Lunds in downtown St. Paul cuts five hours per day

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A decade after opening with fanfare in downtown St. Paul, the Lunds grocery store on 10th Street is reducing its hours by more than a third and reducing key offerings, including shifting from a butcher counter to self-service in its deli, meat and seafood departments.

The reduction in operating hours — a loss of five hours per day — represents a setback for a downtown short on options for produce and grocery store staples, especially at a time when downtown leaders, including the mayor’s office, have sought to increase population by converting underused commercial buildings into housing. Lunds, which opened in 2014 adjoining the luxury Penfield apartments, is the last remaining grocer in downtown St. Paul.

The new daily hours of operation — 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. — will be effective July 15, according to Lunds officials. The store is currently open 7 a.m. to 9 p.m.

The Caribou Coffee inside the store will remain open daily from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m.

News of the reduction in store hours and offerings has spread quickly on social media channels, leading to widespread speculation that Lunds was reacting to limited foot traffic in the evening hours, shoplifting, a shift to remote work among the customer base or increased competition from online delivery. Several self-described customers said the grocery was too pricey for the area, which includes a mix of market-rate housing, such as the Penfield apartments next door, and affordable, low-income and shelter housing.

“I’m in that Lunds nearly every day,” said a self-described customer on the platform X. “They have a cop stationed there and closed one entrance. I’m thinking this is more about poor sales than theft.”

“This store gets about a third of my grocery spend,” wrote another customer. “I don’t believe theft as much as the Lunds product line not matching the neighborhood. $120 turkeys at Thanksgiving for a moderate income area with mostly 1- and 2-person households was a poor merchandising decision.”

“The only downtown grocery store in St. Paul just cut its operations by 35%,” wrote yet another customer. “An absolute shame.”

A Lunds spokesman on Monday did not address the question directly but issued a written statement.

“We have a long tradition of serving our communities by providing a shopping experience with the highest levels of quality and service in stores that are clean, well-maintained, and safe for both our guests and our team members,” reads the statement. “In our ongoing efforts to ensure this tradition continues, we are making key operational updates at our Downtown St. Paul store … to maintain the viability of this location. … We are confident these changes will help us continue to provide exceptional service to our customers while also ensuring the store’s financial sustainability.”

Lunds officials said no team members will be laid off but “a limited number” of employees will be transferred to other Lunds & Byerlys locations.

The Lunds workforce is unionized. A spokesperson for United Food & Commercial Workers Union Local 1189 could not be reached for comment Monday.

Store officials said there are no changes planned for the food bar offerings, which are already offered in a self-service format.

A divided St. Paul City Council voted in 2012 to take a $62 million gamble on the 254-unit Penfield apartments, where construction had stalled during the recession. After acquiring the site, the city backed its continued development, leading to a profitable sale to Jones Lang LaSalle in 2016. Lunds opened in 2014 in a 27,000 square foot commercial space on the building’s first floor.

An arson fire in March 2022 caused more than $500,000 in damage, but the store was able to soon reopen. A St. Paul with a lengthy criminal history was later convicted. He received probation.

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Support for legal abortion has risen since Supreme Court eliminated protections, poll finds

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By CHRISTINE FERNANDO and AMELIA THOMSON-DEVEAUX Associated Press

WASHINGTON (AP) — A solid majority of Americans oppose a federal abortion ban as a rising number support access to abortions for any reason, a new poll finds, highlighting a politically perilous situation for candidates who oppose abortion rights as the November election draws closer.

Around 6 in 10 Americans think their state should generally allow a person to obtain a legal abortion if they don’t want to be pregnant for any reason, according to a new poll from The Associated Press-NORC Center for Public Affairs Research. That’s an increase from June 2021, a year before the Supreme Court overturned the constitutional right to the procedure, when about half of Americans thought legal abortion should be possible under these circumstances.

Americans are largely opposed to the strict bans that have taken effect in Republican-controlled states since the high court’s ruling two years ago. Full bans, with limited exceptions, have gone into effect in 14 GOP-led states, while three other states prohibit abortion after about six weeks of pregnancy, before women often realize they’re pregnant.

They are also overwhelmingly against national abortion bans and restrictions. And views toward abortion — which have long been relatively stable — may be getting more permissive.

Vincent Wheeler, a 47-year-old Republican from Los Angeles, said abortion should be available for any reason until viability, the point at which health care providers say it’s possible for a fetus to survive outside the uterus.

“There’s so many reasons as to why someone may want or need an abortion that it has to be up to that person of what they have to do in that specific circumstance,” Wheeler said, acknowledging that some fellow Republicans might disagree.

Likely Republican presidential nominee Donald Trump has declined to endorse a nationwide abortion ban, saying the issue should be left up to the states. But even that stance is likely to be unsatisfying to most Americans, who continue to oppose many bans on abortion within their own state, and think Congress should pass a law guaranteeing access to abortions nationwide, according to the poll.

Seven in 10 Americans think abortion should be legal in all or most cases, a slight increase from last year, while about 3 in 10 think abortion should be illegal in all or most cases.

Robert Hood, a 69-year-old from Universal City, Texas, who identifies as an “independent liberal,” has believed that abortions should be allowed for any reason since he was an 18-year-old high school senior, because “life is full of gray situations.” He recalls reading stories as a teenager about women who died trying to get an abortion before the 1973 Roe v. Wade decision provided a constitutional right to the procedure.

“Pregnancy is complicated,” he said. “Women should make the choice with the advice of their doctor and family, but at the end of the day it’s her choice and her body and her life.”

He said he would support national protections for abortion rights.

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Views on abortion have long been nuanced and sometimes contradictory. The new AP-NORC survey shows that even though the country is largely antagonistic to restrictions on abortion, a substantial number of people hold opinions and values that are not internally consistent.

About half of those who say a woman should be able to get an abortion for any reason also say their state should not allow abortion after 24 weeks of pregnancy and about one-quarter say their state should not allow abortion after 15 weeks of pregnancy.

But the vast majority of Americans — more than 8 in 10 — continue to say abortion should be legal in extreme circumstances, such as when a patient’s life would be endangered by continuing the pregnancy. About 8 in 10 say the same about a pregnancy caused by rape or incest or when a fetal anomaly would prevent the child from surviving outside the womb.

