Traipsing Byward Market
Another beautiful winter day. Nice; in the wake of an unfortunate December, to have January so kind to us. The sky clear and impressively blue, hardly a wisp of a cloud to mar its clarity. And the temperature nicely above the freezing mark, with no wind to speak of. The accumulated snow has become hard and crisp, icy in spots, but that's fine for us, wearing our boots and cleats in the ravine.
Coming across some old ravine-rambling acquaintances who regale us about their exploits, their two King Charles Spaniels snuffling about. They're off to Cuba week after next for a bit of sightseeing and recreation. The other side of the island, opposite Havana, going to join friends of theirs who often travel there.
And on the advice of their friends they've packed small over-the-counter pharmaceuticals to hand out, because they're in scarce supply in Cuba. Along with toiletries and other small gifts that will be appreciated. Cluing neatly into a gesture of civility widely practised by visitors from privileged economies visiting those not quite so.
After all, Cuba, for all the advantages it has slowly and laboriously gained for itself, struggling to maintain itself under the severity of a rather onerous and unfair trade embargo, is not yet capable of offering to its people the small comforts and necessities we take for granted. We come from a society whose population has become entitled to living with grace and the security of plenty.
Off we went, in the early afternoon on a jaunt of our own, driving along the beautiful and peaceful eastern Parkway. Passing the Aeronautical Museum, seeing the Ottawa River running free and clear at a time when it should be completely frozen, with ice-fishing huts installed at various places, especially across the river, on the Quebec side.
We pass the estate of the Governor-General, that of the Prime Minister, the French Embassy the British High Commission, the Embassy of Japan. The Agha Khan Foundation headquarters taking shape, the (Royal Kingdom of) Saudi Embassy, Embassy of Kuwait, the (Royal Canadian) Mint, the National Gallery, with its giant spider sculpture and marble eggs: "Maman".
Turn the loop around the Peacekeepers' Memorial, and on to search for a parking space at Byward Market, jammed today with people out enjoying this beautiful day in a congenial setting. We do find a handy parking spot, and as we begin our amble up toward the Market my eye is drawn to the spectacle of a young woman hurrying across the street, dodging cars and no doubt causing a few pop-eyes in the process.
She is lithe and lissom, tall with long flowing dark hair. She wears skin-hugging low-rise jeans, and her tight little black leather jacket is sufficiently skimpy that her bare midriff remains vulnerable to the winter cold, albeit clemently. She's alone, but there, walking just up ahead of us, a young couple; he sensibly dressed but for the lack of gloves, and she wearing very similar skin-tight jeans carefully caressing her shapely buttocks, her thighs.
Nicely booted, with yet another midriff-baring, almost-there black jacket. She's as tall as her companion, walking with proud confidence, her youthful beauty generously bared. My husband whispers to me: "what kind of skirt is she wearing?" until he realizes there is none, the tight "jeans" having given the impression she was clad only in tights. Ah well, there was a time...
As we approach the market area, the crowd of people becomes denser, people gawking at one another, at the merchandise on display on large, flat tables. A more colourful outdoor market scene is hard to find in this winter environment. But we make our way first to the side street that holds a number of small shops and enter a deep and narrow shop of shelving boasting magazines of every variety.
Also showcased are miniatures of military figures, everything from the European wars of the 18th and 19th centuries to Japanese warriors of extreme refinement, exquisite detail and minuscule dimensions. They're quite wonderful in their tiny perfection, alongside the equally tiny reproductions of the accoutrements of war. They're so perfect as to challenge the imagination.
It's quick work for my husband to find the magazine he's looking for, on the far shelves: American Art Review. And he picks up another, similarly art-endowed magazine as well before heading to the front of the shop and the cashier's desk. As we commence walking forward in comes an elderly henna-coiffed woman with an almost-there grey Poodle on a leash and harness.
Unleashing an immediate hostile response from our own toy Poodle who, although a toy breed must weigh three times this wee one mincing daintily along on the floor, curious but unperturbed at the rude manners of our dog. This incredibly small dog is dressed in an obviously made-to-order garment that completely covers its body and legs, leaving only its head and tail vulnerable to the cruel air.
Its body-garment is multi-coloured and patterned, complete with hood overhanging the tiny head, ending where the foot portion reaches the tiny rubber boots. Our two galumphing dogs look like hulking pedestrian beasts beside this morsel of a canine and I cannot pry my ears away from it. Its human evidently speaks only French and is, in any event, like her dog, disinterested in comparing notes or even acknowledging our presence, and we move on.
