Even on the bus that took forever, people were in a good mood. The bus was detoured because of the Street Fair that most of us on the bus were trying to get to. It had been re-routed, then got caught in heavy traffic and, then, in a big rain storm. The bus was jammed with people, whole families, lots of people without seats but no one seemed upset, maybe because we were missing the rain.
I was going to my favorite street fair of all, the Atlantic Antics, a more organic event than some with not a lot of glitzy commercial concessions. It’s mostly a street fair of local restaurants and people who live near. They simply come out of their homes with things from their attics and sell them on the street. There’s lots of music, many good cooking smells and stalls and stalls of freshly baked cakes from the House of the Lord Church.
The rain had stopped, the bus had finally stopped swerving up different streets and let us out and the group surged towards the street fair. I didn’t get very far this year but right away veered to my favorite block where there are several small cafes --- Caribbean, Middle Eastern (with the best golden lentil soup on earth!), an eastern orthodox church with people in costume selling homemade stuffed cabbages and the French spot with the great French fries accompanied by a light peppery mustard sauce. I hit that stand each year and this year was no different but I, somehow, found a seat behind the French concession. Now, I could sit and watch the whole world go by. The sun was inching out, people were smiling as if it had never rained, just a few drops still fell from the trees overhead.
To my left, musical instruments were being warmed up at the House of the Lord Church and slowly and quietly a choir came out from inside the Church and assembled on the steps. And, when they began singing and supplicating God, I knew I was in the right place. How could I have gotten so lucky?
Oh, how those voices rang out.. People walking by tried to keep on walking but couldn’t --- they were drawn in, pulled in, stopped in their busy tracks and, there, in front of the church steps on the flat of the sidewalk very near me romped and moved and gestured and elicited more and more music, a young woman choir director in black sleeveless dress with high top pink sneakers on her feet and, boy, did she use those sneakers. She moved and jumped and raised her arms and pulled out even more the joyous, ecstatic, rollicking, pleading music and it reverberated all over us --- over people alone, over couples, families with children, dogs on leashes, baby strollers.
Last Sunday I didn’t run around the Antics Fair and check everything out (always fearing I might miss something) --- that’s what I usually do. I had found a wonderful place to stay still. It was tucked back in and comfortable, there was a tiny bit of white wine left in my plastic glass and a few fries packed up for ‘the road.’
Frenchmen plied their accents and charms at the table in front of me while next to me, to the side of the choir, a bent over woman in African head gear carefully made her way down the church steps carrying tall cakes to the waiting sales table. It made me laugh that she had this beautiful indigo headdress on and wore navy blue crocs to accompany it!
I cried some as the ‘hallelujahs’ rang out. This was my home; this is so where I belonged --- in a multi-cultural, multi-talented, multi-tasting world. I had recently found out that I was being forced out of my apartment after almost 20 years and that was scary. It’s not easy to find a clean, safe, affordable space and I would be leaving a garden, my own little church choir and shopkeepers who had become friends. I had been priced out.
But, somehow last Sunday afternoon sitting next to the powerful choir, I knew that I’d find somewhere. This was my city, this was our city. We all belonged here, not just the prosperous.
“Hallelujah, …”
