The Terrasson market, every Thursday morning, is a treat.
The town, I think it's big enough to be called that, is built up a hill. Spectacular views, and wandering through the ancient streets you get a real feel of times gone by. The Vézere runs through the lower part, flooding the place a few times a year.
One of the old bridges connects the two parts of the market, fruit and veg adorning the grey arches.
Also one of the few places here you might bump into a colored fellowman. Very noticeably absent, specially coming from a colorful Amsterdam.
One of the stalls belongs to a black man. He sells all kinds of leather stuff. I've yet to see someone buy anything, but he doesn't seem the least put out by that. Standing amidst his treasures he shifts his, considerable, weight from one foot to the other, rhythmically, as if about to start a ritual dance. A far-way look in his eyes - is he stoned or dreaming of distant shores?
Towards the end of the market, the vendors no longer interested in buyers, hurriedly packing up their ware, set faces, I spot him. Gracefully moving through the streets, a bunch of cheap, flashy watches dangling from his hand, several pushed up his wrist. As he approaches he somehow manages to catch my eye and look past me at the same time.
It's confusing and, sensing this, he suddenly breaks out into a broad smile, and oh, I can still feel the pleasure, the joy of it. Chubby cheeks, glistening dark skin, fat lips, gorgeous teeth - a happy, happy face.
I want to grab those cheeks and kiss his curly lips.
I want to take him home.
Meanwhile Peter has been taking pictures of the market. Very nice, I'm sure, but the one I really want wont be amongst them.
It will be hidden in my memory to lighten up my rainy days.
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