Sixteen Tons, Whaddaya Get?

Deb in the City here, another day older and deeper in debt.

OK, I know I am starting to sound like a broken record here and if you are too young to know what a record is and how a record player operates just consult the Wikipedia. It’s an old-fashioned way of saying that I am repeating myself.

But seriously Troy manufactured so much it is staggering.

The ink to print all the money in the US.

Fire hydrants and the valves for the locks on the Panama Canal.

However, there are more important present day matters to attend to than the glories of local industry past. Like, for instance, how to make peace with Sam. If we were really living in the past life of Troy, she’d probably be working over at the nail factory like every other able-bodied 19th century child.

Alas, I cannot send her to hard labor everyday and must find another way to raise her.

I searched around Troy for what I hoped would make her happy but Troy did not have what I needed.

So I hopped on the bus and headed for Albany, the big city. After asking the locals for Latino products, I was sent to this place.

Now the name Frank and Giovanni’s did not really inspire confidence since those are Italian names, the last time I looked. But once I got inside this bustling store, my prayers were answered.

Yes friends, cactus from Mexico comes in a jar and I purchased some. I can’t take Sam to her dad in Guadalajara but maybe I can bring a little of Guadalajara to her. She’s just a little kid with a deadbeat dad and I’m a desperate nanny.

When I was in the store I asked a clerk with a Bluetooth in his ear if Frank or Giovanni were there, sort of as a joke, since from the Latino product line, it was clearly not possible to buy anything Italian in the store. Bluetooth guy pointed me in the direction of Frank, however.

Frank owns the store and bought it with financing help from the Italian former owners and he has a good business feeding the surrounding community with yucca, plantains, and all Goya products. Everyone in the busy store cheerfully chatted with one another in high-octane Spanish and Frank went effortlessly back and forth between them and me in English.

There was a Puerto Rican flag above the register and I asked Frank where he was from and he said “I’m from the Bronx”. I didn’t ask him if his name was Frank back home. But I’ll have to next time I go for tortillas

This is Deb in the City, shifting through the diasporas, saying ciao, adios and farewell.