ABSTRACT
At the Arizona black market, nothing extraordinary happens. Bright-yellow Pokemon dolls hang off the stands. T-shirts billow in the wind, folding and unfolding an image of Eminem giving the finger. Stray dogs adopt corners and stands to mate, sleep or hang out. Wheelbarrows wheel in fast food, newspapers, and CDs. Gypsy children walk with huge, striped shopping bags for sale. Swarms of shoppers, families and couples look for bargains, dressed in their best because it is a family affair. Or because looking good makes them look out of place at the market where the alleys end in the smell of urine and hawking attracts as many people as do the signs announcing brand names: Levi’s, Lacoste, and Lancôme. Between, behind and beside the stands, vendors gather around circular coffee trays.
