After getting more than sufficiently overwhelmed and bewildered at Agios Georgios on Sunday mornings, my habit has become to head over to the parking lot next to the post office and across from the pharmacy, to gather an array of produce for the week.
Apparently one can buy eggs there as well, but I am so weirded out by the trucks full of chickens yelping away, as well as the grim, bearded old ladies who stand, arms crossed, watching over everything, that I have not ventured near. I am kind of scared that instead of eggs, I will end up with a live chicken.
My first Sunday at the market, I bought vegetables and fruit from the first stand I saw. The farmer was very pleasant and helpful, and when I completed my transaction and he realized I spoke only English, he seemed to perk up and become even more enthusiastic. He haltingly tried out a few words of English, and I gave him a thumbs up.
As I walked home across the valley that morning, I thought contentedly about my fresh produce and my nice vegetable man. I decided I would be a loyal customer and go back every week, and blackly ignore the other farmers and their stands. I would teach him English, and he would teach me Greek, and he would tell me about his family, and I would tell him about how much I liked Greece. It would, I knew, be a wonderful friendship.
The next Sunday, I went back. He looked up, appeared to recognize me, and said "English?" I nodded. He gave me bags and started to weigh the produce I handed him. Only, this time, my grand total was almost three times as much as it had been the previous week, for almost the exact same stuff. I assumed that this was what is meant by fluctuating market prices, and shrugged and paid.
I was little over a block away, when I knew I had to admit the truth. My feet grew heavy, and my heart broke into shards. The vegetable man had shafted me. He had betrayed our blossoming friendship.
I would never trust another farmer again.
So, the next Sunday I walked into the market, and did a survey. I looked at all the different stands, and noted that my evil farmer's stand was off in a corner, comparatively speaking, and that he did not seem to have a booming customer base. There was one stand, though, that was bigger than all the rest, and had a constant stream of people. This produce looked like it had been plucked out of a picture book, so saturated were the colors.
I have returned to this stand two Sundays in a row now, and the produce keeps getting better, and the prices, so far, have stayed the same. The farmer is very kind, and packs my bags very nicely, making sure the heavy things are underneath the crushable things, and gets his assistant to translate the total into something I can understand.
But, my heart is still wounded, and I know it will be a while before I trust again.
Apparently one can buy eggs there as well, but I am so weirded out by the trucks full of chickens yelping away, as well as the grim, bearded old ladies who stand, arms crossed, watching over everything, that I have not ventured near. I am kind of scared that instead of eggs, I will end up with a live chicken.
My first Sunday at the market, I bought vegetables and fruit from the first stand I saw. The farmer was very pleasant and helpful, and when I completed my transaction and he realized I spoke only English, he seemed to perk up and become even more enthusiastic. He haltingly tried out a few words of English, and I gave him a thumbs up.
As I walked home across the valley that morning, I thought contentedly about my fresh produce and my nice vegetable man. I decided I would be a loyal customer and go back every week, and blackly ignore the other farmers and their stands. I would teach him English, and he would teach me Greek, and he would tell me about his family, and I would tell him about how much I liked Greece. It would, I knew, be a wonderful friendship.
The next Sunday, I went back. He looked up, appeared to recognize me, and said "English?" I nodded. He gave me bags and started to weigh the produce I handed him. Only, this time, my grand total was almost three times as much as it had been the previous week, for almost the exact same stuff. I assumed that this was what is meant by fluctuating market prices, and shrugged and paid.
I was little over a block away, when I knew I had to admit the truth. My feet grew heavy, and my heart broke into shards. The vegetable man had shafted me. He had betrayed our blossoming friendship.
I would never trust another farmer again.
So, the next Sunday I walked into the market, and did a survey. I looked at all the different stands, and noted that my evil farmer's stand was off in a corner, comparatively speaking, and that he did not seem to have a booming customer base. There was one stand, though, that was bigger than all the rest, and had a constant stream of people. This produce looked like it had been plucked out of a picture book, so saturated were the colors.
I have returned to this stand two Sundays in a row now, and the produce keeps getting better, and the prices, so far, have stayed the same. The farmer is very kind, and packs my bags very nicely, making sure the heavy things are underneath the crushable things, and gets his assistant to translate the total into something I can understand.
But, my heart is still wounded, and I know it will be a while before I trust again.
hahahahahahahaha
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