Every Sunday there is a market down at the local square, about a 10 minute walk from where I live. The fresh fruit and vegetables are of top quality and are sold at much better prices than in the supermarket. I really enjoy going down to buy my supplies for the week, visiting the same people and sharing a short conversation. There have been some strange moments. Being complimented for having the exact change to pay for my apples; asking for 4 mandarins, being asked “Is that all you want?”, nodding with a puzzled expression and then being given them for free (I must look like a poor uni student from a foreign land); buying an épinard because it looked like a giant pak choi (which I love), only to discover it was spinach (which is ok, if well cooked, not the way I try to cook pak choi); and starting off an older man’s rant on the young people of today not knowing mathematics because I misheard the price as trente nette (thirty net, precisely thirty) instead of trente-neuf (thirty-nine). I like the hustle and the bustle of the markets, and the feeling as though you never quite know what’s in store.