Fresh. Market.
"Hello my lovergirl, you want some thyme? How bout papaya? Pineapple? You got lettuce?"
I wander though aisles of wooden tables laden with fruits and green veggies, bottles of spiced rum and bags of sea moss. The ladies call to me and offer greetings of good morning how can I help. I smile and gently touch piles of mint and mangoes, a woman tears off a piece of spicy basil and brings it to my lips. I consider the pungency and buy two bunches, lay them in my shopping bag that I got in Martinique. Or was it St. Kitts? No it was the super marche in Forte de France. I think.
So many islands so quickly. Running into fresh markets and supermarkets and crappy markets with rotting cabbage and melting ice cream. Markets with French labels that intrigue me but take me twice the time to decipher and therefore instead of being the cultural learning and tasting experience I love it turns into a frustrating mad dash against the leisurely Sunday closing time of 1pm when we arrived at 12:30 and I have at least two shopping carts of provisioning to do. Merde!
But the fresh markets! I may be paying three times the normal price for a ruby papaya, but when she says it costs 40 dollars and you do the math in your head to convert it from eastern Caribbean dollars but its still $15 for a piece of fruit, well, you wonder. But then she smiles and says "thank you my lovergirl" and you smile too as you walk quickly back (or as quickly as you can with three overflowing shopping bags full of ripening fruits and savory vegetables and spices and coconut oil) to the taxi that will take you back to the dock, back to the dinghy that will take you back to the boat and back to the galley where the next meal is waiting to be prepared. Um, now (you're not busy right?) And then appetizers and then dinner. And then rounds of drinks and then goodnight and then up at six am to do it all again. The fridge empties, the nautical miles fly by, the next island appears on the horizon sometimes smoking with volcanic ash sometimes clear and green and lush and the most amazing thing you have ever seen.
Until you wake up the next morning and glide into st. Pierre, Martinique.
And then the Pitons towering magically, majestically on St. Lucia
And then? I may never know which harbor or market I will visit next, but as long as fruit platters are devoured for breakfast by sunburnt guests, I always have a good reason (excuse) to explore island towns, groceries, and fresh markets.
Isn't that right my lovergirl?
I wander though aisles of wooden tables laden with fruits and green veggies, bottles of spiced rum and bags of sea moss. The ladies call to me and offer greetings of good morning how can I help. I smile and gently touch piles of mint and mangoes, a woman tears off a piece of spicy basil and brings it to my lips. I consider the pungency and buy two bunches, lay them in my shopping bag that I got in Martinique. Or was it St. Kitts? No it was the super marche in Forte de France. I think.
So many islands so quickly. Running into fresh markets and supermarkets and crappy markets with rotting cabbage and melting ice cream. Markets with French labels that intrigue me but take me twice the time to decipher and therefore instead of being the cultural learning and tasting experience I love it turns into a frustrating mad dash against the leisurely Sunday closing time of 1pm when we arrived at 12:30 and I have at least two shopping carts of provisioning to do. Merde!
But the fresh markets! I may be paying three times the normal price for a ruby papaya, but when she says it costs 40 dollars and you do the math in your head to convert it from eastern Caribbean dollars but its still $15 for a piece of fruit, well, you wonder. But then she smiles and says "thank you my lovergirl" and you smile too as you walk quickly back (or as quickly as you can with three overflowing shopping bags full of ripening fruits and savory vegetables and spices and coconut oil) to the taxi that will take you back to the dock, back to the dinghy that will take you back to the boat and back to the galley where the next meal is waiting to be prepared. Um, now (you're not busy right?) And then appetizers and then dinner. And then rounds of drinks and then goodnight and then up at six am to do it all again. The fridge empties, the nautical miles fly by, the next island appears on the horizon sometimes smoking with volcanic ash sometimes clear and green and lush and the most amazing thing you have ever seen.
Until you wake up the next morning and glide into st. Pierre, Martinique.
And then the Pitons towering magically, majestically on St. Lucia
And then? I may never know which harbor or market I will visit next, but as long as fruit platters are devoured for breakfast by sunburnt guests, I always have a good reason (excuse) to explore island towns, groceries, and fresh markets.
Isn't that right my lovergirl?
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