Attending the French Farmers Market After Months in Quarantining Alone

See this fig tree here? It’s my favorite tree on the block.

It’s got this really lush honeysuckle vine that has just entwined itself to the tree, like two lovers spooning in a big bed or maybe like two best friends, walking, arms around each other’s waist.

Every day I wonder whether or not they get an oxytocin rush from touching.

I guess that shows where my mind is at.

In other very, very big news from Les Baux: yesterday was the first outdoor farmers market.

At first I was hesitant.

I’ve seen basically zero humans up in my little hamlet and even though France is slowly opening up and we are now allowed to congregate in groups of 10, the prospect of being even in a six feet proximity of humans, even in the open air, scared me a bit.

But life for the next year or two is going to be a long series of risk-assessment conversations with oneself and I figured I may as well get used to it.

So I drove down the mountain.

And damn if that market wasn’t a scene of pure, unadulterated happiness!

Responsible happiness, to be clear— nearly everyone kept a distance and the majority wore a mask—but still, there was a kind of grateful glow in the air.

The cute cheese-maker lady flirted with me from behind her face mask (camouflage print, avocado green).

The older couple who sold me a giant bunch of magenta peony buds beamed from behind their tartan pink and green masks.

And the mustached sausage guy looked at me like I was his long-lost granddaughter and became highly animated explaining all the sausage varieties – green pepper, black pepper, hazelnut – from behind his white paper mask.

And all held out the super-sized bottle of hand gel after we exchanged money, all thanked me for my purchase with an unfamiliar sincerity.

When we thanked each other there was a depth in the thank you.

I came home with black radishes, green and orange tomatoes, yellow courgettes, green pepper salami, raw cow milk cheese, a baguette still warm from the oven.

And wondered how I would have reacted in January to the notion that in four months, an hour at the market would be such a source of elation.