The little market by our flat has been a highlight for us since we started our adventure. I realized I haven’t shared many photos of it here yet, and thought it deserves its own post.
I saved this post on March 10; it was going to be one of the posts I worked on at the end of that month. Most of the photos I’ve taken at our market were taken in the cold winter months. Even then, vendors abounded on the weekend! And people were there to buy their wares. As the calendar pages flipped by to warmer months, without a doubt, there are now more and more people at the market. I still consider it my primary source of entertainment, as well as my primary source of human, non-family interaction. Having been here for many months, the vendors definitely recognize me, all of us, even though I cannot communicate very well with them. It’s still nice to see a friendly, familiar face; one that acknowledges that they know who I am and are happy to see me again.
Remember when I said I had the urge to share with complete strangers what I had gone through with my mom? Well, this week I did share it. I shared it with the young man who sells milk at the market. He kinda reminds me of my cousin’s son, Phil, in looks. I think I shared it with him because when I came back in the middle of April, after being away for three weeks, he looked genuinely happy – and surprised – to see me. Anyway, I knew I could never figure out how to tell him what I wanted to tell him, so I opened up google translate and I wrote (typed) in English what I wanted to say, and had it translated into French. I told him why we were here, that he’s actually met (or at least seen/talked to) all three of my daughters, and their husbands (of the two that are married), he hasn’t met my son, his wife, or their baby, and why I was gone for three weeks in March and April. It felt good to be sharing information other than a “bonjour!” with someone. When he finished reading my hand-written letter (we don’t have a printer here), he indicated that he understood. Then I asked him a question, only when he answered me, I had no idea what his answer was, as is per normal. There was another customer there who happened to be witnessing the question part of this interaction. She asked if I speak English, and then offered to translate for me. I said, “Oh, yes, thank you!” So I asked her to ask him what the tattoo on his arm said. She asked him, he answered in French, and then she said to me, “He says it’s in Latin.” I said, “Yes, but what does it MEAN?!” She again asked him, in French, and he gave a long, elaborate answer as to what it means (or so I thought). She turned to me and said, “He says he doesn’t tell anyone what it means, and that by not sharing it, that’s how he keeps the meaning close to his heart.” I started to laugh, looked at him, and said, “And here I just poured my heart out to you…!” I laughed as I was walking away, and then as I walked through the middle of the stands, the tears started to sting my eyes. What I had mistaken as real human interaction had just been niceties. I have no non-family interactions here. I have no connections here, not even no *real* connections; just flat-out no connections. I was silly to think that I did. Maybe I just hoped that I did. And yet, that one interaction with the milk man and the translator made it easier for me to leave here somehow. I will miss the market, and the weekly Saturday chicken meal with cranberry sesamé bread, and I will miss the vendors with the twinkles in their eyes who smile at me and say, “bonjour!” But I long for family and friends who know me and choose to spend time with me – people I can actually understand and can interact with! – AND WITH WHOM I DON’T REQUIRE A TRANSLATOR!! – and I’m missing that quite a bit these days.
So why do I feel the need to share so much private information about myself with people I don’t know? Not many other people do! Am I always like this? Or is it living in a place where I cannot speak the language? Or is it because my mom just died? Or am I just missing my family and friends?? WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?! I do think it’s at least partly because I have time on my hands and no one to talk to. And not just because there’s no one to talk to, but because even if there was someone to talk to, I wouldn’t be able to understand them, anyway!
Actually, I was just talking to my sister the other day about this very thing. Believe it or not, I don’t share my feelings face to face much with people; not even my family. I do on occasion, but I am much more comfortable listening to what others have to say than sharing what’s on my mind (at least, this is how I’m feeling at this moment. Things could change by tomorrow!). And yet, where writing is concerned, I have NO PROBLEM sharing my innermost thoughts and feelings… and I don’t even (usually!) mind when people read them! That’s the strange part. It’s like there’s a disconnect that the words I’m typing are actually being read by people out there, by you. At my mom’s funeral, there were a couple of times where someone commented about something to me, and I remember being taken aback, thinking, “HOW did you know that?!” And then I remembered, “Oh, yearh…. I WROTE about that…. and you (obviously) read it! What did you expect, Lor?!” It’s a strange realization, because when I’m writing, I’m not thinking about the consequences of what I’m writing about. I share things that I find interesting or novel or compelling or funny or sad… or whatever. I’m not thinking at all about what the reader is getting from me. Maybe I shouldn’t admit that, but it’s not even in my stream of consciousness. And then once I’ve written whatever it is I’ve written down, it’s like I flush it from my memory. POOF! Gone. I think that’s why I found writing on the CaringBridge site when my mom was dying so cathartic.
It’s funny; Mark has been writing more recently, too. He’s always been interested in story-telling. He told the most fantastic stories to our kids when they were little, and they always wanted him to write them down. But there was never enough time to do all the things he wanted to do, so his writing got put on the back burner. It’s one of the things that he was really looking forward to doing on this sabbatical; to do a little story writing, in addition to all the science writing he normally does. He’s a great writer! I want him to finish his stories so he/I can share them with others!
I like to think that my keeping a blog has influenced him somehow to spend the time writing that he is, but I doubt that that’s the reason for it. He had every intention of writing while here. It’s funny, though, how different our styles are. It reminds me of the movie we just watched this week. Has anyone seen Tamara Drewe? I guess it’s based on a comic strip that was then turned into a graphic novel. The original story is based on a Thomas Hardy novel, Far From the Madding Crowd. It’s not a great movie, but it’s entertaining and worth watching. One of the first scenes is in an English farmhouse that’s a writer’s retreat. And each of the writers is working on whatever it is they’re working on. One is an expert on Thomas Hardy (interesting twist!), and he sounds like the professor that he is (haha, sorry, Mark… and all my other professor friends! I’m just sayin’… the word professor means a person who professes. And the first definition of profess means to lay claim to; often insincerely… that’s what he was like!). One writer self-publishes online and her language is atrocious. One is a romance novelist, and one is a crime novelist; I’m sure there were others, too, but those are the ones I remember. It’s so funny to see the different portrayals of writers from all walks of life and their very different styles! … kinda like us, hey, Mark?!
Anyway, here are the photos from the market near our apartment. Enjoy!