As Thursday evening approaches, the shutters close for the night and the fire is lit, I find myself getting a bit excited. Why? Expectation! The Christmas morning that happens every Friday. Market day in Souillac, my nearest large town, 10 minutes away. Even after more than 20 years of visits, I never tire of it. Bien sur, things change, vendors come and go. A few years back the fish stand moved to the opposite side of the plaza. But as they say in French, plus ça change, rien ça change. Everything changes, nothing changes.

Markets in rural France are a way of life, an institution. Not only are luscious comestibles sold weekly, but neighbors gather, even on the coldest, most damp days. They chat, exchange the news of the week. There is a vocal lilt in the cold air as one moves past these jolly souls bantering, as only the French can do

The first and third Fridays of each month are extra special. It’s the Foire. Extra merchandise, extra traffic, less parking and more animation. Need a new mattress, sewing machine, sweater, house dress or hunting jacket? Knives sharpened, chair recaned? Then have a stroll through and see what you can discover.

No Yves St. Laurent here, but much curious anachronistic styling. I always wonder, who buys this stuff? But then, l’après-midi, in the afternoon after lunch, you need only to walk though a small hamlet to find les mesdames gathering their wood or chickens and sporting their cotton house coats.

Fair enough. The old and new worlds collide. Sure, you can hop in the car and be at a major shopping center with Costco sized stores that will amaze you, all within 20 minutes of this reminder of rural bliss. But here, wondrous piles of leeks and cheese you never knew existed, flavors of sausage to boggle the mind, all reign supreme. All tempting you and at every turn weighing down your basket.

One feels nourished by the sheer possibility of each and every Friday holiday. And, were that not enough, what about all the other nearby towns whose markets fall on every other day of the week?

(Originally written, one very lovely warm Friday afternoon, sitting on the terrace, thinking about the bounty I had brought
home from the morning Souillac market. Fall, 2005)