market

8 a.m at N° 11

From my bedroom at the back of the flat I can already smell the summer jasmine from Père David's garden.   The front is another thing altogether.  Beneath the canopies rises a carcophony of food smells; spit-roast chicken, paella, garbure, aligot, accras de morue, nems, maffé.  It's too early in the morning for this olfactory onslaught.

I went down and shuffled through the market crowd to have a coffee at Atmos.  There was a tangible feeling of levity in the Square in the aftermath of the second round of elections.  A collective sigh of relief.