National bans on abortion are broadly unpopular: Around 8 in 10 Americans say Congress should not pass a federal law banning abortion. About three-quarters say there should not be a federal law banning abortion at six weeks, and 6 in 10 oppose a federal law banning abortion at 15 weeks.

Most Republicans — about two-thirds, according to the survey — say a nationwide abortion ban should not happen.

On the campaign trail, Trump has courted anti-abortion voters by highlighting his appointment of three Supreme Court justices who helped overturn Roe. But his strategy on abortion policy has been to defer to the states, an attempt to find a more cautious stance on an issue that has become a major vulnerability for Republicans since the 2022 Dobbs decision.

Despite Trump’s statements, Penny Johnson, 73, from Sherman Oaks, California, said she is deeply afraid Republicans might pursue a national abortion ban if they win the White House and Congress in November.

“We’ll have a lot of women who’ll die,” she said.

The poll of 1,088 adults was conducted June 20-24, 2024, using a sample drawn from NORC’s probability-based AmeriSpeak Panel, which is designed to be representative of the U.S. population. The margin of sampling error for all respondents is plus or minus 4.0 percentage points.

Fernando reported from Chicago. Associated Press polling writer Linley Sanders contributed to this report.

The Associated Press receives support from several private foundations to enhance its explanatory coverage of elections and democracy. See more about AP’s democracy initiative here. The AP is solely responsible for all content.

Going to See the Volcanos

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Editor’s Note: This story—produced in collaboration between palabra, a multimedia initiative of the National Association of Hispanic Journalists, and the Texas Observer—was translated from Spanish by Lygia Navarro.

I met Coyote 1 outside the airport in Managua, Nicaragua. Even though coyotes already use one- or two-syllable aliases, I’m calling him that for my own safety. After weeks of talking on WhatsApp before I left Cuba, we’d already arranged everything. He knew I’d be wearing a white t-shirt and gray Nikes. And he’d seen my face. In the lucrative human smuggling trade, coyotes are the bosses. They control a web of guides and subcontractors who provide different services. Every country, a new coyote. 

In his car, counting the wad of $1,200 I’d just handed him, Coyote 1 warned: “You don’t have to pay again until Guatemala.” I started to hide the rest of my money under the insole of my shoe. I’d saved for years for part of it and borrowed the rest. “You’ll get your feet wet,” he said, smiling. “Find another hiding place.” He gave me a local SIM card, loaded me into a silver Toyota sedan, and I never saw him again. 

The next seven hours involved highway driving to Jalapa, a city in northern Nicaragua near the Honduran border. It was October 1, 2022, and I was en route to becoming one of the nearly 30,000 Cubans who crossed the southern border into the United States that same month. 

I drifted off, woke up, and it was already nighttime. There were houses, then everything turned into countryside. Houses. Countryside. The farther we got from Managua, the more poverty there was. I prayed the whole journey would be this smooth. Then I fell asleep again. I got woken up to change cars. I fell out of the car, a zombie, at 10:27 p.m. The new driver showed me my own face on his cell phone. “Never go with anyone who doesn’t have your photo,” he advised. I was pressed into the back seat, amid who knows how many others. The stereo alternated between trap music and narcocorridos

Ever the journalist, I took notes about everything in my phone. Some other migrants looked calm. Not me. I’d already visited Miami and pretty much understood how capitalism works. In 2019, I was invited to a journalism event, and everyone in Cuba urged me to defect on that trip. But a glimpse of America’s usurious economy made me feel so small. I went back home to Havana, where State Security (the Cuban military organization tasked with counterintelligence and repression) cornered and threatened me so intensely that I felt forced to leave. 

It’s not like I was actually a threat. As a reporter for nonstate media, I thrived on spending weeks in the field looking for stories, interviewing people, and reporting on others’ lives. But the Cuban government had declared war on all independent journalism. And it got to the point where I feared leaving home, afraid I’d be followed by plainclothes state agents. 

So I fled. Destination: Dallas, where my father lives. I became a man without a country, and I was as terrified of setting foot in the United States as I was of not surviving the trip. 

Arm outstretched searching for a cell signal, the Cuban video-called his girlfriend. He pointed the camera at the landscape in Jalapa: mountains in every direction. “Those trees, do you see them? That’s Honduras over there.”

After a long day of travel, I joined seven other Cubans fenced inside a jungle safehouse. I awaited my departure signal, and the Cuban from the video call awaited his. In 36 years of life, his only plane flight was the one from Havana to Managua. He was anxious to get to Miami. 

I didn’t need to ask why. We’d both been injected with the idea that utopia begins with “U” for United States. The paradise where all dreams come true: sports cars, $100 bills, supreme laws, Captain America. On the other side, Cuba, primitive, in crisis for decades, designed to trap you in an asphyxiating cycle. Bread, transportation, electricity, internet, optimism—whatever, in Cuba there is none. But you need it, and breaking your back to acquire it devours your life.

As the 36-year-old Cuban finished his travel preparations, he’d become convinced that if he didn’t leave, he’d sink. At that time, September 2022, Hurricane Ian slammed into western Cuba with sustained winds of over 124 miles per hour. The local press reported three deaths and the loss of crops, roofs, and more. His breaking point came courtesy of the National Electric System, which collapsed and plunged the island into darkness. People were banging out their frustrations on pans. “You could hear the pots from the airport,” he said.

A year prior, massive protests had exploded for the first time in the six decades of Fidel Castro’s revolution. The country was paralyzed. The people demanded freedom and food. The military took to the streets. 

Once the explosion was controlled, every time people heard sirens, they peeked through their window blinds to see if the government was cracking down on a new protest. That’s how we lived. One felt the constant boiling up of conspiracies, hunger, and exhaustion in the endless lines in stores, the endless lines at bus stops, the endless lines in hospital emergency rooms. A miserable torpor in whispers. Most people remained focused on staying alive: Speak quietly, keep your head down. 

Then, suddenly, everyone was leaving. It seemed like the party leaders and military strongmen would end up governing only each other. 

Why Nicaragua? Because in November 2021, just after Cuba’s protests, Nicaraguan President Daniel Ortega’s government approved open visas for Cubans. The price for Havana-to-Managua flights skyrocketed, and the phrase “going to see the volcanoes,” a reference to the Central American nation’s iconic mountains, became a synonym for exodus. 

