Every summer someone asks for the fair as if it were the market.
The fair lasts a weekend and looks like every other fair. The stall is there on Thursday.
We keep the Thursday.
The desk sits on Strada Stefan cel Mare, across from the bus park. The people who call are growers, stall holders, and the depot. A brief that wants a styled kitchen goes somewhere else. By ten in summer the dust is on every face. We shoot before it, or we leave it. Cleaning a Cahul morning until it looks imported is the mistake we stopped making.