Market Day (Volume 4)

Down drafts plummet off the flanks of Thamserku, a Himalayan giant above the famous hamlet of Namche Bazaar. Cold air churns a peculiar smoke—the smell of burning Yak dung meant to fire Sherpa’s homes and shops. The cold air hinders no seller as it seems one could arrive naked and find everything they need to outfit an expedition up valley to Mt. Everest. There is climbing gear galore, most of it from China, whose border lies to the north less than 20 miles as the Gorak flies. You feel something ancient here, both in the Himalayan mountains and their people. Things are done as they have been for as long as their history tells. Their world is one of a true mountain life and nearly everyone you see will never find cause to leave these slopes. The air is antique itself. You see folk art from Tibet and from the rest of Nepal. People from surrounding villages drag their wares up from 100 miles away—and sometimes their wares drag themselves. Yaks are led into the people’s market and butchered on the spot. Their meat however is not for the Sherpa’s who are Buddhist, but for the tourists who come from around the world to get a glimpse of Earth’s highest point. You pass up the prayer wheels and prayer flags and pick up a yak bell with a hand sewn yak-woolen collar. The kind Sherpa woman, in her rainbow apron and brown dress, proves a hard bargainer and you walk away wondering who got the better deal. You quickly forget about this as you step into the land of lavender, of fromage, of saucisse and most importantly, of vin. You have had a long day. Time for a glass of wine.

Stepping into Provence is like stepping into a foodie’s dream. Here you will see indications of calories, of fat content and rarely will a menu list ingredients. For in France, to not know what goes in Cassoulette or how Duck confit is prepared would be to not be French. Provence is the stomach of the nation that invented fine cuisine. You pass through a market with the freshest tomatoes you have ever seen. A woman sits among wheels of cheese stacked like coins in a bank. You sample one, creamier and stronger than you’d have thought and you buy a wedge. Further on a man sells artisan sausage made from duck, from bull and one with truffles. You can’t resist…and because you can’t read French you just pick a few at random. You eat a slice as you continue into a local winery. Provence is hardly known for its wine, yet wineries pepper the countryside. You can only imagine a day in Burgundy or Bordeaux. You see a bottle that reads Chateaunuef du Pape and little do you know that you have wandered into one of the greatest wine growing regions on earth. The grapes are Grenache and the tongue is unmistakably French. You learn that this very wine you drink was the incarnation of the pope some time ago when the papacy was in France. You toast to Pope Clement the fifth, sit down and enjoy a glass.

You reflect on the day…how many things you’ve seen and how many places you still wish you’d have gone. You would love to have a piece of chocolate from Belgium or even the famous chocolatiers in Lithuania. You missed the bazaars of the Sahara, the sensory overload of Dubai, the crossroads of Kashgar, the flower market of Kolkata, antique books in Cape Town. You simply can’t see it all. For now this glass of wine and a moment of reflection are the best things of the day. A song enters your head, one you listened to before leaving. “You don’t have what you don’t know”. You look at your bag of goods from around the world and realize that they are nothing without the stories; without the memory of walking there, of the taste in the air or the way your feet ached as you found your way. And in the coming days as people pass your treasures without a glance, you feel a quiet sense of meaning that will remain only for you.