It is Sunday morning. We have had the luxury of waking up when we felt like it, instead of when the child/alarm clock/compulsive over-eater cat decides we ought to wake up. We have had a nice relaxing breakfast and coffee. I look at the clock and see it is nearly 11am.
I decide to take a walk to the nearest big marché because we're nearly out of edible fruit (I think the clementine season is over because these latest ones didn't last long at all), and everyone in this household (except the cat) loves fruit.
It's only a short walk to the marché. A street market is a common institution in towns and villages throughout France, and even in big cities. Most neighborhoods in Paris have a street market that comes two or even three times a week. It's wonderful because as city dwellers, we would not necessarily have access to as wide a variety of produce without these roving markets coming to us every week. (As in the U.S., the big supermarkets don't always have the best quality.) When I lived in the 15th, we also had one that came on Sundays (as well as Tuesdays and Fridays), which I really loved because it also meant that most of the regular stores on that street were open on Sundays also -- something that most stores in Paris are not, unless they're in big tourist areas like the Champs Elysées or Saint Michel.
We have the same set-up here in our part of the 18th, with a huge, long street market taking up many blocks on the Boulevard Ornano (nearest metro is Simplon on line 12) and many other shops open besides. The market is a mixture of fruit and vegetable sellers most of whom seem to have the same produce but one or two of which are also growers, and we try to buy from them when we can. There are also many clothing sellers -- you can even buy lacy lingerie and faux fur jackets -- plus shoes, cosmetics (although I sort of draw the line at buying my hair coloring kit at once of these places), and sometimes cut-rate DVDs or CDs. In markets in other parts of the city you might also find furniture, florists, and people selling speciality items like leather coats, but they often rotate where they go from week to week so it's sort of hit-or-miss when they might appear again (I've been looking for this guy who sells these soft pillows stuffed with little beads of foam in markets all over the city since I bought from him once over two years ago -- but haven't seen him since!)
When I wander through the marché, I hear the constant din of the vendors calling out their prices on carrots, grapefruit, or carving knives, inviting you to come, look and buy. The nearby butcher shops smell like delicious rotisserie chicken as I walk past (although I studiously avoid looking at the cases of raw meat... in France you are likely to see heads and feet still attached and I prefer not to be reminded of where my meat came from). I see a store selling all sorts of things for cooking Moroccan food including the clay pots (I forget the name) for couscous and I make a mental note that this might be a good place to buy someone an interesting gift someday. I see some cute baby clothes, and a stall with very ornate velvet caftans. Another stall has all sorts of kitchen utensils and home improvement gadgets. There are sellers of olives and sellers of cheeses. You can find nearly everything in a big French marché.
Today I walk the entire market, first one side of the street and then the other, end to end. Finally I find some fruit I like the looks of, and I select some oranges and bananas. Then I spot that they are also selling citrons verts (limes) for only 1,80€ a kilo, whereas my local supermarket has been consistently price gouging charging 7,95€ a kilo! So I stock up on limes as well. Further down the row of stalls, I find some radishes and broccoli that look very nice, and buy some of those too.
As I make my way home (moving at the pace of an escargot until I get out of the marketplace zone with all the slow-moving yet very pushy shoppers and their carts), it just starts to drizzle a light rain, and I'm glad I got down there and back again before the rain started. I arrive home at just about noon.
Just another Sunday morning in France.
*Photo: Georges checking the ripeness of a melon in the market at Saint Raphael last August.
