Tales from the Market

Monday is my favorite day of the week in Bedoin because it’s market day.
Farmers selling carrots still caked in dirt, a flower stand selling the freshest most lush of peonies and rhododendruns and roses, the rotisserie chicken guy, who  improbably, is wearing an LA Lakers T-shirt, the Chinese family selling plastic face visors and straw hats, the pizza guy, with his truck, who hollers “CIAO BELLA” to you across the way, and makes the thinnest crust you ever tasted, the lavender lady who sells delicate little satchels for your undergarment drawer, and infused water to spray on your pillow, the adorable cheese lady with her tattoos and a blond buzz cut, the guy selling Indonesian imports and Tibetan prayer flags.

This market day, I whizz down the mountain on my bike and my heart leaps when I see all the tents. Like a kid at the fair, who cannot wait to go on the carousel and buy a big cotton candy on a stick.

After buying my favorite green pepper-corn sausage and a baguette, plus apricots that are so beautiful they look like a child’s blushing cheeks, the mistral-wind starts to  blow.

Mistrals are worrisome, just like the Santa Ana winds back home.

I start to feel cold so I stop at a white tent booth with scarves, all different colors, like candy.

I pick up one in a deep burgundy red. It is silky and soft to the touch.

“That color is perfect on you,” offers the man. He has a long black ponytail, almond eyes, and a Spanish accented- French. “It matches your beautiful energy.”

I loop it around my neck and hand him money for it. He asks me where I am from, and I tell him.

“Where are you from?” I ask.

“Ecuador. I miss my family there very much. Some days I feel very sad. But the trees give me comfort. When I am sad, I go out sometimes and  hug a tree. A tree can give you energy. Did you know that? I am Indian—Incan. We see nature differently.”

I blink back tears.

Since this whole confinement started, I’ve been hugging trees, too. I like to do it in the evenings walks with Jacques. He’ll sit down, waiting patiently while I press my belly right up against the bark of a giant, ancient pine.

“I do that too.” I say, wiping my eyes.
“So you know what I mean.”

“I do.”

We pause a moment while he helps another customer. When he’s done, he comes back to me.

“It is hard to be far from home but it is better for me to be in France. My country is terrible for indigenous people. In Ecuador, people will not sit next to me on a bus. The seats on either side of me stay empty, even if it is very crowded. I lived in Spain before this. In Spain it is bad too. But in France, it is a little better. People speak to me here. Like you.”

He smiles the most radiant, white toothed smile.

“Would you like a coffee?” I ask him. “ I’m Sara.”

“Carlos” he says. “We cannot shake hands because of the virus but it’s OK, I can feel you are a very gentle person.”

I go to the café on the corner and order two coffees to go. I ask for milk and sugar on the side, for Carlos, unsure how he takes it.

When I come back, I hand Carlos the coffee. He takes it black with sugar, no milk.

I drink mine just the opposite—milk, but sugar-free.

It’s the first coffee I’ve had with someone in a public place since the Before-Times.

I want to hug him but we can’t do that. So I take his paper cup from him when he’s done, to carry it to the trash.

Next week I will bring him a piece of cake or a bag of apricots.