Anyone with family abroad, something to sell, or a moneylender, flew to Managua to undertake the 2,500-mile escape to the United States. Everyone in Cuba must know at least one person who went to “see the volcanoes.” In fiscal year 2019, only around 21,500 Cubans entered the United States via the Mexican border. But following the Nicaraguan open visa policy, the number exploded to almost 225,000 in 2022.

Since the Cold War, the U.S. government has afforded Cuban immigrants certain advantages. The Cuban Adjustment Act, on the books since 1966, permits Cubans admitted into the States to receive a green card after one year. For other immigrants, this process is more arduous or impossible.

In the first few decades following the Cuban Revolution, any Cuban who reached U.S. territorial waters was admitted into the country. This compelled many to risk crossing the Florida Straits. Between 1959 and 1995, an estimated 100,000 Cubans died in the attempt. In 1995, the United States implemented the “wet foot, dry foot” policy, which required Cubans to reach land before being admitted. 

In 2017, then-President Barack Obama ended “wet foot, dry foot,” exposing arriving Cubans to deportations just like other migrants. Yet many of us still take that risk, partly because Cubans can still apply for expedited green cards if we avoid removal.

Between 2021 and 2023, 4.1 percent of Cuba’s population emigrated to the United States. One in every 25. It was a stampede.

 I didn’t see the 36-year-old Cuban or anyone in his group again. 

Don’t get attached to anyone. You don’t know who’s going to leave first, nor by what route, nor if you’ll ever see them again. And obey your coyote. 

The third day of the trip, as dawn broke, I was led out of the house in Japala with some Ecuadorians, jumping over puddles resembling rusted bathtubs, stepping carefully onto rocks, roots, or anything more stable than precarious mud created by interminable rains. 

I focused on an Ecuadorian woman and man with three small children. The mother was thin and carried a baby on her back. Wading through those narrow, zigzagging trails was so difficult that I didn’t think she’d make it. The man, equally skinny, toted a toddler on his shoulders, as well as a massive backpack. They looked like a long-married couple. Yet, I found out, they’d only just met. The third child was around 7 years old and dragged a suitcase double his weight. 

I tried to take notes and walk without losing speed. A steep curve nearly knocked me down. Left behind in a jungle like that, not even the latest CSI techniques could have identified my cadaver.

One of the perilous river crossings along the way (Jesús Jank Curbelo)

“Thank God for this beautiful weather,” said a radio announcer at 6:40 a.m. I had no idea what country we were in. 

The stash house had holes instead of doors and windows. It held a radio, a dirt floor, and the board on blocks where we sat. Some people removed their shoes. The baby cried. Our guide counted Honduran lempira bills for a toll to use the trails. I had heartburn. I hadn’t taken a shit in three days. “This is private land,” the building’s owner said. “Here, we care for migrants. But out there, it’s another story.”

I sensed my sweat drying. It felt like we’d been sitting there for years. “One of the bikers’ axle casing got damaged,” the guide explained. “But it shouldn’t take long.”

The bikers were a group of toughs with acne and combs in their pockets. One pushed his sunglasses onto his forehead, asking: “How much do you weigh?”

“I don’t know… 200 pounds?” I replied. He laughed: “You’re going to sink my motorcycle.”

I had my knapsack on my back and, in my hands, the suitcases of my fellow migrants. The mother tied her baby to her chest, and the man held the 7-year-old in front of him and the 2-year-old hanging off one knee like a sidecar. 

The Serpento 150 motorcycles turned at superspeed on tire-width precipices. A roller coaster without seat belts, triple the adrenaline. Below, the palm trees resembled bonsais. “Are we in Honduras now?” I asked. 

“Honduras,” the biker confirmed, leaning toward the fuel tank like a professional racer. “This town is called La Esperanza Abajo [Hope Below].”

He told me he made two or three trips a week, for 500 lempiras (about $20) each. Half went to gas, the other half to his 1-year-old son. He asked for a tip. “Did you see about the accident a few days ago? They overloaded the boat and it sank. Several migrants died.” 

Then he said I’d have to cross the same river where that accident occurred.

The water rose to our waists. Quickly. And I didn’t know how to swim.

The boat rattled along. It was a dirty, rustic little motorized thing. I reached my hand out to the 7-year-old. His mother had tried boarding with the baby, but the helmsman insisted she’d have to take another boat. We crossed in silence, without moving, to avoid destabilizing the boat. 

I climbed out and, from the shore, focused on the river. Serene and gray, around 110 yards wide. “Did you hear about the accident?” asked a cowboy I’ll call Coyote 2. “Three drowned.”

In front of a mangrove, he took a group photo, as if for a birthday party portrait. He also photographed our passports, which were needed for safe-conduct documents in Honduras. Then he loaded us into a pickup bed. Again, I offered my hand to the boy. He reached for his mother, who’d arrived on another boat. 

I knew that women migrants risk exploitation and sexual abuse as an additional price for the trip. Rapes—of women and of children—are so common that some prepare for the journey with long-acting contraceptive injections. Amnesty International reports that as many as six in 10 women and girl migrants experience sexual violence. Often, the assailants are state agents: police, military, or migration officials. 

I watched the Ecuadorian mother take her son’s hand. I hoped that nothing bad would happen to them.

The Danlí bus terminal, in southern Honduras, was a foul-smelling, labyrinthine torment. It was 10 a.m. on our third day in Central America. We wandered and asked the first person we saw where the migrant buses were. 

“Are you with Coyote 2?” the person asked. The smugglers’ scheduling was impressive. He gave us our documents. Our group merged with 35 other travelers. Every so often, we were shifted to a different bus. Six or seven times. A police officer: “I’m going to need you to raise your hands when I say your nationality.” From Cuba, almost all of us. “Ecuador,” the rest. “Venezuela,” no one. “Haiti,” zero. “Nicaragua,” zip. He jotted something down. “Have a good trip.”

We were let off at a vacant wasteland. Next to a bus, a Christian sisterhood handed out provisions. I helped. My water was almost gone and maybe I could earn an extra bottle that way. I’d seen the family members raise their hands back when the cop said “Ecuador.” But when I returned to the bus, they were gone. 

Seriously, don’t get attached to anyone.

On the fourth day, I met Coyote 3 at an idyllic hotel near the Guatemalan border. He brought me canned food “for the road.” 

