No, just places my heart inhabits. Various markets, where I used to buy my provisions, and where I shall again.
None of the pics feel right, but I tried, and here they are.
Les Halles in Biarritz.
Moore Street in Dublin.
La Boquerìa in Barcelona.
In Biarritz I would have to pass by a claque of silent, sturdy and stubborn Etaistas, and it gave me no pause. It was very, very clean, and one stunningly kind vendor had no issue with my Spanish, serving me exquisite dollops of cassoulet. Just the thing for nursing sick child back to health and me back to self.
The Molly Malones are long since gone from Dublin, and the real treasure is to be found in the butcher shops lining the street, not in the sad stands.
But La Boquerìa is beyond words. I would wish to live there if I could, curled up at night, consoled by all of it. Having lived so long in all the various rungs of Purgatory, I can truly attest that it is, indeed, Paradise.
1 comment:
Eastern Market - Detroit! When the citizenry sets up oil drum barbeques just outside the line of fruit and vegetable vendors and the air is thick with fragrant smoked ribs and the rhythm of actual, African drums, expertly played.
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