The Market

The other day we were at the market near our house, the one where the kids could barely breathe the first time we went because of the strong and different smells. This visit was different. Madelyn no longer cowered next to me with her face in my sleeve but instead walked around checking out the strange things on the counter at the meat stall. We talked about how Grandpa was going to love seeing all the different things for sale here when he and Grandma come in October, but how Grandma might not like it as much. You know, the pigs' feet, fish heads, and whole chickens, limp and white and plucked clean but with eyeballs intact. Oh, and the complete pig tongues, roasted and ready to eat.

I feel different about this market now too. It is a hole-in-the-wall place, halfway down a crowded little alley where tiny shops are set in the walls. Fresh noodle vendors, their five foot strings of pasta hanging from poles on the ceiling. Shrimp in big plastic pans, flipping and flopping and occassionally ending up on the ground where they flail helplessly for a while. Big fish, alive but on their sides because of the scant inch or two of water they have to breathe in, in shallow styrofoam coolers. Dirty cats slinking around the edges of the booths. Onions and garlic and ginger root spread on blankets on the sidewalk at the entrance. Chestnuts waiting, warm and oiled in the big wok-type pan where they were stirred until the shells split. Bins of rice and beans and other things, unidentified in my American mind. Babies and toddlers, their little bare bottoms exposed to the sunshine, hanging around in strollers and holding the hands of their doting grandmothers. In the market itself are many vendors, each with their own carefully arranged displays of fresh vegetables, some familiar and some not. Baskets of eggs, in various shades of cream and brown, ready to be counted out into a small plastic bags.

At first this place was too different. I couldn't imagine really shopping here, but I was with Mrs. Shi, and she was quite at home with this sort of experience. Her presence helped me feel safe. She was the buffer, the one who spoke the language and knew the way things were done. I haven't gone to this particular market alone yet, but I will. I know I stand out. I've not seen another Caucasian person there, ever. It's off the beaten track a little too far. But it seems like real China, and I like that. I don't want to just see the tourist attractions while we're here. It seems right to experience a bit of the real life of China. Is that even possible for us, as outsiders? I'm not sure, but this little market seems like a start.