paris market

Pedaling along, I found myself gliding beside a wall of boxy, graffiti-ed delivery trucks, all tipped into the space under the train bridge. Peeking between them, I discovered a farmer's market in full swing, vegetables and people all tumbling over one another.

Quickly getting off my bike and locking it safely at the nearest station, I found my way to the end of the market and paused. Standing on the steps, I saw the ancient brick overlaid with steel above and a solid mass of heads, arms, shoulders, and elbows below. I dove into the fray.

Focusing on keeping my feet under me, I watched people's faces as they bartered, yelled, and cajoled produce into bags and carry-alls. Some foreheads showed such deep concentration while others a sort of pity. Many others simply allowed themselves to be pushed along, refusing any responsibility for slamming into each other or stepping on everyone's toes.

Orange peels sent up a bitter scent as they quickly became pulp under our feet. A meridian of flimsy wood boxes overflowed with sharp cilantro, sage, rosemary, and thyme, filling the whole market with the scent of crushed herbs.