At 10 p.m., about 80 of us were arranged in three lines. Divided by coyote, with colored plastic bracelets placed on our wrists. Six at a time, we were sent to taxis parked on the street. “Turn off your phones so you won’t call attention,” the driver requested, crossing himself, and we shot off at 60 miles an hour. 

Traveling squeezed no longer bothered me. Without knowing my fellow passengers, or coordinating it, we took turns being the ones who had to sit underneath with others on our laps and being the ones sitting on laps with our necks pressed into the car ceiling. And, for a privileged bit, riding shotgun. Women and men, all jumbled together, we moved in and out of those spots without stopping—a living puzzle. 

The taxi drivers were connected too. They shared WhatsApp audio memos and texted in a group chat they’d called “.” The lead driver wrote: “Operation defeated.” And others texted that they, too, had survived. The “operations” were military checkpoints manned by soldiers with long guns and armored jeeps. 

“Everything’s fine with the local cops,” our driver said. “The gringos are the problem, because they send their own cops to crack down. Those don’t accept bribes.”

Near 2 a.m. on the fifth day, the taxis scattered. Our driver turned off the highway and slipped into an alley. The police had extorted money from the lead car in an unplanned roadblock, he explained. Now the entire caravan had to hide. “No one wants to risk having their cash taken. Not you, not us,” he said, turning off the engine and reclining his seat. “Don’t make any noise—because of the dogs. The neighbors might call the cops.”

Finally, we were able to move again, and hours later we got out of the taxi on a dirt road. Three school buses waited. “Let’s go! Let’s go! We’re late.” Around 8 in the morning, we took off for the Mexican border. 

Our driver’s assistant hung outside. “When I tell you to duck, crouch really far down… Now!” We rolled up like armadillos to hide. I snuck a look over the window ledge. We passed coconut plantations, a bridge, minimarts, and a checkpoint with about 20 soldiers standing at attention. We did this six or seven more times. For the last one, we didn’t have to duck: “What’s up, buddy?” the assistant said to a Guatemalan soldier, camouflaging money with a handshake. 

They let us out at a construction site in northern Guatemala and separated us by groups according to our bracelet color. Inventory: 98. Then a fisherman took me across the river, from Guatemala to Mexico, in a log raft atop truck tires, pushing against the riverbed with an oar. Like in Venice. 

On the other side, Chiapas. “AMLO Mexican pride” graffiti. The transition surprised me. Coming from an island, the only transitions I was accustomed to were those of accents between provinces. Here, the two sides of the line had distinct accents, cultures, histories, traditions. In a matter of meters, I could feel it. 

A 20-something tattooed guy picked me up on his motorcycle. At 75 miles an hour, we buzzed past corn fields and banana orchards. From afar, he saw something suspicious, U-turned, hit the gas, then struck a pothole, lifting us 3 feet in the air. The weight of my backpack pulled me down and, somehow, magically righted us. “Didn’t you see it?” the driver yelled. “They were in a caravan.” The police. 

That night, in a Chiapas safehouse, I chatted with my mattress neighbors: one in his 30s and the other not yet 18. In 15 minutes, they were family, though I never knew their names. I called them Ecuador and Guate. I was Cuba (until other Cubans arrived and I became Havana—the rest were from Santiago).

Ecuador told me he worked construction. A cousin in New York had loaned him the cash for the trip. He had three kids. He’d told them and his wife that a job had come up near Colombia; he’d call them when he arrived to explain. Guate didn’t say much. He spoke less than me.

The room: dark and cold. The TV, on without an image. A white bulb lighting up the wall. A man entered, shouting: “We have to go! Hurry the fuck up!” 

The truck driver who picked us up handed me a roll of Mexican pesos secured with a rubber band. “As soon as you get in the next truck, give this to the guy.” He dialed a number on his cell phone. “I’m sending you the dough. It’ll come from… What’s your name?… A box named Jesús.” I imagined box was another way of saying package. In the end, that’s what we were. 

He drove for a silent hour between trucks equally as large and terrifying. In another truck were Guate and Ecuador. It was 8 p.m. when we stopped on a gloomy highway. “Here’s where you get out.” 

On the street, I froze for a few seconds, then ran, covering my head as if missiles fell all around me, toward the only light on the horizon: a gas station. Amid the gas pumps, a cop car like a reptile—hunting. The trucks had left, and I slowed to walk as calmly as possible. We migrants feel the constant, mind-bending stress of traveling illegally. If they capture you, you could end up in jail or deported. I entered a motel next to the gas station. Hidden. Fearful. 

An old man in a security guard uniform appeared. “You can’t be here.” But instead of kicking me out, he provided refuge in his office. I peeked out the window. Another convoy of trucks arrived, and I ran without knowing if they were part of the smuggling operation. 

“Jesús?” A truck driver asked, requesting the roll of peso bills. He was traveling with his wife; it was his first time. As a truck driver, he didn’t do half badly, but his earnings were never enough. He knew he could make more in el norte but never wanted to leave. He didn’t believe he was harming anyone by transporting migrants. He chainsmoked and checked his mirrors. His terror was obvious. Every so often, he’d open a curtain that divided the cabin from the rear to ask if we were OK, then close it up again.

Crossing southern Mexico the following day—the sixth of my journey—the police stopped us. I awoke but feigned sleep. The cop’s flashlight in my face, my eyes pressed shut. The truck driver offered him a thousand pesos (around $60).

“A grand won’t do it.” 

“No?” I half opened my eyes and silently prayed: Our Father… 

“A thousand more.” Thy Will Be Done… 

“I don’t have that much.” The cop handcuffed the driver. Forgive Us Our Trespasses… “Fine, 2,000.” 

 “Ok, nothing happened here. Don’t snitch or there’ll be trouble.” Amen. 

Thirty-one tense hours of driving. The driver said he’d paid more in bribes than he was going to earn. I gave him 100 pesos for a pack of Marlboros. His wife, mute, on the verge of weeping, as we left the pair behind.

We walked alongside a bridge on a narrow grass path above a ravine, gauging our steps and white-knuckling the handrail. With an OXXO gas station ahead, just like Coyote 4 had explained, we struggled down the ravine, ran across the highway, and piled into a car. The driver confirmed our faces matched the ones in his photos. Ecuador sat up front. Guate with me. 

