This morning I awoke to a frantic 20s jazz montage. Tumbling drums and chaotic brass blowing somewhere up ahead. A stampede of taxis turning out of the plaza, climbing on top of one another to make their getaway. A woman with a basket fleeing downhill also. I walk upwards, inviting the madness on. Has three days in bed has accelerated the world outside? Shoe keeprs glaze perplexedly toward the unseen source of the commotion. The drums roll on, drawing near. Approaching the lip of the hill and entering the plaza, a column of uniformed school children. Are they something to do with all this? Creeping along one edge of the plaza, a line of shoe shiners, beading at the brow. Amid the flurry of arms keeping pace with the drums, thier suited clients sit low to the floor, legs spread as if at the gynecologist´s chair. They indulge the absurdity and wave instructions. A bandstand emerges as the fountain of the chaos inspiring cacophony. Round it hums the media circus. A disproportionate ratio of blonde women and thier cameramen. Zooming in on wheel spokes. Competing for cyclists.
International pedestrians day fighting against the fumes of Quito.
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