March(et)ing to a slower tune

There's few places better suited to wasting time than a market and nobody does markets like the French. Take the little farmers' market that appears  five floors down from my window every Wednesday and Saturday. It was a feast of sensory temptation. There were honey glazed ham hocks at the rotisseur, dripping with artery-clogging deliciousness. The were tiny jewel-like fraises de bois, winking at you in the morning sunshine. My favourites though, Boskop apples from Picardy, the size of a canon ball and more tart than the whole of Pigalle.
Two weeks ago I had the good fortune to attend a marche flottante, is one that moves about from town to town sharing its wares. This particular one was of the regional variety - the South-west of France to be precise - extolling the virtues of the Gers, Lot-et-Garonne and Tarn-et-Garonne regions. It also had the best gig in town. Quai Montebello isn't just any old mooring post by the Seine. It's a shady, cobbled haven on the left bank under the watchful, balustraded eye of the great Lady of Notre Damme.

If the venue at least tempted you, the atmosphere and the produce on offer made sure you lingered a long while in a late Autumn sunshine. The three regions had set up stalls adjacent to one-another. Resplendent in their regional colours, the representatives from vinyards, fruitiers, charcuteries and patisseries were all out in force extolling the virtues of glorious pate de foie gras, sumptuous melons from Lectoure and glasses spilling over with nectar-like vin moilleux.
Not wishing to waste anything I went for a sample of all three and propped myself up against a wooden hoarding while dangling my feet over the lazily flowing water beneath. Even the emergency services had got in on the act. Next to me a cool-as-you-like team from the FFSS (some branch of water security) had set up station on the end of long boat decked out like a Bayou townhouse. The only emergency they had to cope with all afternoon was rescuing a chic, black handbag that had probably been dropped by a waving tourist from one of the bateaux mouches that occasionally chugged past us, occupants probably wishing they were where I was.

I could have stayed where I was all afternoon, but soon the joyous sound of brass band music filled the air and drew me toward it. A dapper foursome from the Tarn, decked out in dazzling white with straw hats and red neckerchiefs were keeping the party swaying, singing and just plain moving along (by this point no-one needed much encouragement). A local drunk had nominated himself as Number One Fan and happily harangued anyone that didn't comply with the band leader's encouragement to Assis! Assis! (sit down! sit down!) and he rocked like a paper boat on a swell as the band swung us back up and clapping again.
The shadows had now begun lengthen over the quai, so I reluctantly decided to make a move. As I meandered through the throng heading down for more food and fun, a thought hit me. Though most Parisians speed through the week like hornets on nicotine drips, on the weekend even the maddest of them all can often be found, as Otis Redding almost put it: sitting on the back of the quai, wasting time.