Mexico City, not yet 5 a.m., in a safehouse. “No sharing the location,” said a woman working at the house, explaining her boss had ordered her to confiscate phones. The rules: zero noise, no smoking inside, don’t go on the porch. To make sure, she locked us inside and put away the key.

As everyone slept, cramped and without enough blankets, I showered and sat on the toilet for the first time in a week. My thighs burned, indented from my underwear’s elastic. I had no idea when I last changed them. 

At 9 in the morning, “Get up!” shouted the boss, the invincible tyrant of the house’s regime. The woman brought out a tray of tortillas and beans. Just then, eight Cubans from Santiago arrived, bringing such joy and raucousness that the boss ordered them to shut up. There, we were ghosts. We were only allowed to leave one trace: a useless piece of money from each person’s useless country for a collection of bills taped to the door. 

The Santiagueros had already been in transit for 40 days. The last 12 in Tapachula, Mexico, because their coyote had disappeared with their payment and without leaving SIM cards for their phones. Their families had no idea where to send money. Sleeping in parks and panhandling, they wandered as beggars until they found other Cubans who connected them to Coyote 4. “You all have had it easy,” said a particularly hairy Cuban.

“You all are blessed,” responded Ecuador. “All you have to do is turn yourselves in at the border and they let you go. The gringos are nice to Cubans. Guate and I have to enter through a tunnel and run so they can’t catch us.” A competition of misfortunes. 

In 2022, even with the Cuban Adjustment Act, Cuban migrants still had to navigate a slew of documents at the U.S. border. With one, you could enter the country with a temporary permit. With others, you either had to deal with immigration court appearances or risk deportation. (This process has changed: Migrants arriving without official permission in 2024 are supposed to register using an app called CBP One and wait their turn in Mexico to request asylum.) 

Ecuador and Guate, meanwhile, might have to live without papers for their whole lives in the United States. 

In Mexico City, I threw out half my clothes and filled my backpack with snacks. On the neckline of the white t-shirt I’d wear when I turned myself in, I wrote my dad’s phone number and Dallas address just in case they took everything else at the border, including my memory. At midnight on the seventh day, the boss showed up and took away a Santiaguero couple. Elderly folks. They exited crying. For the rest of us, the boss provided an account number to which we were to transfer $4,000, the cost of crossing from central to northern Mexico. To him, we represented nearly $45,000 in that one room. 

The trade smuggling Latin Americans to the United States generates between $3.7 and $4.2 billion per year, according to the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime. But the price fluctuates. One report cited an average of $5,000 per migrant. I paid nearly double that.

It was the morning of the seventh day. We were in a truck, 16 people in a seat for three, one on top of another. Darkness. Curtains shut. A dull tedium, since the first thing the driver did was take our phones. It was rank to breathe the air others expelled. 

Next to me, three weak children stared at the wall. They looked like triplets, about 4 years old. As they sat atop their mother, she tried to caress them as far as her hand could reach. They had already been there when we boarded the truck. A bit later: “Men, if you will, move on back,” the driver said. 

I’d seen too many movie scenes in which the investigator opens the truck trailer and finds a bunch of frozen, half-dead migrants. “Give us a phone, in case something happens,” Ecuador pleaded. The driver grabbed one at random and gave it to us. An icy breeze seeped through the ventilation ducts, keeping us on the verge of hypothermia. I had a jacket and two t-shirts left. I put them all on. 

The trailer measured about 50 feet long. A tiny shred of light entered through a hole in the floor, which, after hours inside, we peed through. 

“I’ve got work lined up in Tampa,” the hairy Cuban said. “My uncle has a garage there and hooked me up.” In Santiago, he’d been a mechanic. Piece by piece, he’d built a car, which he’d used to travel to Havana to resell plantains and avocados, which he could get cheaper in the countryside. That’s how he’d made enough money to leave. 

Ecuador wanted to try roofing. But he’d take whatever he could get. He wanted his wife and kids to live like royalty—even though he’d probably never see them again. Then there was me, the journalist. Thirty-one years old with mediocre English. All I knew how to do was write in Spanish. What was waiting for me in Texas? Getting used to being undocumented for the first year until my permanent residency arrived. Never-ending shifts in a fast-food joint. Sleeping during the day because I’d almost always end work at 3 a.m. Counting how many cents are in a minute and learning that time really is money. A new life. Right then, in that truck, I felt so lost. 

The truck driver called. We were nearing an X-ray checkpoint. He’d told us we’d have to lay down completely still, without breathing, to trick the machine. By some miracle, we made it.

In the border state of Nuevo León, we were locked inside a safehouse for three days. We couldn’t even go into the yard. Bored. Alert. Discussed news of deaths in the Rio Grande. We guessed whether we’d cross the border through the river or the desert. Each route was dangerous. In 2022, the International Organization for Migration tallied 686 deaths and disappearances on that border.

One morning when we awoke, I couldn’t find Ecuador. Or Guate. In the room where they’d been, the beds were made, as if they hadn’t slept there. Their Mexican phone lines were dead. I still have no idea what became of them. 

On the 10th day, the coyote’s employees brought the rest of us out by car, two by two. Our last guides built a pyre on the bank of the Rio Grande and threw in our clothes and other nonessentials. “You’re not going to need any of this over there, anyway,” one said. We watched as the night burned. In a plastic bag, I’d stashed my phone, a $10 bill, and my Cuban ID card. I’d already sent my passport ahead to the United States with a Mexican guide for $100. The rest of my things, backpack included, went into the fire. 

Crossing the river requires agility. The people who planned for us calculated the moment in which the river would be lowest, with a calm current. We entered in a line with a guide ahead of us. The water rose to our waists. Quickly. And I didn’t know how to swim.

For 20 minutes, I focused on balancing, placing one foot in front of the other. On not letting myself be swept away. A month earlier, nine migrants had died trying to cross the Rio Grande near Eagle Pass, near where I crossed. Due to rain, the river had risen two feet in a day. Two months earlier, a 5-year-old Guatemalan girl had drowned after rushing water tore her from her mother’s arms. I tried not to think about them.

On the other side, amid the weeds, some people changed into dry clothes. I was wearing all I had. Soaked. We walked alongside a fence, then followed a path through the brush for a couple of hours until the authorities found us. The day dawned. I’d been on the road for 11 days. The border guards at Eagle Pass arranged us by country of origin. All around, I saw ragged people, exhausted faces. 

