Bob and Gayle's France Trip

Dreams and Markets

Dreams and Markets

You know you’ve really become acclimated to a culture by the content of your dreams. Two nights ago, I had a very long and detailed dream about how I became the next Pope. Let me tell you, it wasn’t easy, and I didn’t win by a landslide in the conclave. I suspect not being a Catholic was a real negative in my election process. Nonetheless, Bob Selby was Pope for a night and they even let off a puff of gray smoke in my honor! I was dismayed today when I heard they chose a German Cardinal instead.

Last night I dreamed that I couldn’t remember where we actually lived. The house, town, people, were a mosaic of nothingness. I was particularly upset because I couldn’t remember where the Sequim library was. Finally the pieces started falling in place. First I remembered the new traffic circle, Walmart, and thank goodness the Sequim library. Personally, I would rather have continued my explorations of the Vatican. The only negative to that dream was those robes the Pope wears. They are very mega starched and ultra scratchy. I would have given anything for a pair of cuddle duds or sweat pants.

Yesterday, we had a relaxing picnic in Park Monceau. Picnics are no small event in the lives of Selby. We started out refilling a small ½ bottle of wine with nice Bordeaux, taking our portable wine glasses, picnic sheet that we toss over benches drenched with bird poop, fresh fruit, and plenty of good, French cheese. Then we jump on the Metro and get off close to our favorite market street, Rue Poncelet. You know when you’re getting close to the oasis of food because you can hear the produce sellers chanting their specials of the day. In addition, there is always a seller of cell phone covers and knockoff Pucci sunglasses at the corner. Cell phone covers are big in Paris. Funny though, everyone I see seems to have a nude phone to their ear! Demand has not caught up with supply.

A market street is a carnival of food and French folks. The streets are cobble stoned in shiny, uneven red brick. The street is a roomy single lane, the sidewalks are wide but for the last 300 years, chocked with vegetables, fruits, and the occasional oyster stand. As I said before, there is simultaneous musical chanting by several vendors of their wares. I often wondered if the song goes, “Yay, here come the Americans, let’s try and sell them some leg of goat.” The people range from businessmen and women, elderly Madames toddling around with their shopping carts (laundry hampers on wheels) and poodles, and mother/daughter teams, the future of the market being trained.
Then there are the Selby’s, we are on a mission, a bomb strike, drop a few euros to get our stinky cheese, a few slices of fresh roasted pork, a baguette and sortie (exit) the other end. I was in charge of the pork. I sized up three butcher shops. I rate them on these three criteria; product, accessibility, and whether or not they walk around with butcher knives. In broken French I told him I wanted 100 grams of roast pork (porc roti). Before I could point, he pointed at a raw leg of pork hanging behind him. The leg still had the foot attached. I blanched, and he laughed, and we safely finished our business. This was a big inroad for me as butchers have always appeared rather stern and almost grim in their task. From now on, I point before I speak!
Our big excitement for the day includes a reunion with Dave and Linda and tomorrow Kimball and Marilyn.

Picture Set 1

posted by Bob and Gayle @ 9:02 PM