Fears

We all have things we are afraid of in life. For example, my friend Christopher, is frightened of spiders. I have witnessed my normally-impervious-to-all-fear brother become rather shrill in the presence of bats. My husband is afraid of large-winged insects and ABBA songs.

It seems my catalogue of fears is a bit thicker than the usual one or two items. While I am sure the following list is not exhaustive, I am afraid of heights, crowded elevators, rodents, groups of loitering adolescents, chicken salad, and the people who work the market stalls in France.

This last item is a relatively new addition.

In Paris, each arrondissement has outdoor markets that are set up on the sidewalks once or twice a week. In each stall, a vendor displays his/her offerings, and the array of wares for sale ranges from fur coats to fresh fish to hosiery to cheese to Bollywood DVDs. It is a veritibale amalgam of goods, and a "one-stop shop" in the truest sense of the term; you can scoop up some delicious olives right after you buy leather gloves right before you sample an omelette. And le cerise on top is that all can be had at a reasonable price.

It is a lovely tradition. People wheel around their grocery carts and barter over the price of socks as other people have their boeuf and lardons chopped up on the spot by the butcher for tonight's dinner. I love wandering through and looking at the variety of foods, the habits of the shoppers, and marveling at this experience that is so different from anything in the states. It all makes me feel sort of wistful and nostalgic, although I have no idea why or for what, really.

Maybe the whole affair just makes me wish for a return to simpler times. You know the ones I never experienced, making nostalgia seem both inappropriate and hypocritical. But who doesn't love indulging in a Laura Ingalls Wilder moment here and there?

Anyway, all would be hunky-dory with regards to Maggie and the market, there is only one minor snafu with the situation: the whole shabang also gives me a minor anxiety attack. These vendors are "turn 'em and burn 'em" in a way, and they have little patience for a timid Minnie-mouse-voiced foreigner who cannot properly pronounce the name of the frommage she would like and has absolutely no idea how many grammes of hariciots verts are appropriate for deux personnes.

No one is unkind, I am not saying that at all. It is just a situation where these vendors are trying to make a profit during the few hours the market exists and they need people to make their decisions chop, chop, tout suite and move on.

I am not the chop,chop, tout suite type, particularly when it comes to making decisions on food, and especially when I am feeling undue pressure because I have suddenly forgotten how to say eggplant in French (aubergine, but I remembered after that fact). I become really nervous, and instead of walking away with the tomatoes, eggplant, and mushrooms I set out for at the vegetable stand one day, I wound up with tomatoes, a kiwi, and 2 bunches of endive.

Something overtakes me in the moment, I feel immense pressure and I just start pointing at things. It is not graceful, not productive, and somewhat demoralizing.

No offense to the kiwi.

My point is that I am working on my fears. Proof: I climbed a bell tower a couple of weeks ago with my husband in Bordeaux. Frankly, it seemed rather unsteady, yet up I went. The fact that it has been standing without incident for four centuries, is beside the point in my opinion. The real victory was that I did not cry--whether or not I almost cried is also beside the point, thank you very much. So I am tackling the height thing with a little method I like to call "baby steps."

And, this morning, I went to the market and I bought tomatoes, green beans, and apples--exactly what I set out for. Yes, I did have a crimson-faced moment and may have developed a temporary stutter when asking for the beans and subsequently being shouted at that my words were incomprehenisible, but I persevered. I then went to the frommage stand and managed to not only purchase the cheese I wanted, but to engage in a dialogue with the frommager that lasted about deux minutes and even ended with us both smiling. Success!

Of course I ran away from the fish stand when I became nervous trying to figure out how to order something and said nervousness reached over-load as I watched the fishman bark at the customer in front of me. Rather than risk tears and mini-meltdown, I headed home, chop, chop, tout suite.

So no fish for me, and the market-fear still exists, but I feel optimistic that it can be conquered. At least it feels more in the realm of possibility than playing "Dancing Queen" in our apartment anytime soon, and that says something.