Marcher au Marché

In the past few days, I have gotten a fairly strong taste of Provincial life. A few days ago, I planted myself beside the fountain at the heart of the town to spend some time outdoors journaling while taking in the sights and sounds of my new home. Little did I know I would soon be taking in 45 minutes of uninterrupted conversation (more so lecture) with an elderly man from the region. In fact, he was from Alsace in the northeast, but a transplant to warmer climates, much like the many elderly Americans that inhabit Florida in their retirements. He walked past me doing a triple-take and proceeded to strike up a conversation as soon as we made eye contact. Ultimately, he told me much of the second half of his life story, or at least the part concerning family in the States, as if I were to know where they lived and who they were. Entertaining, really. He jabbered about how expensive life is in France and how much more expensive he felt the euro is to the franc. He ranted about this aversion to certain ethnic groups in France—which I have found to be quite common among the traditionally French. I learned a great deal about the weather in France in relation to where you are geographically, and in such great detail that he had it down to one particular hill and specific measurements in kilometers… which would all be great information to know, if I had a true sense of how far mileage is in kilometers. He lectured me about how important it is to watch what you eat, and how to do so on a budget, which turned out to be quite helpful at the supermarket. He also advised me of the hour to arrive at the marché so as not to be too early nor too late. All in all, useful advise and a formidable introduction to the culture of the region.

My second round of moments of experiential learning came the following day at the weekly marché (ie an open-air market of local vendors). Lorgues hosts the largest marché in the Var region and thus draws crowds of vacationing tourists from England, Holland, America, and Italy who hold houses in the area. I learned the other day from my local bus driver that Lorgues is home to more foreigners than French citizens due to mounting housing prices, that is to say that wealthy vacationing families from abroad have bought up the town and it is now too expensive for its original inhabitants. Fascinating…the current housing market crisis is indeed international.


I digress. I took my provincial friend’s advise and wandered down to the market around 10am to find it bustling with people, though still overflowing with tempting merchandise. I stocked up on my fruits and vegetables for the week, some local dried duck sausage, a new sweater, and a basil plant (multi-faceted purchase: good smells, good cooking, good “house warming” feel). Hopefully France with turns my brown thumb into a green one and I will not kill this basil like I did the one before it. I lost myself in the vibrant colors and cries of the market, while taking in the smells of fresh seafood paella, seasonal legumes, and locally grown garlic and lavender (not as one, though I did discover them to be similar in color in this part of the region). The avoidance of the unending array of artisan cheeses (ultimately too expensive for a new implant who has not yet received her monthly pay) took my utmost self-control, and I dared not even taste the samples for fear that I would be immediately drawn into a sort of fantastic-tasting cheese trap. The best part of the entire marché experience, however, was the village accordionist. Amply situated where a loud speaker was lacking and no market-wide music could be heard, he stood playing while his cat sat perched atop his instrument, placidly enjoying the vibrations of his guardian’s notes.