I knew it was different the moment we woke up. First of all, it was light outside when I went for my first walk, which usually means one very important thing Mom is not going to work. The whole morning moves differently on these days. Slower, softer, less rushing around and more coffee drinking while staring out the window for no reason. Then I see the large over-the-shoulder bag. I know exactly where we’re going. Last week I shared my thoughts on our different modes of travel but today I wanted to talk about one of my favorite things. Here is a dog’s guide to French Farmers Markets.
We head toward our usual walking route, but today the street has transformed overnight into something entirely different. Booths line both sides of the road, people are everywhere, and the air is packed with smells so layered and delicious it is almost impossible to process them all at once.
There are also humans shouting from behind tables. Not angry shouting. Farmer’s market shouting, apparently this is how vegetables are sold. As we approach, I hear them before I see them.
The Chariots – A Dog’s Guide to French Farmers Markets
Humans call them shopping trolleys, or here in France, chariots. Practical for them but a menace for the rest of us. They rattle behind people with absolutely no regard for paw safety. Some are pulled recklessly while others are abandoned in the middle of walkways like tiny unattended wagons of chaos.
I have become highly skilled at evasive maneuvers. More than once I have had to pivot suddenly to avoid being flattened by one rolling silently toward me while its owner examines tomatoes with complete emotional detachment from the danger behind them.
Mom has one too when we go to the larger market. I don’t love it, but I admit it helps me locate her in the crowd. The wheels make a familiar sound against the pavement, almost like echolocation. Once inside, all I can see are legs. Legs and more legs and of course the chariots.
At the Farmers Market
Mom and I begin weaving through the crowd together. We have developed an impressive system over time. The leash moves gently left or right, our own form of communication in busy places.
When it gets especially crowded I just walk directly behind her knees. It feels safer there.
There are many others like me here too, patiently standing beside their people while waiting in lines at mysterious booths that apparently contain things humans consider worth discussing for long periods of time.
Now this part?
This part is extraordinary. Chicken cooking on skewers, warm bread. The butcher stand smells so powerful it is hard to ignore and of course, the cheese booths.The stinky cheese booths. I would like to personally thank France for its’ commitment to cheese. The air itself feels edible.
Crumb Patrol
While Mom waits in line, I conduct inspections beneath the tables for any fallen pieces. Research purposes only, of course. Mom is very efficient now. She knows exactly which stops are worth making. Order, pay, place it into the bag and we move on.
Meanwhile, I continue gathering information through scent. This is very serious work. It has become our Saturday routine. But honestly? Sunday mornings may be even better. The market is gone by then. The crowds have disappeared. The shouting has stopped. Even the street cleaners have usually passed through already.
But traces remain.
Tiny treasures.
A piece of particularly fragrant cheese here. A forgotten crumb there. Once, some green leaves, though I don’t really understand why humans get so excited about those. In my opinion, the market itself is a little overwhelming for both Mom and me. Too crowded. Too noisy with too many chariots operating without supervision.
But the smells? The smells are magnificent. Every now and then, if luck is on your side, the street leaves behind a small reward for those willing to keep their noses close to the ground.
Next week, I will discuss another very important part of French culture: restaurants.
More specifically, the emotional endurance required to sit politely beneath a table while surrounded by food I am apparently not allowed to eat.
Thanks for being here,
-Soraya & Lucy
Traveling Through France With a Dog: Lucy’s Guide to Pet-Friendly Travel
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