Marché des Enfants Rouges


France is famous for it’s myriad of markets. I am privileged to live around the corner from the oldest covered food market of Paris. The Marché des Enfants Rouges was created in 1615 by King Henri IV to feed the Marais district, at the time, Paris’ newest district. The name ‘Red Children’ was given to the market by the neighborhood in remembrance of children from the nearby orphanage, clad in red uniform to symbolize charity. I often venture into this market for lunch to indulge in the assortment of cuisines ranging from Japanese fusion to spicy African. This self-contained universe of international tastes is also an ideal place to buy organic fruits and vegetables, an array of cheeses, breads, fresh fish, local wines…even a fresh bouquet of flowers. A little pricey as it’s in the heart of ‘boboville’, but well worth the experience.

organic afternoon

On Sunday we braved the rain and sudden wind and found our way to our much revered pocket of heaven called Village Saint Paul. There we were serendipitously welcomed by a farmers market, making the experience feel much like a journey into the provinces. So many aged and fresh goat cheeses to taste, homemade confitures to savour, mulled local wine to inhale…and the countless varieties of honey! Immediately I became transformed into an excited child with large curious eyes possessing the refined palate of a well-practiced foodie. Surely I needed to try everything. We returned home to continue the feast, bellies and bags filled with organic produce.


medically speaking

Today I met a key figure in my life as a Parisian. My doctor. I chose her based on the fact that she practices homeopathy in addition to general medicine, her English is very good, and lastly, her office is minutes away from my apartment. She is part of my arrondissement.

The relationship between doctor and patient is an important one and I dearly miss my doctor from NYC. In addition to solving any ailments, physical and even at moments emotional, I considered him a paramount, even paternal presence in my life. Have I now met his maternal equivalent? Perhaps. I immediately felt at ease in the presence of this elegant French Madame, who possesses the nurturing eyes of a mother. The visit was reassuringly personal. We spoke about my decision to move to Paris, the benefits of yoga versus tai chi (the latter of which she practices with great passion). She even advised on where to buy the most healthy breads amidst our local boulangeries. (Ah, the French diet of cheese, wine and bread!)

I feel much more at ease. Knowing should I need medical counsel, or a soothing voice, it’s only steps away. What’s more, an office visit costs a mere $50, without insurance. And this nominal fee is fully reimbursed with the proper documents. Not to mention medicine costs less than a café au lait. Surely it would not be difficult or costly to become a hypochondriac within this socialized system?

after the rain

I love the Parisian rain. It falls only long enough to collect the most inspired thoughts under the roofed terrasse of a local cafe, or slide into the surreal world of a nearby gallery. There exists something deeply romantic about the sudden gray skies and calm upon the streets. Many wintry afternoons are spent with umbrella in hand, searching for a distant rainbow. The return of the sun signifies rebirth. The artists soul is awoken in such moments. I can well understand how writers and philosophers found inspiration within such luminous stillness.

yoga high

It is via the spiritual path of yoga that I arrived to Paris, albeit indirectly. Hence, it will continue to be an integral part of my journey. But in French? Surely yoga needs no translation. This worried me, as my French was not yet as advanced to include body parts and movements. With much research and a fair amount of good fortune, I discovered a suitable yoga studio several cobbled streets away, the Centre de Yoga du Marais. As though sent by the yoga gods, my teacher is American, from NYC no less. Her energy is warm and welcoming. Immediately I feel well. For ninety minutes I am at home. The clatter of a foreign world ceases to exist. I am momentarily living and very deeply breathing, familiarity.

Upon leaving this sanctuary, I am filled with vigor and an enlightened perspective. The challenges ahead seem much more attainable. I float homewards and smile at the life that has been granted me.

swimming in a sea of French…

Some days I experience what I call a ‘French block’. My mind cannot, or more accurately, does not want to think, speak nor understand anything French. It feels too much like starting over, like so many years ago when I moved to NYC and knew but one soul amidst a sea of strangers. I was young and impressionable then, and now? Still rather young and slightly less impressionable, but filled with the same eagerness to know and see and learn and meet. But here in Paris it’s much different. Most of all due to my poor comprehension of the French language and certain cultural aspects I have not yet decided whether suit me (as if I had a choice). Within this particular sea, the faces don’t smile as easily when you glance in their direction, and when looking lost or desperate, rarely will a local offer a gesture of compassion. It is those who have shared this experience, those with empathy (most often possessing a foreign passport), that help me to understand that it is in fact time and a rather liberal amount of humility that will ease this transition and allow the culture to envelop me.

I might add that a good glass of Saint Emilion in the late afternoon sun at the local bistro, can surely serve as a lifeboat.

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