Smell is first to awaken, as you inhale roast chicken and melted cheese from
about a block down. Next, you hear a merchant shout something about his
apricots, a crate thump heavily on the ground under the weight of its
sun-ripened treasures, and the double doors of a farmer's truck slam shut. All of which sporadically burst over the steady hum of shoppers, requesting a kilo of potatoes or inquiring about the stuffed quail. Did
you just catch a sniff of toasted bread there, to tease you yet again? You are growing
closer to the market. You turn the corner and cross the street, hardly caring
that you've just pulled a reckless Marla Singer move. The driver can wait, but you can't.
You've just spotted your first glimpse of color, the blue
tarps shading the market's precious offerings. Vibrant shades of green,
red and orange jumping out from lettuces, tomatoes and peaches begging to be taken home and savored. More subtle aromas are now revealed, drifting from sweet melons and wild fraises des bois.
You hardly know where to turn so instead you just gawk at a ripe,
pungent chèvre, inadvertently blocking an impatient little lady who is more
eager than you to get her shopping done. She brushes past you with
her grocery-bag-on-wheels and heads off to the fishmonger's.
In the end, you've walked the long stretch of market that runs down the middle of Boulevard Raspail several times. You've fallen for a crusty loaf of bread, sprung on fresh figs, and indulged in a camembert. You realize that this was so much more than just a grocery trip. You took the time to feast your senses, a joy that will continue well into the day as you enjoy the delicacies you bring home.
And you promise to do it all over again, next Sunday.
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