During my studies, I always had difficulty to have a full grasp of the perfect market concept. Ask a financier, a banker or an economist, he will explain it to you in crisp, clear manner. The fervor of the answer can sometimes raise suspicion, the feeling that an theoretical assumption is taken for a reality.
That difficulty vanished when I moved to this neighborhood, as the perfect market is downstairs, and the example made me understand. It is always there, everyday of the week, from before dawn to after lunch. The boths are spread in the streets around an old market building, a cheerful, colorful brouhaha.
The fresh products are well known far beyond this neighborhood, they fulfill my neighbor's tastes and traditions, from whatever culture they come from. The colors and scents make me daydream of exotic shores and a shiny countryside. The sellers yell prices and promotions in Arab, French, sometimes in English for the passing tourist. Sellers sometimes discuss in Chinese or another Eastern language that I am unable to recognize. Sometimes I am in a French countryside vegetables street market, sometimes in a North-African spice store in the Bazar, sometimes further south in a tropical land.
Everyone knows each other there. Sellers help each other during bad weather, despite the competition. Children from the neighborhood always get a small something, an apple or raisins, and a smile. The same people sit lazily in the cafés bordering the market streets day after day, watching the movement. The lady in the biggest flower booth already knows our tastes.
Tourists, foreign and national, come to see it and take the odd colorful picture. In the beginning I wondered what attracted them here, to see this prosaic place where I run errands on Sunday mornings. I am certain they heard of this perfect market and came to verify with their eyes. And I understand it. Sometimes before dawn, when I am woken up by the clanks of booth owners starting their days, I have to remind myself, how perfect this market is.
That difficulty vanished when I moved to this neighborhood, as the perfect market is downstairs, and the example made me understand. It is always there, everyday of the week, from before dawn to after lunch. The boths are spread in the streets around an old market building, a cheerful, colorful brouhaha.
The fresh products are well known far beyond this neighborhood, they fulfill my neighbor's tastes and traditions, from whatever culture they come from. The colors and scents make me daydream of exotic shores and a shiny countryside. The sellers yell prices and promotions in Arab, French, sometimes in English for the passing tourist. Sellers sometimes discuss in Chinese or another Eastern language that I am unable to recognize. Sometimes I am in a French countryside vegetables street market, sometimes in a North-African spice store in the Bazar, sometimes further south in a tropical land.
Everyone knows each other there. Sellers help each other during bad weather, despite the competition. Children from the neighborhood always get a small something, an apple or raisins, and a smile. The same people sit lazily in the cafés bordering the market streets day after day, watching the movement. The lady in the biggest flower booth already knows our tastes.
Tourists, foreign and national, come to see it and take the odd colorful picture. In the beginning I wondered what attracted them here, to see this prosaic place where I run errands on Sunday mornings. I am certain they heard of this perfect market and came to verify with their eyes. And I understand it. Sometimes before dawn, when I am woken up by the clanks of booth owners starting their days, I have to remind myself, how perfect this market is.
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