French Markets

I had trouble sleeping that night. I crashed when I got into bed, but I was wide awake at 3am. My body thought that it was mid-afternoon, as it would be back in New Zealand. I was not impressed.

That next morning, I got up of my own accord at a more normal hour, and went downstairs to find Jean-Luc, who showed me where everything for breakfast was kept.

It was quite a surprise. Everything was sugar-coated.

No muesli, no cornflakes. We had cocoa-puffs, frosted cornflakes, toasted baguettes dripping with Nutella, I couldn’t believe it. All my childhood, sugary breakfast cereals were not allowed, except for the rare treat. Yet here, it was staple. And the same in every other house I had breakfast.

But hey, I wasn’t complaining.

After I had suitably feasted (I must have eaten two large bowls, I was starving. My stomach was confused as to why I wasn’t eating a hearty dinner) and cleaned up, Jean-Luc, the kids, Gaël and Enora, and I, went to Saint Romain for the local market.

The town square had been covered with stalls, selling fresh meat, cut in front of you. Chickens and rabbits innocently do rounds in small pens, awaiting a buyer for that nights dinner, or the Sunday Lunch. The kids loved the rabbits, wanting them as pets. It was not to be.

There were stalls selling clothes. Sweatshirts, jeans, shirts, underwear, everything you need laid out on a table, ready to buy along with your veges and meat.

Jean-Luc made his purchases, while the kids showed me a few of the stalls. They were quite excited, talking away to me, gesturing exuberantly. I followed none of it, just smiled and nodded, uttering the occasional “oui” for good measure.

We have farmers markets in New Zealand, but they are nothing like this. This was fairly small in scale, but to me it was utterly amazing.

I learnt to love the markets. They were places to get bargains in pretty much whatever you needed, along with some of the freshest, and cheapest foods you could get. They’re also a much nicer place to shop, you can go leisurely at your own pace, can make small talk with and bargain with the sellers. It’s much more intimate than the cold stores that spread aggressively throughout France, threatening the survival of the marché. Thankfully the french, proud as always of their culture, refuse to let such a large part of it die.

I need to speed up these entries a bit, it’s time I started jumping from one event to another. It seems I’ve been writing about every little detail that happened every day. Since I said that I would like to cover my experiences last year, 44 days ago, I have only covered my flight to France, my arrival, and my first day. In 8 posts, probably totalling around 6000 words, or more.

Bah, I’ve always been long-winded.

September 7, 2005 | Filed Under Classic, La France 

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