I imagine the feria artesenal to be a massive quilt of ground-strewn blankets and craftware and ceramics and plump old women, but instead, I see that El Bolson’s super famous, twice-weekly artist market is a walk-about of mostly hippie homemade, stoner bros and chicks spinning yarn and thread and silver wire into dineros to pay for alternative lifestyles and a stash of mota.
No, I don’t need a friendship bracelet, thank you very much, but Graham will take a milanese lunch.
And, we will take homemade beverages, Graham washing his scallopini sandwich down with, what else, more beer, while I sip decadence in a cup–a jugo de fresa y frambuesa, a smooth blend of hand-picked, mountain fresh berries to battle this imminent cold taking hold of my sinuses.
Being here is a snapshot take of El Bolson, and despite my initial cynicism, it’s rather pleasant, a medley of all sorts of folks, men kissing each other hello, babies hanging from boobies, older gents in their agrarian get-up of hat, sweater, pants tucked into golashes, hippie chic slinging dreads and rasta vibe.
It’s not too shabby, actually, and after hours of browsing and curiosity catting, we stumble into a few gems, memorabilia worth bottling up and taking home in our pockets and around our necks, pretty little dangling jewels of Patagonian stone, the grand finale the most impressive, a one-man band who takes the cake, complete with toddler swaying to his crazy trumpet banjo drumline funk.