Market Day
Wednesday, July 1st, 2009Its 8am, I have walked to Boulevard Edgar Quinet for breakfast. I sit at the outside table at a cafe. The sounds of early morning, people setting up their tables, carefully putting out bananas, carrots, eggs, fish… The sun is hidden by the thin layer of clouds. The morning is soft. The air has a misty feel; not of water but of veils, like looking through fine silk. The moment belonging to the quiet early people, not the more rowdy night crowd. There is a difference. My hot chocolate and croissant arrive. A gentle heat radiates from the outside heaters above the tables, it is comfortable. like the cocooned state in the moment between sleep and wakefulness. I eat watching the city come to life. Kids going down Rue de Montparnasse to school. The parents entering the metropolitan.
The Wednesday market I will miss as I join the others going to work via the ribbon of rails. But the market returns Saturday when I join it at latter hour. The space between the stalls packed. The stalls seem to repeat them selves but with slight differences like deja vu. Vegetable stands, dairy, cheese, meat, fish in a random pattern repeated. Smells of roasting chicken, paella, and spiced couscous. Breads and pastries. French, Indian, middle eastern flavors blend between the produce stands. I pick up a bunch of mint, half dozen eggs with double yolks, cheese, radish, and mixed salad. Mid way between my market walk, I stop and listen to the accordionist while munching on some type of middle eastern meat pastry. Just before leaving I pick up a bunch of roses for the apartment. The day is good.
