The French Market

One of my favorite places to go on Saturdays in New Orleans is the French Market. The food may be questionably sanitary and the week old po boys left on display for tourists probably aren’t that much worse than the food that actually gets served; the jewelry the foreigners claim is real and handmade is probably not worth the price they charge you; and the endlessly milling people, tourists and locals alike, can make it somewhat overcrowded, especially on a hot Saturday afternoon.

But still, I love it. I love the hand crafted jewelry that despite its likely artificiality is elegant in a way you can’t get at any other jewelry store.

I love the raw oysters that took way too long for this really charismatic guy to shell; it was more than enough time for my Dad and I to befriend him and debate who was going to win the World Series (the oyster guy is a Yankees fan. My family is a bunch of die-hard Red Sox fans. The debate and wait for oysters was entertainingly heated.)

I love the absolutely delicious smelling hand poured soy candles I bought there in defiance of the no-candles-in-dorm rule (shhh); Basil Nectarine and Cinnamon Clove Orange are forever what I want my room to smell like. I even love the guy that couldn’t figure out how to get my credit card to work on his machine and took his dear sweet time wrapping the candles when I was under time constraint to get to my room and pack for a flight; everyone on total slow, easy, un-rushed Southern time.

There’s something about going to the French Market when, even if you’re not willing to pay for some questionably priced items or eat questionably made food, it’s magic just to go and look at all the things for sale and soak up the scent of old sandwiches, maybe get a daiquiri or two and meet some other traveler in search of the same thrills you are.