"Heeeeeeeeeeiiiiiii. Allez-allez-allez-allez
! Two for 1,50 ! Fresh, beautiful. Don't believe me? Try! Here!"
Simply being a casual observer at the Belleville market
is impossible and before I can react, the stall keeper pulls out
his knife and starts slicing into the pink, cactus-like Barbarian
fig. "You like it? I make you a gift. Get yourself 5 for 2
euros!" He tosses a plastic bag in my direction and turns to
seduce his next customers.
Touching the fruit and bargaining go against the tradition
of food markets, one of the most sacred of French institutions.
But here, the stall owners won't handle your vegetables with the
expected delicacy nor share their wives' cooking tips with you.
Beneath the trees and neglected stone buildings of
this bustling boulevard, the open market resembles something of
a strange hybrid: the romanticism of tradition with a touch of bazaar.
In spite of itself, the cultural make up of Paris is evolving and
here presents an opportunity to witness the interweaving of the
incredibly diverse ethnic communities.
A Chinese man in a sports coat and blue jeans picks
up each of the cods and sniffs until he finds the two most satisfactory.
The fishmonger weighs his selection while turning to exhale a mouthful
of cigarette smoke. Beside him seven live carps lie sideways in
a small cooler. They have to rest still to fit under the shallow
water but the occasional gill movement signals life. Can't argue
the freshness there.
An undeniable energy radiates from Belleville, one
of the most colorful neighborhoods of the city. Squeezed into the
crowds between the two rows of stalls, I'm surrounded by chatter
in dialects of Arabic, Chinese, and other tongues I don't recognize.
An African couple in front of me in colorful traditional
dress converses in Creole. The stall keepers call out their sales
pitches. It takes me a while to figure out who is shouting in their
native language and who is calling in accented French. It comes
to me with a feeling of glee that this is one of the few places
in France where as a foreigner, I don't stand apart. Here, speaking
little to no French doesn't leave anyone excluded from the experience.
If anything, it's the norm.
In fact, I come across only small handful of French shopkeepers:
the fishmongers, the dairy folks with coolers for the cheese but
only tabletops for the yogurt, a small grandmotherly lady selling
honey.
Here, the only baker represented is Tunisian with
his honey coated pastries, round spiced breads and no baguettes.
Most butchers have signs up verifying that their meats were prepared
under the standards of halal. Instead of a range of familiar pork
products, I come across four pale chickens laid side by side, skin
and heads attached, only the neck ripped clean for the comforting
evidence of a job done properly. Nearby, a woman sells homemade
nougats labeled 'kosher' along with 16 varieties of marinated olives.
Most shoppers pull upright carts closely behind them.
As the traffic flows in one of two directions, we packed into a
space, at times, hardly wider than a yard. One doesn't stroll through
the market during peak hours. One squeezes through, is squeezed,
and waits out jams as fellow shoppers pause to ponder a purchase.
Heaven forbid if it involves a baby stroller and a lane switch.
Thick wool cardigans return for the season while the shoe stand
is still pushing sandals. Pantyhose hang from an overhead tarp.
Down the street, an old man sells a variety of polyester undergarments
presented in dignified stacks.
As the pace of the market picks up, the stall keepers
actively ride the energy. One takes a deep breath and calls out
with his dancing tongue: La La La La Lee Di Da!
His customers watch him as they wait patiently for
their change. Another pair shouts aggressively at each other from
facing stalls. I look up and see their faces jolly and laughing.
The fat one starts singing accompanied by his assistant’s
pounding on a metal bowl.
In a quieter area of the market, an Indian man stands
alone. He holds a plastic bag in his right hand and offers a pair
of new black socks with his left. He murmurs a casual and ineligible
sales pitch into the ears of passersby.
Some distinctive streets intersect this market, from
the bustling main avenue of Paris' second Chinatown to the Boulevard
de Belleville itself, lined with Maghrebian Jewish commerce. Rue
Oberkampf begins at the south end of the market, one of the trendiest
areas for bar hopping.
Around noon, I watch an African woman makes her way
home from the market. Her day's shopping is packed into a lumpy
sac larger than her torso. She strolls slowly, the sac balanced
on her head, held steady by her right hand. Her full length tunic
in batik print completes the silhouette, challenged only by the
Chanel-inspired handbag swinging from her free arm.
While a growing number of ethnic groups are making
their home in Paris, many prefer living within their individual
communities to retain their lifestyles and languages. But at the
occasion of such markets, one witnesses an openness of spirit as
they take part in the evolution of traditions. No matter where you
are from, you are all but invited to take part in the vibrant cacophony.
[originally published on Travel-wise.com
and in various Canadian newspapers / June 2004] |
