Market feels like home
I’m in Florence. We’re on our way to catch our train to Assisi. There’s a market building half a block from the train station, and we need something to take for breakfast and lunch. It’s not a fast trip to Assisi. So we stop. I smell the cheese and meats, and as I gaze around, my eyes delight in the reds of tomatoes and peppers, the earthy browns of onions, and the braids of garlic. Despite two months of Duo Lingo Italian, I can’t recognize a single word. It’s okay; I understand everything. I’m at market.
I’m in Portugal, and we’ve pulled into a parking lot somewhere up a hill in the Algarve. It’s a gypsy market. The guidebooks say to be wary. There are rows of white tents loosely categorized into aisles. I glance at the stalls featuring carrots and tomatoes, oranges and nuts, cast my eye over tables filled with shoes and socks, jeans, t-shirts, and dresses, and reach out to touch golden bracelets studded with rubies, sapphires, and emeralds., and idly finger the soft brown leather purses hanging from racks at the sides of tents. My Portuguese is worse than my Italian, I’ve never haggled for anything in my life, and I never haggle price with my customers…. It doesn’t matter, I’m at a market, and I find myself with three of those medieval gold ruby studded bracelets plus a purse for less than the sign said. Because, of course, I managed to point out that they weren’t really rubies in perfect marketese.
I’m with my son and daughter-in-law, and granddaughter in Clevedon, New Zealand. There’s only one veggie stand, but no matter; I’m here for the fresh churned ice cream with in-season strawberries at Christmas. My son is buying cheese, and Howard and I line up for bread. We’re going home that day, but it doesn’t matter; I’m already home. I’m at market.
I’m in Paris. I’d fainted on the airplane, and I’m scared and mad because the traffic on the Avenue des Champs-Elysées is hell-bent on running me over, and I’m so jet lagged I keep bumping into people. We get lost on our way to the Air B&B and turn down a little side street. I know as we round the corner by the conversation in the air that we’d happened on a Paris market. Half an hour later, we’ve filled our shopping bags with fresh veggies and bread and cheese, and a bottle of wine. I feel at home. Of course, I‘m at market.
I’m in New York City. They have, my daughter tells me, little pop-up markets on the streets and off we go. Trump had just been elected. We‘re disheartened. We have vowed not to return to the U.S. until his term is over. My daughter walks quickly; she and my husband are way ahead of me. That’s partly because I walk slower than they do but partly because the market is just ahead, a neighbourhood market of about ten tents, and I’m slowing down because I’m feeling at home. I’m at market.
It’s the same where ever I go. Toronto’s St. Lawrence and Kensington Markets, Edmonton’s Downtown, and Old Strathcona Markets.
It’s Saturday morning. The damn pick took 12 hours. I don’t need my Fitbit to tell me ( though it does anyway )that my sleep score is somewhere in the 60s and my Activity Readiness has dropped from 100 to 1. It’s still dark when we leave, but its daylight by the time we get our tent and display set up. Then I walk through the market looking for breakfast. I pass the new French Pastry stall, stop at Fair Trade to order coffee and tea, and chat for a moment or two with people passing by. The vendor selling “ Sorry “ hot sauce two stalls down from the doughnut stall says he and his neighbour have a contest to see which one gets more customers asking for doughnuts. I manage to resist doughnuts and opt for Fergies lemon square. I go back to my stall. I feel right at home. Of course, I am. I’m in Guelph, at the Farmer’s Market.
Picture : Mercato Centrale in Florence Italy: : Markets feel the same the world over