WHERE ARE THE ORCHARDS OF YESTERYEAR?

We live on the outskirts of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, 12 miles west of Paris, on the edge of what was once a region of small farms and fruit orchards. The farms are largely gone now, eaten up by suburban expansion, but a five minute walk from our house takes us to the remnants of the orchards. When we moved to this area in 2000, a number of them were still active, producing raspberries, apples, pears and peaches for sale in local markets. Today, sadly, most of them are no longer cultivated. They lie fallow and overgrown as their owners presumably wait for land prices to rise so they can sell their fields to housing developers for a tidy profit. We are witnessing the end of an era that goes back to pre-Roman times.
 

The nearby village of Mareil-Marly, first populated during the Celtic period, was for centuries surrounded by prosperous vineyards. Like most of the vines in France, they were killed off by the Phylloxera virus in the mid-19th century. Those around Mareil-Marly were never replaced, but the fruit orchards survived. One of our great pleasures when we moved here was to walk through the picturesque village and follow a narrow path, surrounded by ancient stone walls, that led to a pear and peach orchard on the edge of town. The neat rows of trees had been pruned and shaped for more than a century,  their branches curving out and upwards until they resembled candelabras. From early summer on, the pears would appear on the branches, grow bigger, and finally ripen in September.
 

Another of our favorite walks, often with our German shepherd Tasha, took us down a narrow country road lined with plum, hazelnut, and walnut trees. Off the road, behind a thicket of bushes, there was a big field enclosed by hedges. On its periphery, there were regular rows of apple trees bearing tons of fruit that no one bothered to collect anymore. They weren't much good to eat, but my son Julian and I used them to play a game we invented called "apple baseball." As soon as one was hit with a bat, it exploded into a spray of pulp, soon to be replaced by another pitched apple, then another.

Tasha would run around in frantic circles trying to catch the apples in midair. In the center of the field there was a double row of raspberry bushes that were tended and harvested by people we never saw. We would help ourselves liberally to the berries, as we did to the plums, hazelnuts and walnuts we encountered on our walks.
    Tempus edax rerum, as the Romans used to say. Time devours all things—including our beautiful orchards. The other day, Sylvaine and I tried to return to that field (without Tasha, long since devoured by time) and see what remained. The bushes and trees around it had grown so thick that we almost needed a machete to get through. The owners (whoever they are) had piled brushwood and branches across the path to block the entrance. But we persisted and finally penetrated into the field. It was much the same as we remembered it. The apple trees were still there, and so were the raspberry bushes, but no one cultivated them anymore; they were overgrown and infested with weeds. We helped ourselves to a few stray berries then left our field of dreams with no intention of returning. We knew what the future held for this idyllic place.
 

  It is the same future that is in store for the ancient pear and peach orchards nearby. On a recent walk, we saw a sign announcing that the fields would be cleared this fall and construction would begin on 60 housing units. This ancient land where vintners and fruit farmers tended their plants for more than two thousand years will soon be covered by concrete and cinderblocks. When we return to France next summer, we won't be walking this way.

OPEN-AIR MARKETS

Open-air markets are an age-old tradition in France. In Saint Germain-en-Laye, the town we live in some 10 miles west of Paris, there are markets on Tuesdays, Fridays, and Sundays. The marketplace covers an area half the size of a football field on a paved square surrounded by 18^th and 19^th century apartment buildings. At one end of the square, there is an arcaded row of shops and cafes; the other end is occupied by the post office. In the middle of the square there is a fountain that jets up from ground level. In hot weather, kids run or ride their bikes through it, pealing with laughter as they soak themselves to the bone.

On market days, they turn off the fountain and the whole square is covered with stalls selling everything from fresh fruit and produce to fish, meat (including horse meat and rabbit of course), wild game (in season), pots and pans, clothing. The colors are vibrant—red tomatoes and radishes; green lettuce, zucchini, avocados; orange apricots; yellow lemons and grapefruit. There are a dozen kinds of whole fish on beds of shaved ice—tuna, salmon, bass, trout, mackerel, swordfish, sprats, sardines, skate, sole, rougets (small redfish)—and mounds of oysters, mussels, clams, shrimp, lobsters, crayfish (called ecrévisse, nothing like our crawfish). In season (November through January), you can see wild rabbit, hare, even whole deer, hanging by their hooves in their full coats of fur. And hovering over it all is the sound of voices—vendors hawking their wares with a cacophony of shouts and chants.

Sylvaine and I like to go into town on the market days, not just to shop, but to take in the spectacle. I usually get a Herald-Tribune or a French newspaper (unlike New Orleans, you can choose between five or six different dailies) and take a table at a sidewalk café facing the market. The one I prefer is called the Café de l’Industrie. The interior was recently redone and still seems a little strange to me—too clean, too modern--but outside on the terrace, under a burgundy-colored parasol, with a cup of expresso and my paper, I feel right at home. Even after all these years, it always feels like I’m on vacation when I’m on the terrace of l’Industrie.

We have what the French call “nos habitudes” at l’Industrie. One of the waiters used to go out with our daughter, and he always greets us warmly. His name is Franck with a “c”. He is about 40 now, jowly and thick-waisted in place of the trim figure he had when we first met. He sports a gold-stud ear-ring. Franck has been a garçon de café since he was 18. His father retired from the same place several years back after 50 years of wearing the traditional white apron and wielding trays full of coffee and beer and wine. You hear a lot of talk about jobs of the future, but for a lot of people here, the jobs of the past suit them just fine. Franck is a happy man, supports a wife and two kids, does his job well and seems to enjoy it.

So do the truck farmers, butchers, fishermen, and vendors on the market place. Most of the vendors keep up a steady chatter, talking to the customers, joking with one another, hawking their wares with rhythmic chants.  Nothing is pre-packaged. You want cheese? Tell them how much you want and they’ll slice it right there and wrap it up in colored wax paper. Same with meat—beef, veal, lamb, pork, horse, rabbit, chicken, duck. All cut and prepared to order. Ditto the fish, gutted, cleaned and scaled before your eyes.

You can see how European marketplaces formed the center of social and economic life over the centuries. What is bought and sold there now forms only a fraction of overall commerce in France—the supermarkes and hypermarkets and Walmart equivalents dominate here as elsewhere—but the social function of the market remains. Sylvaine has a relationship with the vendors—they recognize her, know what she likes, exchange banter and pleasantries with her. We run into neighbors, acquaintances or just familiar faces of people we see regularly but don’t know. Even after our long absence, the vendors recognized her, asked about her “séjour” in the U.S. And even the vendors she doesn’t like, and avoids, are part of this market-centered social life. (“Don’t buy anything from this greengrocer, he sold me rotten peaches last year.”) Sylvaine hardly ever buys food in a supermarket. There is an open-air market somewhere nearby—St. Germain, Le Vesinet, Chatou--almost every day of the week.