The Marché

The Argelès winter marché is half the size of the one during tourist season, although the village will fill for the long Easter weekend.

I am a merchant’s nightmare. Moths fly out of my wallet, angry that their peaceful home has been disturbed. It is not just spending money I dislike, it is having another thing in my life to deal with. Things need to find a place, to be dusted, to be cared for. This attitude does help with my limited budget, but it existed even when my income exceeded my expenses at a disgraceful amount. I consider a half empty closet a sign of my optimism and a full closet just plain depressing.

However, browsing the marché is fun. I need gifts for the people I will visit in Damascus next month. The merchant who sells olive wood dishes and accessories, made from local trees, was there. I tried to decide what people would like. Auntie Leila always has seeds out for her guests, so I select a wooden dish that has a second indentation for shells. For the woman I will visit in Aleppo, who reads a great deal, and teaches, there is a letter rack. My fingers trace the silken swirls. I already have a present for Hannan and I have ordered something for Melanie, her daughter.

I see a pant suits that will be perfect for my trip to Rome to cover a conference, but decide to wait. Even in marchés, I detest clothes shopping, and secretly wish things would appear in my half-empty closet without me having to do anything. My rule is if one thing comes in another goes out. Since I like everything I have, I can’t decide what to get rid of to keep the free space I treasure. If I were a painter I would favor the Japanese use of empty space versus the ancient Egyptian love of feeling everything up.

As an aside, it takes a long time to build memories into clothes. I like to remember that the sweater I am wearing now I wore the first time I went to a Chinese Buffet in Florida with my Mom who gave it to me. I wore it when I got a good job review, and the day I met Llara at the airport for her Christmas visit. I imbue my clothes with the memories until they become like trusted friends. What I wear is my past, present and future.

The spice man’s table is an array of paper sacks folded back, with wooden signs saying coriander, cumin, canelle with the prices underneath. I am almost out of cumin seeds, a disaster if I want to make the Indian food that I miss when I am in Argelès. Chitra’s family has addicted me to the cuisine. I take the last of his supply, and while he weighs it, I inhale the scent of fifty mingled spices.

I had planned to plant pansies then geraniums in the blue pots outside my blue door. The pots were bought in a small town in Northern Spain that has hundreds of potteries, ceramic tile places all at wholesale prices. However, the flower merchant has geraniums and no pansies, a sign to skip the first step, although if the merchant at Saturday’s marché has pansies, I will buy some for the ground floor window of the unoccupied flat in my building. My street is full of flowers and now that I am here more often, I don’t want my house to be the poor flowerless one.

I don’t choose any cheese stand, but go into the cheese store to use my fidelity card. When it is filled I will get a credit of 10% of my purchases. Not able to decide between two different cheeses, the owner has me taste test them. The brebis is sweeter, better for the breakfast I have delayed.

As I walk by the pottery stop, Rosella, the potter grabs me, kisses me, welcomes me back and asks me to translate for her. Her customers want to buy tile house numbers. They can decide on the style and the background painting and then she will paint the tiles, but Rosella isn’t sure they understand. They decide on a green gray number 1 with bamboo in the background. I decide it is time to go home, plant my flowers and get back to my writing.