Crossing the street again to gain the main portion of the market where all the shops we're primarily interested in are located. We shop for cheeses of notable derivation and taste, unlike the supermarket variety, and we're immensely rewarded to find exactly what we're looking for, and more. They're very good about ignoring the presence of Button and Riley, riding high slung over our shoulders - and the other shoppers are amused, unoffended.
We've been frequenting these same shops for decades; they're accustomed to accepting the sometimes eccentric behaviour of many of their clients. Outside, we walk slowly about, drinking in the atmosphere, relishing the day and the urban landscape. An unkempt beggar is hunched on the sidewalk, plastic cup outstretched. Is he not fortunate to live in such a privileged country with one of the highest GDPs in the developed world?
He's not unique in this area of town, one which attracts the upper- and middle-crust of the city, renowned for its tourist appeal, bringing an atmosphere of authenticity to this capital of Canada. There are usually as well - although not today - numerous young people looking for handouts, runaways living on the street, often drug-addicted. To enhance the pride that Canadians have every right to feel about their country, their civil society.
A toonie handed out here and there, matter-of-factly, sometimes hesitantly does much to assuage one's conscience. Echoing the street services made available by the municipality, and the law authorities augmented by the very real humanitarian concerns of local churches and privately-operated charities like the Salvation Army. In lieu of a real effort to solve the dishonouring dilemma of accepting the fiction that people enjoy the liberty of homelessness.
People idle, walk about singly, in pairs and family groups, enjoying the January thaw and the offerings from individual stalls; street vendors making available all kinds of fascinating consumer goods from jewellery to haberdashery, to hand-made garments, faux floral arrangements, honey and maple syrup. We stop before one such stall surfeit with hand-made wool hats, colourful and betasseled.
The owner's heritage can readily be seen in his broad face and high Andean cheekbones. The hats, he tells us, are $15 each, all different, all unique in pattern, if not design, a design easily traced to the hemisphere and mountains from which they come. Made, he tells us proudly, by "his people" in Ecuador. My husband, always looking to shelter his tender pate from inclement weather, tries on a few; I encourage a black-patterned number, but he succumbs to the lure of one more colourful.
Always such a pleasure to visit the market, walk among the sightseers and casual shoppers as well as those who come specifically for the food offered by the many small cafes, trattorias, and restaurants crowding the streets there. Aren't we fortunate?
Coming across some old ravine-rambling acquaintances who regale us about their exploits, their two King Charles Spaniels snuffling about. They're off to Cuba week after next for a bit of sightseeing and recreation. The other side of the island, opposite Havana, going to join friends of theirs who often travel there.
And on the advice of their friends they've packed small over-the-counter pharmaceuticals to hand out, because they're in scarce supply in Cuba. Along with toiletries and other small gifts that will be appreciated. Cluing neatly into a gesture of civility widely practised by visitors from privileged economies visiting those not quite so.
After all, Cuba, for all the advantages it has slowly and laboriously gained for itself, struggling to maintain itself under the severity of a rather onerous and unfair trade embargo, is not yet capable of offering to its people the small comforts and necessities we take for granted. We come from a society whose population has become entitled to living with grace and the security of plenty.
Off we went, in the early afternoon on a jaunt of our own, driving along the beautiful and peaceful eastern Parkway. Passing the Aeronautical Museum, seeing the Ottawa River running free and clear at a time when it should be completely frozen, with ice-fishing huts installed at various places, especially across the river, on the Quebec side.
We pass the estate of the Governor-General, that of the Prime Minister, the French Embassy the British High Commission, the Embassy of Japan. The Agha Khan Foundation headquarters taking shape, the (Royal Kingdom of) Saudi Embassy, Embassy of Kuwait, the (Royal Canadian) Mint, the National Gallery, with its giant spider sculpture and marble eggs: "Maman".
Turn the loop around the Peacekeepers' Memorial, and on to search for a parking space at Byward Market, jammed today with people out enjoying this beautiful day in a congenial setting. We do find a handy parking spot, and as we begin our amble up toward the Market my eye is drawn to the spectacle of a young woman hurrying across the street, dodging cars and no doubt causing a few pop-eyes in the process.
She is lithe and lissom, tall with long flowing dark hair. She wears skin-hugging low-rise jeans, and her tight little black leather jacket is sufficiently skimpy that her bare midriff remains vulnerable to the winter cold, albeit clemently. She's alone, but there, walking just up ahead of us, a young couple; he sensibly dressed but for the lack of gloves, and she wearing very similar skin-tight jeans carefully caressing her shapely buttocks, her thighs.
