The morning light hit the chrome handrails on the Metro escalator at exactly the angle that turns them into temporary mirrors. I watched a dozen commuters check their reflections without seeming to realize they were doing it—a quick glance, a subtle hair adjustment, then eyes forward again. I did it too, of course. We're all just primates grooming on our way to wherever we're going.
I'd meant to walk the entire length of the waterfront this morning, but made the rookie mistake of wearing my "comfortable" sneakers—the ones I keep insisting are fine despite the fact that the left insole has been gradually migrating toward the toe box for three months now. By the time I reached the fish market, I was walking like someone trying to shake off a pebble. Mental note: comfortable shoes are only comfortable if they stay in their original configuration.
The market was in full morning chaos. A vendor was arranging squid on ice with the precision of someone doing ikebana, while next to him another guy was basically throwing mackerel into bins and shouting prices. The smell was that specific combination of ocean and city—salt and diesel, fresh catch and yesterday's rinse water. Someone's radio was playing something jazzy that absolutely did not match the vibe, and somehow that made it perfect.