Lost and Found in the Market

I don’t normally go to the market alone. My wife, Maya, usually drags me out of bed with the promise of hot tamales and fresh mangoes. But that Saturday, she was down with a head cold and asked me—me—to go solo. I, a man who once confused cilantro for parsley and bought a pineapple without realizing you have to cut it, was now the designated hunter-gatherer.

“You’ll be fine,” Maya said, tossing me the reusable tote bag with suspicious ease. “Just stick to the list.”

The market was buzzing, a living, breathing mass of woven baskets, sizzling food, and toddlers clutching oversized balloons. I had Maya’s list clenched in my hand like a treasure map:

**- Tomatoes

Mangoes

Fresh bread

Goat cheese

Basil**

Seems simple enough, right?

First stop: tomatoes. I approached a stand where an elderly man was vigorously shouting about his heirlooms like they were vintage wine. I reached for a plump red one when I felt a nudge.

“Don’t touch those.”

I turned to see a little girl—maybe six—arms crossed, staring up at me. “Those are the ugly ones. My mom says to check the bottom.”

“Oh. Uh, thanks.”

She continued to supervise my tomato selection, offering unsolicited advice like a seasoned chef. When I finished, she nodded solemnly, then scampered off into the crowd.

I moved on to the mangoes. A different stall, this one manned by a woman with bangles up to her elbows and a smile that could sell you sunshine. I was sniffing a mango when a man next to me suddenly yelled, “No! That one’s cursed!”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

He leaned in, eyes wide. “Last time I picked a mango that looked too perfect, I got food poisoning. True story. You want the ones with the weird freckles.”

“Right. Of course.”

I took his cursed advice and picked three of the ugliest mangoes I could find.

At this point, I was beginning to feel like the market wasn’t a place for shopping—it was an obstacle course designed to humble grown men.

Onward to bread.

Now, I should mention something important here. The tote bag Maya gave me had a small hole in it. I’d noticed it earlier but figured it was harmless. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.

I picked a beautiful loaf of crusty sourdough and placed it in the bag. Then the goat cheese. Then the basil. As I turned to leave, I felt… lighter.

Like suspiciously lighter.

I looked down.

The bag was empty.

Panicked, I retraced my steps. I found the cheese rolling beneath a churro cart, the basil flattened like roadkill by a toddler’s tricycle, and the loaf of bread—well, the bread was gone.

Just… gone.

I stood in the middle of the market, holding my limp, hole-ridden bag, wondering how Maya made this look easy. That’s when I heard it.

“Hey, bread guy!”

It was the little girl again. She was waving something over her head.

My loaf.

She grinned. “It rolled all the way down to the juice stall. I chased it like a dog.”

I laughed, genuinely this time. “Thanks, kid.”

“You owe me juice,” she said, totally serious.

We walked to the juice stand together. I bought her a strawberry banana smoothie, and she handed me my slightly squished loaf with a shrug. “Still good.”

Her mom came looking for her soon after, and we parted ways like old friends.

I finally made it home, battered but triumphant.

Maya looked at me, bag in hand, leaves sticking out of my hair, and just burst out laughing.

“I leave you alone for two hours, and it looks like you survived a war zone.”

I handed her the salvaged items with a grin. “Hey, I made it. Even got advice from a six-year-old and a mango conspiracy theorist.”

She inspected the mangoes. “These are hideous.”

“They’re apparently the safe ones.”

She just shook her head, smiling. “Next time, I’m going with you.”

Moral of the story? Never underestimate the wisdom of small children or the risk of trusting a worn-out tote. And when in doubt, always buy the ugly mango.