Every morning, I wake up, place my feet on these cold red tiles, and peer out my window towards the stirring city below. I've discovered that during the Parisian winter, sticky gray clouds cling to the very tops of the buildings, where they either remain for the entirety of the day or find themselves dramatically swept away by the rising sun. I usually ponder their fate for a second, make a cup of coffee, and hastily arrange my things before skipping down my seven flights of stairs to the hazy world of wonders below me.
As I traverse the streets I breathe in the cool, refreshing air. I love the experience: watching students smoke their last cigarettes as they make their remaining brisk, slightly hesitant steps towards class, glancing into the steamy windows of boulangeries, where people wiping the sleep from their eyes form crooked lines, holding my breath as trucks full of fresh meats and cheese round the corners of impossibly tiny boulevards, and smiling to myself as the newspaper kiosk staff pull shiny new copies of magazines and newspapers out of cardboard boxes. People emerge from previously desolate metro passages. Pedestrians adjust their scarves. The city seems to be slowly grinding its way towards consciousness.
This daily snapshot intrigues me. I'm witness to the very act of preparation that it take to make this big, beautiful, sophisticated, mysterious city operate each day. It's like peering into the intricate mechanisms of a giant machine. I've found this to be true for every place in which I've lived... there's no cross-section of humanity quite like that which makes itself evident in the morning.
On Saturday mornings, I hurry down to my new favorite market, Saxe-Breteuil, where to me, the produce is freshest and cheapest. I love watching the vendors help customers pick the very best piece of produce, argue amongst themselves, and practice various ways to keep warm despite the chill of the air. It is in the market that magic takes place- cheese mongers slice generous wedges of Brie and Camembert, grizzly old men hand over sacks of dirt-covered potatoes to chic, well-dressed women, fishmongers line their exotically stocked stalls with freshly- packed ice... and I, I walk, happily drugged through the entire mess as if I was lost in a cave of miracles.
Last Saturday I came across something I hadn't seen before- a vegetable that looked like a mix between an artichoke and broccoli. I believe it's called "Fleur de Bretagne" and it's one of the most bizarre things I've ever seen... take a look!
Each time I visit this market, I step with more confidence. I've begun to recognize my favorite stalls, and think that I might even try to ask the cheese mongers for their opinion the next time I go! I'll certainly keep you posted... and if you have any recommendations for preparing this odd vegetable let me know! I'll try something new :) Until then, take care!
