Snake down through the wavering line that is the Saturday market. Inger, the Swedish woman who lives on the 2nd floor, has painted it, and the postcard sized version lives on our desk at home. It´s such a sensual pleasure - bags of oranges still with the leaves on, artichokes, radishes the size of tennis balls, fresh wet cheeses, bundles of cut narcissi, tomatoes with garden earth clinging, kohlrabi with flags of leaes sprouting, rough local wine in plastic water bottles, buckets of eggs (buy the number you need not a dozen). At one stall a man is running a small gambling enterprise involving a little roulette wheel and various bottles of liquor as prizes.
We meet Maggi who has cycled in and have Cypriot coffee behind "our" cafe. The tables in front spill into the market proper but those behind catch the warm sun. J´s butcher, whose shop also opens onto the market, leaves the door open and lovely smoked ham smells emerge. Loops of sausage and smoked tenderloins hang in the doorway. We resist, but do round the corner for 6 eggs from the egg bucket. And i get a half dozen onions as well. At one time the market was the cheapest, or at least inexpensive and the freshest place for produce. Sadly, this isn´t always so now, so each purchase has to be weighed on its merits and the days of our going home with 20 different coloured plastic bags and the week´s fruit and vegetables seem to be over. But we seldom miss going.
JAWORSKI TRAVELS