In a prison-style bus, we were taken to a freezing immigration processing center everyone called la hielera. On a form, I printed my father’s address and other information and joined a line where officials checked us in, leaving us with just our pants and t-shirts. An officer ordered me to hand over my shoelaces, saying, “They’re wet.” He threw them out, I imagine to avoid me using them as some sort of weapon.

I stood in another line to have my fingerprints taken and my shipwrecked face photographed for the only document I’d possess in the United States for a substantial time. Then, it was on to the men’s cell. Two days there. No watch. No sense of time. Through a transparent door, I could see the officers. A portapotty inside the cell. So many mattresses on the floor that there was no room for our shoes. I snuggled up under a disposable blanket, but I couldn’t stand the cold. I could only tell if it was day or night by looking through a tiny hole in the roof. 

I was called to give a sample of my saliva. A year and a half later, I’d find out it was to get my DNA to send to the FBI. In that moment, I thought only of getting out of there. 

Inside, the migrants around me seemed happy, laughing and chatting, impatient to be freed. That frigid hamster cage was—finally—the United States, after all. And outside, surely, everything would be better. 

Jesús Jank Curbelo is a Cuban writer and journalist. He has collaborated with Latin American press outlets such as Cosecha Roja, Caretas, and the Centro de Periodismo Investigativo. He has also published a novel, Los Perros.

Lygia Navarro is an award-winning disabled journalist working in narrative audio and print. She has reported from across Latin America as well as on Latine stories in the United States and Europe. Lygia is an editor with palabra, a translator, and an Uproot Project Environmental Justice Fellowship mentor. She helped edit as well as translate this story.

Edel Rodriguez is a Cuban-American artist who has exhibited internationally. Born in Havana, Rodriguez and his family boarded a boat in 1980 and left for Miami during the Mariel boatlift. Socialist propaganda, western advertising, island culture, and contemporary city life are all aspects of his life that continue to inform his work. He has created over a hundred newspaper, magazine, and book covers. His artwork has received numerous awards from The Art Director’s Club and The Society of Illustrators in New York City.

The 33 official Minnesota State Fair new foods

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The countdown to the Minnesota State Fair (and sadly, the end of summer) has begun.

The Fair has announced 33 official new foods this year and the list includes lots of intriguing items — from Buffalo cheese curd and chicken tacos to deep-fried ranch dressing to banh mi eclairs.

Six new vendors include St. Paul’s El Burrito Mercado, Kosharina Egyptian Cuisine and Midtown Market’s Indigenous Food Lab.

With just 45 days to go, it’s time to start planning, and for us, that means staring down the barrel of trying every single one of these. (* indicates a new vendor)

The official new foods

3 piggy pals on a stick is a new food from Sausage Sisters & Me at the 2024 Minnesota State Fair.

1. 3 Piggy Pals On-A-Stick: Three smoked sausage slices wrapped in bacon, filled with a cream cheese mix, and drizzled with barbecue sauce. Topped with a jalapeño slice and served on-a-stick. (Gluten-Friendly)

At Sausage Sister & Me, in the Food Building, east wall

2024 State Fair new food Afro Poppers from Afro Deli.

2. Afro Poppers: Bite-size pastries infused with an African blend of spices – ground vanilla, cardamom, ginger, cloves and nutmeg – deep-fried and coated with choice of coconut flakes, sugar or served plain. Topped with choice of drizzle – mango chutney, caramel or chocolate.

At Afro Deli, in the Food Building, east wall

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Ba’bacon Sour Cream + Onion hummus from Baba’s.

3. Ba’bacon Sour Cream + Onion: Sour cream + onion hummus topped with beef bacon, sumac tater tots, caramelized onions, scallions, French onion creme fraiche (pronounced krem fresh), black cumin seeds and chive oil. Served with pita puffs dusted with sour cream and onion powder. (Gluten-Free without pita puffs, Vegetarian without bacon)

At Baba’s, on the east side of Underwood Street between Lee and Randall avenues, just south of Little Farm Hands

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Blazing Greek Bites from Dino’s Gyros

4. Blazing Greek Bites: Deep-fried bites made from a blend of chickpeas, tomato, roasted red pepper, scallions and cayenne pepper. Served with a side of roasted red pepper hummus. (Gluten-Free, Vegan)

At Dino’s Gyros, on the north side of Carnes Avenue between Nelson & Underwood streets

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Buffalo Cheese Curd and Chicken Tacos from Richie’s Cheese Curd Tacos

5. Buffalo Cheese Curd & Chicken Tacos: Fried buffalo-flavored cheese curds and chicken topped with blue cheese slaw, drizzled with buffalo sauce, and served in a fried flour shell.

At Richie’s Cheese Curd Tacos, on the north side of Judson Avenue between Liggett and Clough streets, outside the Sheep and Poultry Barn

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Chile Mango Whip from Tasti Whip.

6. Chile Mango Whip: Mango Dole Soft Serve in a cup rimmed and topped with chamoy and Tajín. Garnished with a tamarind candy straw. Alternative flavors of Dole Soft Serve include pineapple, strawberry and lemon. (Gluten-Free, Vegan)

At Tasti Whip, on the northwest corner of Dan Patch Avenue and Underwood Street

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Cookie Butter Crunch Mini Donuts from Mini Donuts & Cheese Curds

7. Cookie Butter Crunch Mini Donuts: Vanilla-flavored mini donuts coated with vanilla sugar, topped with Biscoff cookie butter drizzle and cookie crumbles, and served in a bucket rimmed with cookie butter and cookie crumbles.

At Mini Donuts & Cheese Curds, on the east side of Underwood Street between Murphy and Lee avenues

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Cotton Candy Iced Tea from new vendor Loon Lake Iced Tea.

8. Cotton Candy Iced Tea: Brewed butterfly pea flower tea sweetened with natural flavor and cane sugar. Garnished with a swirl of edible glitter and a rock candy swizzle stick to stir for a color-changing effect. (Gluten-Free, Caffeine-Free, Vegan)

At Loon Lake Iced Tea,* on the west side of Underwood Street between Wright & Dan Patch avenues

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Crab Boil Wings from Soul Bowl.

9. Crab Boil Wings: Chicken wings marinated in hot sauce, grilled and then fried with corn, chicken apple sausage and potatoes. Tossed in a “crab boil” butter and finished with a lemon wedge and parsley. (Gluten-Free)

At Soul Bowl, in the Food Building, east wall

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Deep Fried Halloumi Cheese from Holy Land Deli.

