away. And with it the soul.
Sterile
I got fired. Did my job less and less well — or the requirements were getting more and more stringent, so you can see it. A six or seven for cleaning was no longer enough. That was supposed to be a nine or ten. They were right, by the way. It was the best move to get out of there. Because maybe I wasn't just standing there selling stuff, either. Not with commercial motives. I was there to be there. To meet. The fact that I was selling stuff was always a side-issue. Cheh, they were absolutely right to let me go.
I'm waking up. The woman has a client. When a market merchant communicates, she screams, she sells. She's here to stay alive. That's where she sells stuff. That gives it character. That's what makes it own. This is her shop. It warms me, it moves me, I keep watching. Inhale the situation.
Watching. Don't buy it. It looks a little too romantic to me for that. My stomach still prefers clean, sterile and professionally prepared food. That's the way it is again.
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