Once a week there is a market in Puračić. Makeshift parking lots pop up everywhere, and the grass that has just managed to recover from last week’s market is trampled anew. Everything imaginable is for sale here: used car parts, knock-off designer bags, sheepskins, little robot dogs that open their mouths to bark, rugs, coffee sets, sausages, old shoes. Once a week the main street contracts and becomes a narrow, furious pipe of movement, transporting shoppers from dusty makeshift parking lots to the main square, where there is a merry-go-round. Next to it, pigs, lambs and chickens turn on spits in time with the music. In a tent, three men in tight, matching sweaters sing a Turkish pop song. A woman hops onto on one of the folding tables and begins to dance. The table wobbles dangerously but does not break.
