An old, beat-up truck stopped somewhere in the middle of Paraguayan nowhere. Nowhere began five kilometers from the city: endless green fields to the horizon surrounded the highway. Thick, tall green grass sways in waves under gusts of wind, making the space around seem like a green sea, merging with the sky somewhere where the air turns into a gray haze in the hot Paraguayan sun. The dark driver busied himself with the insides of the car, muttering something under his breath. The loud singing of birds drowned out the stream of dissatisfied exclamations in Guarani and it became completely comfortable, as in childhood during family outings with parents to the neighboring village. The musicians climbed out of the truck onto the grass, stretching their legs. The brides followed them, and soon a flock of veils began to rush around, scaring away the birds and the silence of the Paraguayan nowhere with girlish squeals. Watching the frolicking brides, the violinist reached for the instrument. He perceived the whole world around him as music, and this festive commotion in the middle of the Paraguayan nowhere reminded him of the Paraguayan polka. The bow moved across the strings, gaining strength.
