In the States I used to go grocery shopping for fruit—you know: grapefruits, mangos, and passion fruit—but in Paraguay you go acquaintance shopping instead. As far as I can tell, Paraguay grows just about every fruit except apples—the trick is to know what’s in season. Once you know the seasons the next step is finding someone who has that particular fruit at her house. From there, a pleasant ask or a afternoon of terere will likely do the trick.

Citrus are in season right now, and they are delicious. The trees are heavy with little globes. There’s something completely lovely about whacking down grapefruits and mandarins, high above your head, with a stick. They thud to the ground. They are juicy and fresh. The peels are not some pretty color like they are in the grocery store—usually they’re more patchy yellow-orange and green.

Before citrus it was guavas and avocados and before that it was mangos. Passion fruit are also coming in right now—so tart and mouth wateringly tasty. I think papayas are coming up. And there are different bananas throughout the year, though I’m not sure exactly when…just yet.

It’s fall quickly turning to winter right now. I’m not sure if that means we’ll have a fruit break or if the trees will just keep chugging along.

I didn’t bring winter clothes to Paraguay. It was partly a, “I want to pack light” thing and partly a, “it’s a sub-tropical country so it doesn’t get cold, right?” thing. Well, I learned my lesson. It gets bone-breaking cold in Paraguay…starting at 60 degrees Fahrenheit.

When it dips below 80 it’s likely to be windy, but the real killer is the rain. I know, I know, it sounds crazy. I, too, grew up in a land that dipped below zero during the winter so let me explain.

The houses in Paraguay have windows but they don’t have glass. The houses have walls, one brick thick, but they don’t have insulation. The houses have roofs but, there is no ceiling, so you can see right to the tiles or metal that is blocking the rain. The doors are thin and often have cracks. There is no heat source in the house. What does this all mean?

It means that it’s about the same temperature inside and outside. The house protects you from wind and rain and holds a little heat, but basically there is no escape. When the cold settles, it seeps into every room.

In my house, the shower and toilet are in stalls outside the house, with just curtains as doors. We have hot water, but it seldom is hot but rather just not cold. When the rain pounds down, the wind rustles the trees, and the coolness engulfs the house—it is frigid. The trick is to stay warm, because once you start feeling cold it’s hard to heat up again. I wasn’t prepared for the first cold spell. I ended up spending an afternoon in my sleeping bag, fighting a fever, because I got cold in the morning. But a trip to Marcado 4 fixed me up for the next time the temperature dips.

Narrow paths, dirt outside and shiny tile inside, are tapered further by the crowd. Clothes line the paths – sweaters, sweatshirts, jackets, pants, leggings, socks, underwear, and hats – bright white and vibrant colors and crisp new shoes. Each stall with a different mix of things neatly organized in folded stacks. Salesmen and women invite you to ask about the prices. Suddenly the clothes fade away and its heaps of red tomatoes, oranges, and onions. Herbs green and brown are laid out and tied in bundles with palm leaves.

The sales women yell to each other across their mountains and hills of produce, sipping terere and jeering at the young men straining to push their wooden wheelbarrow-carts up the inclined walkway and between shoppers. The carts are stacked high with bursting plastic, burlap bags.

Kittens, scrawny and ownerless, gallop around the crates and between feet—gray, striped, orange, and black. Their fizzy ears and whiskers make them cuter than rats.

I look to the right and see hunks of meat and stacks of fish—the smell of flesh clashes with the earthy aroma of the vegetables next to me. I hurry on. I walked in a meat section once. The sent of death was thick, and I promised myself I wouldn’t go back there.

A basket made of chicken wire holds live chicks, chipping and jostling each other, and rabbits with their noses twitching.

I dart between to stalls to pass from the outside part of the market to the warehouse part of the market. I go up the stairs to find a bench. I sit on a bench in the middle of the room and look around at the racks of shoes around me…shoes in every direction: snazzy sneakers and sexy heals, clunky work boots and shiny men’s dress shoes.

I go back down into the fray and ask the smoothie-empanada lady where I can find a guitar. I cross the street—dashing through a just-big-enough-gap between the buses, cars, and motorcycles that roar and hum on the muddy street. I find myself in a new mix: Stands stacked high with shiny new cellphones. People ask if I’m looking to sell my phone. I hurry on. There are stereos and TVs. And there is kitchenware. Finally, I find the guitar store.

The last and final mission—find a bus home. I catch the bus on the corner-ish, hailing it like you do a taxi in the United States. I climb on. Luckily there is a seat. I sit with my new purchases piled on top of me.

I didn’t realize how big the market was. It stretches for blocks—crossing streets and alleys. The stores and stalls weave in and out of buildings. You get stuck going in circles. They tell me you can get just about anything there, and the prices can be cheaper than the mall, but to find a product you must navigate a labyrinth. (At least I have two years to master the whole thing.)

I made it! I finished my first solo mission to Asunción’s Mercado 4. I’m proud of myself, but there isn’t time to relax on the bus. Clanking and coughing my bus sputters down the cobbled streets of the city—there is too much to see and the air is spoiled by diesel smog. School children get on the bus, their uniform sweat pants and polos in some shade of gray or blue. Candy, cookie, and fruit venders hop on and off the bus holding their wares for all to see—their sales pitches are more like songs in rhythm and tonality than spoken word.

The little streets with the stacked and crunched houses wiz-by, and I just glimpse them through the dust-encrusted bus window. I am not inclined to call Asunción pretty; it isn’t. But it’s a city where you feel like things are happening and progress is pushing forward—to what end and to where is unclear, but Asunción in a word would be “movement.”