Nicely booted, with yet another midriff-baring, almost-there black jacket. She's as tall as her companion, walking with proud confidence, her youthful beauty generously bared. My husband whispers to me: "what kind of skirt is she wearing?" until he realizes there is none, the tight "jeans" having given the impression she was clad only in tights. Ah well, there was a time...
As we approach the market area, the crowd of people becomes denser, people gawking at one another, at the merchandise on display on large, flat tables. A more colourful outdoor market scene is hard to find in this winter environment. But we make our way first to the side street that holds a number of small shops and enter a deep and narrow shop of shelving boasting magazines of every variety.
Also showcased are miniatures of military figures, everything from the European wars of the 18th and 19th centuries to Japanese warriors of extreme refinement, exquisite detail and minuscule dimensions. They're quite wonderful in their tiny perfection, alongside the equally tiny reproductions of the accoutrements of war. They're so perfect as to challenge the imagination.
It's quick work for my husband to find the magazine he's looking for, on the far shelves: American Art Review. And he picks up another, similarly art-endowed magazine as well before heading to the front of the shop and the cashier's desk. As we commence walking forward in comes an elderly henna-coiffed woman with an almost-there grey Poodle on a leash and harness.
Unleashing an immediate hostile response from our own toy Poodle who, although a toy breed must weigh three times this wee one mincing daintily along on the floor, curious but unperturbed at the rude manners of our dog. This incredibly small dog is dressed in an obviously made-to-order garment that completely covers its body and legs, leaving only its head and tail vulnerable to the cruel air.
Its body-garment is multi-coloured and patterned, complete with hood overhanging the tiny head, ending where the foot portion reaches the tiny rubber boots. Our two galumphing dogs look like hulking pedestrian beasts beside this morsel of a canine and I cannot pry my ears away from it. Its human evidently speaks only French and is, in any event, like her dog, disinterested in comparing notes or even acknowledging our presence, and we move on.
Crossing the street again to gain the main portion of the market where all the shops we're primarily interested in are located. We shop for cheeses of notable derivation and taste, unlike the supermarket variety, and we're immensely rewarded to find exactly what we're looking for, and more. They're very good about ignoring the presence of Button and Riley, riding high slung over our shoulders - and the other shoppers are amused, unoffended.
We've been frequenting these same shops for decades; they're accustomed to accepting the sometimes eccentric behaviour of many of their clients. Outside, we walk slowly about, drinking in the atmosphere, relishing the day and the urban landscape. An unkempt beggar is hunched on the sidewalk, plastic cup outstretched. Is he not fortunate to live in such a privileged country with one of the highest GDPs in the developed world?
He's not unique in this area of town, one which attracts the upper- and middle-crust of the city, renowned for its tourist appeal, bringing an atmosphere of authenticity to this capital of Canada. There are usually as well - although not today - numerous young people looking for handouts, runaways living on the street, often drug-addicted. To enhance the pride that Canadians have every right to feel about their country, their civil society.
A toonie handed out here and there, matter-of-factly, sometimes hesitantly does much to assuage one's conscience. Echoing the street services made available by the municipality, and the law authorities augmented by the very real humanitarian concerns of local churches and privately-operated charities like the Salvation Army. In lieu of a real effort to solve the dishonouring dilemma of accepting the fiction that people enjoy the liberty of homelessness.
People idle, walk about singly, in pairs and family groups, enjoying the January thaw and the offerings from individual stalls; street vendors making available all kinds of fascinating consumer goods from jewellery to haberdashery, to hand-made garments, faux floral arrangements, honey and maple syrup. We stop before one such stall surfeit with hand-made wool hats, colourful and betasseled.
The owner's heritage can readily be seen in his broad face and high Andean cheekbones. The hats, he tells us, are $15 each, all different, all unique in pattern, if not design, a design easily traced to the hemisphere and mountains from which they come. Made, he tells us proudly, by "his people" in Ecuador. My husband, always looking to shelter his tender pate from inclement weather, tries on a few; I encourage a black-patterned number, but he succumbs to the lure of one more colourful.
Always such a pleasure to visit the market, walk among the sightseers and casual shoppers as well as those who come specifically for the food offered by the many small cafes, trattorias, and restaurants crowding the streets there. Aren't we fortunate?
Labels: Peregrinations
posted by Pieface @ 1:36 PM
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