10. Deep-Fried Halloumi Cheese: Halloumi cheese, crafted from a blend of sheep and goat milk, wrapped in pastry dough and deep-fried. Served with a side of sweet chili sauce. (Vegetarian)

At Holy Land Deli, at the International Bazaar, southeast corner

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Deep-fried Ranch Dressing from Lulu’s Public House.

11. Deep-Fried Ranch Dressing: Ranch dressing filling made with ranch seasoning, buttermilk and cream cheese in a panko shell, deep-fried and dusted with ranch powder. Served with a side of hot honey sauce crafted with Cry Baby Craig’s hot sauce. (Vegetarian)

At LuLu’s Public House, at West End Market, south of Schilling Amphitheater

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Dill Pickle Tots from Tot Boss.

12. Dill Pickle Tots: Fried tater tots tossed in dill seasoning with a hint of vinegar flavor – like a dill pickle potato chip. (Vegan)

At Tot Boss, on the east side of Underwood Street between Wright and Dan Patch avenues, south of Kidway

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Fried Bee-Nana Pie from Sabina’s Pizza Pies.

13. Fried Bee-Nana Pie: Handmade pie filled with Minnesota honey, fresh banana and Biscoff cookie butter; battered and deep-fried. (Vegetarian)

At Sabino’s Pizza Pies, in the Lee and Rose Warner Coliseum, north side

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Grilled Purple Sticky Rice from Union Hmong Kitchen.

14. Grilled Purple Sticky Rice: Purple sticky rice grilled over an open flame until crunchy, then topped with choice of shredded Hmong beef jerky or pickled mushrooms. Garnished with fresh herbs and finished with Union Hmong Kitchen’s Krunchy Chili Aioli. (Gluten-Free, Vegetarian option)

At Union Hmong Kitchen, at the International Bazaar, south wall, west corner

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Ham and Pickle Rollup on a Potato Skin from Route 66 Roadhouse Chicken.

15. Ham and Pickle Roll Up on a Potato Skin: Three fried potato skins filled with a blend of sour cream, cream cheese, chopped pickles and ham. Topped with potato chip crumbles. (Gluten-Friendly)

At Route 66 Roadhouse Chicken, located in the Food Building, northwest corner

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Lady Slipper Marble Sundae from Bridgeman’s Ice Cream

16. Lady’s Slipper Marble Sundae: Bridgeman’s strawberry ice cream, lemon marshmallow cream and ladyfinger cookies layered in a cup and topped with whipped cream and a cherry.

At Bridgeman’s Ice Cream, located on the northeast corner of Judson Avenue and Liggett Street

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Marco’s Garden from Jammy Sammies by BRIM.

17. Marco’s Garden: Local rhubarb jam, thyme-marinated locally sourced tomatoes, farmer cheese, jalapeño and honey served with a side of grilled gluten-free flatbread. (Gluten-Free, Vegan option uses thyme tofu dip and maple syrup instead of cheese and honey.)

At Jammy Sammies by BRIM, located at the North End, northwest section, across from the North End Event Center

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Mocha Madness Shave Ice from Minnesnowii Shave Ice.

18. Mocha Madness Shave Ice: Fluffy shaved ice with caffeine-free coffee flavoring and an overflowing caramel macchiato cold foam center. Drizzled with chocolate syrup and garnished with dark chocolate espresso beans. (Gluten-Free)

At Minnesnowii Shave Ice, located on the west side of Nelson Street between Dan Patch and Carnes avenues

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Nixtamal Wild Rice Bowl from new vendor Indigenous Food Lab.

19. Nixtamal and Wild Rice Bowl with Wóžapi and Bison Meatballs or Sweet Potato Dumplings: Choice of bison meatballs or sweet potato dumplings, topped with mixed berry wóžapi sauce, and served on a bed of nixtamal (white corn, blue corn and yellow corn) mixed with wild rice and seasoned with maple and spices. Cricket and seed mix topping optional. (Gluten-Free, Vegan option)

At Midtown Global Market’s Indigenous Food Lab,* located in the Taste of the Midtown Global Market booth at the International Bazaar, east wall (Aug. 28 to Sept. 2 only)

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Patata Frita Foccciawich from West End Creamery.

20. Patata Frita Focacciawich: “Patata Frita” kettle chip-flavored ice cream created by Minnesota Dairy Lab, sandwiched between focaccia bread from Wrecktangle Pizza. Topped with a blend of honey butter, kettle chips and herbs.

At West End Creamery, located at West End Market, northwest section

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food PB Bacon Cakes from The Blue Barn.

21. PB Bacon Cakes: Thick-cut bacon dipped in pancake batter, griddled and topped with peanut butter whipped cream, grape jelly and banana chips.

At The Blue Barn, located at West End Market, south of the History and Heritage Center

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Raging Ball from The Herbivorous Butcher.

22. Raging Ball: Deep-fried sesame mochi dough ball with vegan cheeseburger filling. Made with house-made vegan burger mix, vegan cheddar cheese, grilled onions and pickles. Topped with bacon-flavored powdered sugar. (Gluten-Friendly,Vegan)

At The Herbivorous Butcher, located in the Food Building, south wall

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Savory Eclairs from Scenic 61 by New Scenic Cafe.

23. Savory Éclairs in Two Varieties: Choux pastry éclair shell with choice of filling: Bánh Mì or Lobster.

Bánh Mì Éclair: Filled with pork confit, chicken liver pâté, pickled carrot and daikon, cucumber and sriracha mayo, garnished with micro cilantro – inspired by a traditional Vietnamese sandwich.

Lobster Éclair: Filled with lobster meat, celery, mayo, Cholula hot sauce, lime, chives and salt and pepper, topped with dried corn and micro cilantro – inspired by a New England-style lobster roll.

At Scenic 61 by New Scenic Café, located on the east side of Underwood Street between Lee and Randall avenues, just south of Little Farm Hands

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Shroomy Calamari from French Meadow Bakery & Cafe.

24. Shroomy “Calamari”: Oyster mushrooms hand-breaded and deep-fried. Served with a side of chipotle sauce. (Gluten-Free,Vegan)

At French Meadow Bakery & Cafe, located on the north side of Carnes Avenue between Nelson and Underwood streets

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Strawberries and Cream Waffles on a Stick from Waffle Chix.

