Missing the marché

One of the things I miss most about being locked down are the Wednesday and Saturday marchés.

When we walk Sherlock early on those day, the merchants are setting up their stands. Some have elaborate setups other's just tables. After they finish, they sit in the various cafés for coffee before the people come. They are friends comparing notes, politics, any topic at all.

The smell of roasting chicken wafts over rue de la Republique.The rotisserie will provide meals for many of us.

The marché covers several streets. One can find almost everything such as pocketbooks.

We even bought this plaque to put up on our patio wall.

There are the merchants we see every marché: Alain the sausage salesman, the honey man, Catherine the Brownie lads (and savory tarts too). There are the shop keepers like Rosella the potter whose shop is between stands. Nadia has sold me many outfits including a suede suit for 35 Euros. It would have run four figures in Geneva.

We routinely returned the cartons to the egg lady. (the googly eyes were my edition for the camera). When I asked her how many chickens she has, her reply was "beaucoup." What is she doing with the eggs now the marchés are forbidden because of the virus.

There is on caravan that sells various meats and there's usually a hopeful dog sitting outside.

The cafés, l'Hostalet, La Noisette, Mille et une, are crammed with people chatting. It is possible to see most of one's friends and to join them when a chair frees up.

Street musicians play popular music, sometimes French tunes, some time anglo.

Name something you might want, it is probably for sale: soap, cloth, shoes, socks, toys, games, sewing kits, brooms, sponges, clothing, watches, bracelets, clocks, spices, cheeses (it is France afterall and these are the cheesemakers selling their own product).

So after we buy what we want, we find a café and friends and sit and talk. Around noon the crowd thins out and we head home to eat from the treasure trove of goodies that we've bought.

After lunch, when once again Sherlock needs to walk, we take him out. In our stroll on the same streets that were teeming with vendors and buyers, there is nothing. The stands are gone, the boxes that carried the produce to the marché have disappeared. The street sweepers have picked up all debris. Even the cafés have closed for lunch.

One day the vendors will be back with their stands and products. One day. One day. One...