The thick smell of hot jam goo-ing out of squishy donuts pours into your mouth.. and then your eyes spot seventy people down the cue, next to the man and the big issue. The hustle and gabbers around mountains of fruit and vegetable; $1 here, $1 there. The tinkering of rain on rocky pavements as boots scuff through, onto laid out cardboard. Bunches of greenery, fresh herbs; the ones you rarely find out of packets, grounded. A bowl of white bread and spoonfuls of cinnamon, fig and apple jam, chutneys and pasta sauces. The floury haze over pumpkin and poppy seed fettuccine, and sourdough bread sitting pluffy in the wooden cabinets. Filo pastry sitting soft and heated with spinach and ricotta inside, steam swimming out of jumpy mouths and napkins slither with olive oil. Figs stuffed with cheese and coconut, honey liquor melting on your tongue and sweet syrup oozing out of juicy dates, straight from the tree. The acai berry man talking about fluoride and water; it is not at all good. and the juice bar grazing your throat with ginger.
Jackets sit high on racks and price tags beam, the hagglers, the schmoozers and the gentle, quiet sellers. Best price and best quality, novelty sport tops and rattling koala bears- to send back home with an Australian woolen fleece. Home made candles and carved wooden blocks to hold the burning incense. Jewelry glitters around each bend, a table just for thick socks and trapper hats.
Bags in each hand, stuffed to the brim with potatoes, pumpkin, bananas, onions. The folded jacket, first quality winter favourite. Three loaves of bread; white, linseed and olive. Fresh pasta, herbs, gifts, empty food containers and wrappers. The boot of the car is filled, our arms relax and we drive away.
A day at the Queen Victoria Market.
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