Crusty rolls that would make the most passionate Parisian weep with envy issue forth each morning from his brick oven with enough fragrance to distress dieters and delight passersby. Twice a day, as though magically created by the aromas, a flurry of children heads laden with loaded baskets destined for local tiendas, flow forth from his doorway. The basket man. One is always fearful that a heavenly high wind will sail him like a colorful straw balloon over the ancient cobblestone streets. The dust buster.
Mexican houses tend to be open and their ceilings high.
The broom family. They've come down from the mountains with huge bundles of sturdy amargosas branches that will be cleaned, dried and neatly tied into brooms that are perfect for flicking dirt and debris from between cobblestones and keeping bare ground yards as neat as polished carrara marble. The blanket weaver. Rows of colorful hand-loom woven blankets and hangings lie unfurled on fences, trees and ropes. The Oaxacan weaver woman, surrounded by her children, becons you with her twinkling eyes to examine this visual feast of vibrant hues with your hands.