25. Strawberries and Cream Waffle Stick: Belgian waffle filled with strawberry shortcake cookie dough, topped with whipped cream and strawberry sauce, and served on-a-stick.

At Waffle Chix, located on Judson Avenue between Liggett and Clough streets

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Strawberry Lemonade Donut from Fluffy’s Hand-Cut Donuts.

26. Strawberry Lemonade Donut: Hand-cut yeast-raised donut frosted with lemon buttercream, rolled in strawberry lemonade crunch, and garnished with lemon gummy candy and freeze-dried strawberry slice. Served with a strawberry lemonade-filled pipette to squeeze in more flavor. (Vegetarian)

At Fluffy’s Hand Cut Donuts, located between West Dan Patch and Carnes avenues and Liggett and Chambers streets, south section

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Swedish Ice Cream Sundae from Salem Lutheran Church Dining Hall.

27. Swedish Ice Cream Sundae: Vanilla ice cream covered in lingonberry jam, sprinkled with Swedish ginger cookie crumble, and garnished with a ginger cookie heart. (Vegetarian)

At Salem Lutheran Church Dining Hall, located on the north side of Randall Avenue, just south of the Progress Center

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Swedish Sota Sliders from Hamline Church Dining Hall.

28. Swedish ‘Sota Sliders: Hamline Church Dining Hall’s Cranberry-Wild Rice Meatball formed into patties, paired with dill Havarti cheese and a red relish of beets, red onions, red peppers, lingonberries and cranberries, served on two brioche buns.

At Hamline Church Dining Hall, located on the north side of Dan Patch Avenue between Underwood and Cooper streets

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Sweet Corn Cola Float from Blue Moon Dine-In Theater.

29. Sweet Corn Cola Float: Minnesota-made sweet corn cola and sweet corn ice cream in a cup, finished with whipped cream, popping candy and house-made frozen caramel.

At Blue Moon Dine-In Theater, located on the northeast corner of Carnes Avenue and Chambers Street

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Sweet Heat Bacon Crunch from RC’s BBQ.

30. Sweet Heat Bacon Crunch: Double-smoked slab bacon tossed in RC’s red barbecue sauce and topped with hot honey and chili crunch, served over a bed of white rice, and garnished with green onions.

At RC’s BBQ, located on the north side of West Dan Patch Avenue between Liggett and Chambers streets

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Turkey Kristo from Minnesota Farmers Union Coffee Shop.

31. Turkey Kristo: Minnesota-made Texas toast from Pan-O-Gold Bakery, sliced Ferndale Market turkey, CannonBelles white cheddar cheese, apple butter made from locally sourced Westcott Orchard apples, and house-made spicy brown mustard mayo, dusted with powdered sugar. (White Cheddar Kristo vegetarian option uses extra cheese instead of turkey.)

At Minnesota Farmers Union Coffee Shop, located on the north side of Dan Patch Avenue between Cooper and Cosgrove streets

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Walking Shepherd’s Pie from O’Gara’s at the Fair.

32. Walking Shepherd’s Pie: Two handmade hot pastries filled with braised ground beef, mashed potatoes and a blend of onions, carrots and peas tossed in herb gravy.

At O’Gara’s at the Fair, located on the southwest corner of Dan Patch Avenue and Cosgrove Street

2024 new Minnesota State Fair food Wrangler Waffle Burger from Nordic Waffles.

33. Wrangler Waffle Burger: Fresh all-beef patty and signature Whataburger Patty Melt Sauce layered with American cheese and served in a caramelized onion-infused Nordic Waffle.

At Nordic Waffles, located at West End Market, south section

New Food Vendors

Chan’s Eatery: Chan’s Eatery serves Korean corndogs (hot dog and mozzarella cheese, battered with panko, deep-fried and finished with a dusting of cinnamon sugar. Option to add a coating of fried potatoes or to substitute toppings for hot Cheetos® with spicy mayo); Mochi donuts in eight varieties (original glaze, churro, cookies ‘n cream, Fruity PebblesTM, chocolate, strawberry, matcha and taro; Fruit and milk boba teas with optional tapioca and jelly toppings.

Located on the east side of Underwood Street between Murphy and Lee avenues

El Burrito Mercado: El Burrito Mercado serves Quesabirria Taquitos (deep-fried, rolled tacos filled with beef marinated in red sauce and cheese, topped with salsa verde and crumbled cheese); Esquites (corn kernels cooked with herbs, topped with sour cream, crumbled cheese, chile powder and lime, served in a cup); and Agua de Sandia Loca (watermelon drink with chamoy and bits of seasoned dried mango). All items are gluten-friendly.

Located at the International Bazaar, south center section

Kosharina Egyptian Cuisine: Kosharina Egyptian Cuisine serves Koshari (rice, pasta, chickpeas, lentils, tomato sauce, garlicky vinegar “dakkah” sauce, topped with fried onions) in three varieties (chicken, beef and vegetable); plus caffeine-free iced hibiscus tea. Koshari is gluten-free without pasta, and the vegetable variety is vegan.

Located south of the Grandstand Building under the Grandstand Ramp

Loon Lake Iced Tea: Loon Lake Iced Tea serves Official New Food Cotton Candy Iced Tea, plus a variety of brewed, naturally flavored, cane sugar-sweetened iced teas, including blood orange, blueberry, peach, strawberry and unsweetened.

Located on the west side of Underwood Street between Wright and Dan Patch avenues

Midtown Global Market’s Indigenous Food Lab: Midtown Global Market’s Indigenous Food Lab serves Official New Food Nixtamal and Wild Rice Bowl with Wóžapi and Bison Meatballs or Sweet Potato Dumplings, with the option to add cricket and seed mix. All items are gluten-free. (Aug. 28 to Sept. 2 only)

Located in the Taste of the Midtown Global Market booth at the International Bazaar, east wall

Paella Depot: Paella Depot serves Chicken and Chorizo Paella (traditional Spanish caramelized rice dish with leeks, red bell peppers, zucchini and snap peas, with option to add fried egg or seafood). Plus, aguas frescas in six flavors made from fruit puree, whole fruit, lime juice, agave and water. All items are gluten-free and dairy-free.

Located on the south side of Judson Avenue between Clough and Nelson streets

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