Beautiful young Hispanic women in Nirvana tank tops, holding hands with boys in Dodger caps.
Lovely, older Mexican women wearing long velvet skirts with turquoise eyes standing four in a circle around a huge stone, kneading and pressing a large mound of dough into soft, white tortillas.
Young children held captive in the arms of a parent. Then, at last wiggling free and bolting, unrestrained, to their new friend selling ice cream.
A stunning young lady, helpless and confused, breaking into tears while standing in line for a taco; seeking an explanation from a knowledgeable friend. I could only wonder what uncompromising, apathetic, egotistic young punk could do such a thing. It's always that way in the eyes of a detached male. The other guys are all punks.
Austere ladies clutching open umbrellas, as colorful as their dresses, to block the midday sun.
Pale white tourists in floppy sunhats, draped with large-lensed digital cameras holding Fodor's U.S.A. books with their non-pointing hands.
A twenty-something redhead in pigtails and a bicycle helmet hustling across the bricks in search of who knows what.
Hardly any smokers. After 3 hours I saw my first two. Then, later I recognized another couple. It was the same two, they had just made a smoking lap.
A brother and sister fighting over control of the video camera. Sister won. They always do.
For 45 minutes I watched a traditional Aztec dance group in a public square just off of Olvera Street. I asked, through a translator, one of the performers about the dance and what it meant to him. He replied that they were celebrating the creator (the sun) and showing appreciation for the world he has given them as a home. The dancers continue their traditions in an attempt to both keep their history alive as well as share some of their culture with the community.
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