The Priory Lit. Mag

by Kat Gregory
9/09

Three clear, solemn notes ring out over the busy French market, carrying through the swirling heat and echoing slightly amid the quaint, two story houses. An ancient bell tower presides over the island town, its arched windows and delicate blue spire casting a magical aura of timelessness and wonder. It is three o’clock, but the river of pink, green, yellow and red shirts, blue jeans, flowery skirts, and bobbing floppy hats doesn’t pause in its ceaseless babble or carefree clamor. From the reflection in the lens of a pair of mirrored glasses on an ancient wooden stand, the street looks narrow and crooked, meandering along through old, white stucco houses. Each low window is framed by a set of well-painted shutters, all some sort of green or gray but never the same shade twice. Just visible from behind low gates, lines of yellow, white and blue laundry flutter gently in the breeze. Your eyes follow a small, curly-haired boy as he cautiously wave boards over the worn cobblestones. His tan toes curl in concentration, dirty nails digging into slick plastic as the repetitive clacks mingle with the rise and fall of a hundred voices. His chubby dimples fade as he tumbles into a gutter, not because he has fallen, but because he has lost his turn, and a friend quickly snatches the scuffed black board to try his luck.

It is three o’clock. As you wander deeper into the maze of vendor stands, you push away the shiny plastic of a colossal tower of animated balloons- pink unicorns, shiny Spiderman hearts, and giant Dora the Explorers laughing down at you. On your right, a line of little girls dangling on their father’s arms stare enraptured at a vast list of red and blue plaques describing 78 original flavors of ice cream ranging from Caramel Fleur de Sel, a regional specialty, to Mangue sorbet, to savory Tirimasu. Your mouth waters at the tantalizing, irresistible scent of freshly baked crepes, an aroma that wafts through the whole market just lightly enough that each breeze reminds you of its presence. Bike racks jammed with every different color, size, and style imaginable line the edge of the church square while high above, rainbow streamers strung across the street ripple gently in a cool breeze. A graying old man with a patched brown coat smiles at you as his hands dance expertly across the yellowing keys of a polished accordion. The traditional music drifts through the plaza, and little girls dance and twirl happily as their parents laugh. His brown eyes crinkle and he nods gratefully at the merry ringing your euro makes as it bounces into his metal tin.

It is three o’clock. All around you, the voices of a handful of languages rise and fall, enveloping you in a cocoon of French, German, Spanish, and traces of Italian. Fabric of orange, red, green, and yellow shade permanent vendor stands, and smiling elderly women proudly show off their sausages and honeys, paintings and fashions, bright lollipops and special American Flags. A tan boy, 17 perhaps, offers you a sliver of dried apple and, hearing your accent as you respond, delightedly invites you to sit and explain all about California, confessing dreams of visiting LA. As you wander about the rich feast of aromas, colors, textures, and coy beauty, chatting with charming and inquisitive people, vendors and tourists alike, you feel immersed in a world brighter, more colorful, than anything at home, a world hidden to most, kept secret by a language barrier so formidable that few even attempt to access it.

It is three o’clock, but time seems meaningless in the perfection of the moment. Never will it be this way again. And rising above the clamor and people, above the vendor stands and the bright fabric rippling in the wind, above the neat terra cotta roves, and framed by a sky as blue as the sea, the gothic church steeple watches over the market.

It is three o’clock. You close your eyes, capturing the moment, knowing that it will be gone when you open your eyes.

It is three-0-one.