At the marché

I set out early with my shopping list: eggs fresh from the farm, saucions smoked by the stand owner, a veggie or two. I saw a wonderful array of figs and blackberries brought in by one of the farmers. Blackberries are usually too expensive, but these weren’t. They reminded me of a walk in the Maine woods with my best friend from high school years ago when we picked berries as we shared stories of our lives. I paid my three euros of the berries but he “offered” me the figs for nothing. “Vous êtes trés gentil,” I told him. When he smiled, his wantabe goatee quivered.

And walking up and down the marché, I ran into friends of different nationalities as well as Catalan neighbours, who all smiled and welcomed me back.

Although I didn’t need olives, I ran up to the area next to the church where Joel has his stand.

He is always professing his undying love, but then he does it with most women. Besides his olives, he sells olive trees and produces perfume labelled for the nearby towns, Argelès, Collioure, and Banyuls, and made from flowers from his own fields.

I didn’t need cheese from Leo either, but like Joel he gave me a big wave and smile as I walked by, reminding how much I like personal shopping. The only problem with the marché that it is too easy to over buy and the freshness dissipates in the Frigo. Instead better to pop into the green grocers on the days between the marchés. When I am here I am spoiled in the what do you mean eat bread that isn’t still warm from the oven or mayonnaise where I have to wait for them to finish beating it up.