About local markets and multiculturalism

Local international markets, that’s one of my favourite contradictions. Those markets discoverable only by chance or by sentito dire, that grow like mushrooms in different spots of the city, different by themes and products sold but similar and each unique for that unique melting pot of the sellers. And unique because in those special days there’s a nice courious crowd in the spot: families, friends, couples, single persons that bear a smile on their faces in trying and tasting foreign,genuin products. Then,discussions or coups de foudre about the picture of a special dinner, suggestions on how to eat these delicacies… even I could be a good chef like this! Brussels is unbeatable about food, l place this city even over Italy: as capital of the European Union there are all kind of national cuisines for all the exigences. There you go for luxury, Michelin stars’ awarded restaurants (eg, Belga Queen) to everyday-delicious places. The smell of  delicacies and beer is always in the air. I’m not going to stop in a too long list that would took me hours, l was simply talking about markets. And l recalled Brussels because actually two of the best internationals (and l am talking of an international cradle) were really close to my beloved home: sunday morning in Place Flagey and wednesday afternoon in Place de la Chatelaine. The latter in particular was my favourite, l haven’t missed a walk there since when l first discovered its existence. The neighborhood – my neighboorhood- is antique and picturesque, and it’s not a case if it’s called “little Paris” for all the lights along the little streets opening up on the square. A single girl with boring, unsimpathetic and unfunny flatmates suffers longing to buy everything with the only imagination either to get fat alone either to forget everything in the fridge. So, as long as l remember just once i managed to prepare myself a goat cheese salad without the salad, ergo with frozen green beans  (I love eating as much l hate have a good dish alone or have to eat it two times, so I found smarter to fill the freezer. My parents were shocked once they found in june the same prosciutto they gave me in february). It was not really the eating part, but the chatting and discovering one. And of course, cocktail hour there. Not take-away, but enjoy-the-moment-in-the-place. When cheering in the crowd, it’s better not to take pictures, so the ones in the link below could have been taken by me on the solitary walk part.


So, can you imagine how happy l was to discover that in Livorno for a weekend we had an international market of that stile (less elegant but still..!) ? Another motto of mine is: “If you don’t come to the world, the world comes to you”. Two  weekends ago l had the belgian friends; last one I cought the colourful world with my friend Laura,talking with different people of different nationalities: russians, dutchs, brasilians, spanish, irish, french… I was so impressed and happy to meet those people: real travellers with real stories, smiling and partying even though working. Sunday evening many of them were about to go back to their refurnishment spot soon after with a long drive, to be ready to be on thursday in Grosseto or elsewhere. A big camion contains their office, then they’re free to go where they want. My dearest friends there have been the french, and whoever stops in a special market like this one in Italy should try Vincent’s biscuits. He’s a true breton defending the cause that French Riviera is not France because there’s no french people anymore but italians, russians, arabians etc. His biscuits are like his ideas: originally french. Here’s the link of his site http://www.biscuiterie-de-kerlann.com/index.php?idpage=1&idarticle=45. I had the fortune to visit Bretagne when l was little,- and little by little many regions of that beautiful country-, but l am glad to see that wherever l go and live, France is not far and by far those biscuits are like the ones l had locally when I was a child. Here’s a photo taken in Mont Saint-Michel, in Normandie.


Je ne veux pas traduire ce post en italien car je devrais d’abord le traduir en français pour la joie que j’ai d’utiliser cette langue et pour la supremacie que je lui donne parmis toutes les autres. Donc desolée pour mes compatriotes mais ce post va rester dans la langue que mon coeur aurait choisi  s’il aurait pu.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s