The Broadway Market

To get up to the second level parking lot, where the majority of shoppers park, you turn off a city street and drive up a steep ramp buttressed by cement blocks.  Compare it to going up the climb of a roller coaster; you drive slowly and feel gravity pulling you back against the car seat, with optimistic hope that the clutch holds out.  Arriving at the flat of the second story is an achievement, and you breathe again but not too much for the landscape is dismal, dank, and dark.  It is hardly what one would expect for a parking garage, these folks are obviously saving electricity.

Mounds of tire dust clotted with engine oil rim medians, pigeons roost on the edges of the level, even in daytime it seems that the sun has other things to do.  But don't worry, blazing colors draw you to the entryway where the escalators will take you to the ground floor.  Bright red and yellow paint, thick from years of application border huge windows, a Tupperware kiosk, a temporary New Age table, a lady selling Tia's Puerto Rican bread.  Checking to see which escalator is up or down, the first floor reveals even more color floating above people's heads, hung from the ceiling, strung on wires over the vendor's booths.

It is very much like Dorothy first entering from her sepia farmhouse into the brilliant gardens of Oz; it's Easter, swingtime for the market, its busiest season.  Oh.  And Polish.  Super Polski.  Witaj w domu.  I toodled about, first taking a stroll around the circuit, seeing what there was to see; I was in search of pussy willow branches and pysanky eggs, this was the place to get them at prices you can't beat with a kielbasa.

Butchers yelled out numbers as crowds shoved towards the cases loaded with meat and sausages, ropes and ropes of sausages.  Kielbasa is pretty much ground pork and garlic, salt and pepper stuffed into casings, nothing fancy but a prerequisite feature of the Easter table.  Pierogi stands hawked their offerings, produce bins held cabbages, potatoes, carrots; there were caramel corn, sugared nuts, and bakeries, the most famous that remain steadfast against the swelling force of supermarket management.   White Eagle, Mazurek's, and Chrusciki's have eclairs that your babcia would load into your hands because you were looking wan.  No moderate portions here, you are in Giant Pastry Land, soldiered by huge loaves of rye bread.  Cream puffs, pastry hearts, pączki, things stuffed with sweet cheese, and cakes piped with inch thick frostings filled the windows with predictable diabetic fate.

Polish gift shops held shelves of dishes, salt lamps, aprons, t-shirts, figurines, and Jesus.  Jesus was everywhere.  As a kid, I was taught that Jesus was always near me; here, there was no argument.  Yes, He was.  None of that Middle Eastern Jesus portrayal, this was a nice Polish boy Jesus with blue eyes, near blond hair, and that faint violet cast under His eyes that indicated He might benefit from an eclair.  Delicate white skin was held in regard by the Poles, and so their Jesus reflected this.  The Infant of Prague was layered like a wedding cake with rows of lace decorating His cape, with a small gold crown sitting on His young head, a globus cruciger in one hand.  I grew up with this, and frankly it removed Jesus from anything real that I could imagine.  You could purchase Jesus in several stages of His life, all sizes, all envisioned appearances.

Next to the gift shop was one of many egg booths, this one offered true pysanky; the others sold wooden eggs which do last longer if you have cats.  There were Ukrainian, Lemko pin drop, decals, etched, and hand painted.  Trypillian symbols and traditional animals, waves that meant a journey, wheat for fertility, horses for strength, three rings around the circumference of the egg representing the Trinity.  Legend states that evil is kept chained to the side of a mountain; the years when an abundance of pysanky are made strengthens those chains; when not so many are produced, the monster can pull loose.  People make eggs for health, to have children, to find an answer, for thanks; sort of like a prayer that you can hold in your hand.

But wait, here is the part that I held strong against, that of the chocolate candy shop.  Oh my heavens.  Sugar waffles, chocolate covered Oreos, Twinkies, and pretzel sticks punctuated with rainbow sprinkles were on display.  Pecan turtles, sponge candy in an elongated rectangular shape, and my Mom's favorite, Charlie Chaplin, which according to the story, originated in Buffalo.  Apparently Chaplin was to visit the city for the opening of his film, "The Adventurer"; the local candymakers asked him what his favorite sweets were, and he replied marshmallow, coconut, and chocolate, with cashews as his favorite nut.  The confection was put together and given to the audience at the opening, creating immediate demand that can still be satisfied by visiting the Market or a local shop such as Condrell's.

I almost caved and purchased chocolate, the rows of bars and patties were satiny smooth, unctuous, and whispered how melty-creamy and substantial biting into a dollop of enchantment could be.
The smell was overwhelming, and permeated my pores, my senses, and if it weren't for the four bottles of wine from Buffalo's finest wine merchant at Chateau Buffalo banging against my leg, I would be rolling in coconut and marshmallow, coated with milk chocolate.  My brain made my feet leave, but the smell of the warm sugar, cacao, vanilla, and caramel lingered maddeningly in the car till William Street.  Pussy willow branches had sold out, but there will be more.

The bustle was fun, people were glad to be out, everyone was hypnotized by the entire presentation, the colors, the eggs, the fresh horseradish being bottled, the pierogi frying, the sugar waffles, the crumb cakes.  A carnival of food and red Polish flags to alleviate the grey walls of late winter, it was just what was needed to raise up our chins.  Go and see, but go now when the booths are filled with
Easter merchants; later on it can be a ghost town during an off-season week.

Good night this cold night, the sky is clear with no clouds to hold the residual heat of the day, but that's no nevermind.  It is time to sleep and let go of the hours, to float between nothingness and dreams, to sweep cobwebs from the stars, as you ride the tides of Nod in the coracle of your deepest wishes.  Sleep well, dog; sleep well cat, sleep child, man, woman.