One more edit and I think I'm done
In the multicultural haven of Adelaide’s city centre, tucked against the growing authentica of Chinatown, surrounded by fringe dwellers and Adelaide’s swank restaurant district, is the ageless Central Market. Its surging pulse of mediocrity inflames the senses, exacting my loyal presence every Friday. It is a mediocrity of diversity; a snapshot of life. Its everyday’s loving mother, where produce and cultural experiences nuture the ‘chosen’; those looking for the real. On market days I pause on the little beehive bench by the central escalator to embrace her spirit and absorb her flavours. There is enjoyment here. The workers smiles are open and inviting. There is little of western consumerism’s chicanery. Urban slick or ostentatiously tradtional, each stall effuses enthusiasm and aromas of the culture they portray. Intricate blends of Italian coffee, hot Australian nuts and Danish smoked cheese all fight to dominate their snatched corner of utopia...only to be diffused and descimated by the pungent aroma of coriander and ginger in the next aisle. This is where I escape, where I ‘stop and smell the roses’...and sneeze.
Today is different. The market is closed. Today, those celestially heady aromas are replaced by the unfamiliar combination of motor oil and overrripe mangoes. My little bee hive bench sits starkly against the asphalt and hesian shrouded stalls. My lady’s heart is hidden behind a flow of discarded lettuce leaves and broken boxes that trail her walkways. Lights are dimmed. Security shutters, locked and low, hide the harrowed faces of market workers, only their labourious hands visible inside empty aquariums of stainless steel and glass. The market’s arteries pulse and echo with the flourish of preparation. Her heart is hidden, yet her gut is exposed.
Few patrons wander the market. The ‘Closed’sign turns the unseasoned away, leaving the market ‘regular’ to sample and indulge from the obliging few who remain open. So from my nook with the bees, I have an uninterrupted view of her children at work and the undeterred ‘regular’ at play. I am the cultural analyst, the ‘Flaneur’, the participant...the market dweller; even when ‘closed’, I still belong.
‘Carlie, chuck us those boxes... yeah those’ comes from somewhere unseen. And Carlie, briefly returning my gaze, turns away to gather an armful of carboard, her eyes sullen as she lives her ‘dream job’ among the cauliflowers. Her motions are slow and purposeful, dragging out the time she spends in boredom. Talking means effort; she prefers the Who magazine tucked in her bag and fishes for it when there is nothing to do but watch me perusing and scribbling by the bees. She is a minority here and her male siblings are best ignored.
Non-market day is ‘boy’s day’, where ‘Chesty Bonds’ and flexing biceps uniform the sanctioned. Their choice hotrod, the forklift, whizzes through the narrow alleyways with the imagined roar of a Monaro and the gusto of the dragstrip. Each driver enjoys macho antics with levers to push and rotate, asserting rebellious authority by tooting at meandering old ladies. Poor loves...they’ve lost their crown of favour, they’re not customers today, just in the way. The comradic laughter of the revolutionists mutates with lights and rumbling engines, creating a rock concert of cultural rebellion. All that is missing is Metallica.
‘The Three Stooges’ are on their mission to annoy...again. Baseball caps low across their brow, they pester and cojole both workers and market patrons, One rides the side of the forklift like a San Franciso trolley car, tipping off hats as he passes. Another revels in the reaction of old Maria, as his tomfoolery forces her to spit a flurry of Italian, ending with an elaborate ‘Stupida!’ I, the cynic, watch; noting the mischief in their eyes. I am apalled at their antics, internally outraged at their disrespect of the hunched, rotund, little nonna whose weatherbeaten body retaliates against the cultural onslaught of retirement. I unwittingly scowl...until I catch the laughter in Maria’s eyes and glimpse her grey on gold smile. She throws up her hands in mock anger, muttering under her breath in a mixture of Italian vernacular and something resembling English...and my outrage softens. In following visits, I’m to learn that this ritual, - this showy display of relentless teasing and disrespect - always precedes Maria’s crinkled smile and creole mutterings, culminating in a friendly slap on the face. A slap that is just hard enough to smart and remind ‘her boys’ that she still holds the cultural power of age.
Beef straddles an imaginary plank at the market entrance, feigning stern interest in ‘The Three Stooges’ tomfoolery. Twins in stance, their ‘official security’ eyes smirk and turn to scan the empty aisles for more sinister market interlopers. Two of four, the other security guards wander the shadows without guile. A whistle on his lips, a boxing lightness in his step, the younger flexes and parries the imaginary while he plays with time. The lonely edges of the market echo. The light is dim. Chairs are stacked, and his inane frivolity violates the enclosing sadness...GO! Let her recline in solitude. Beyond the light is only darkness and on the air is stale silence; she is alone. Her children’s voices simmer in the distance, humming to the cultural beat of their mother. Compelled, I follow the guards and return to the bees, leaving lonliness behind.
A mystic guards the market entrance, mapping the stars through vegetative signs and incense. My sneeze awakens her from a hypnotic space, willing her to the present. Her shopfront overflows with pagan imagery, wrapped in silks and shiny bits of glass. The gloss on folds and winking friends enliven the heart with a colourful montage of light and fantasy. I’m lost in her aura as she is lost inside herself; lost in a wild tangle of curls framing her freckles and her hollow amber eyes. Maria’s outbursts jolt us to reality, but the mystic drifts again as the ruckus subsides. She is different on Market days, more aware, eager to sell. But today is different; like so much else.
I return to my post and sigh. The forklifts are gone and Maria stands among the studious throng, arranging shiny pyramids of fruit. A disquieting human silence has fallen, leaving the mechanical churn of coolrooms and the echoes of ashphalt in the carpark above to dominate. A bratwurst in hand and soothing coffee to my lips, I close my eyes and savour the memory of her mediocrity. Her sights and aromas - the searing influence of Asia, the clinging tomato vine of the Mediterranean and the heady assuage of South America - each welcome in remembrance. In an act of self-depravation, I prise open my eyes. The bench beyond the bees is encased in a city; a pastiche of colour and lacquer sinking into the void. Tradition sits on her slats, draped in Chinese brown. They huddle and share the sayings of the day with the heart of Asia confirmed on their brow. It’s their plot, their resting place and they nod my way in polite recognition. This Chinese couple, beyond acient, shares my space as flaneur. Old Chinese customs on cities on benches, they sit; blending the cultures of life. His eyes are lost in his grandchild’s toy, tweaking the gizmo of light. She quietly fusses with drawstrings and bags. Her withered hands, buckled by years in the field, work ineptly on the task. Mastering the toy, his smile of accomplishment drags her from frustration and she smiles in return, the folds of paper-thin skin creasing at her gentle chuckle. I’m intruding, yet I cannot look away.
Draining my coffee and savouring the last aromatic remnant, I let my eyes wander and fall to somewhere unseen. I’m not ready to leave. The smooth greasiness of bratwurst is still on my fingertips. The smell of motoroil and overripe mangoes is gone, replaced with the sublety of unripe fruit and plastic. The remaining workers are brooding; lost in yesterday and tomorrow, numbly unpacking, refilling and polishing. Fine strings of yellow gold hide Carlie’s sullen eyes as her head bows to read ‘Who’s screwing who in Hollywood’. She shovels fried rice and Diet Coke, pausing occasionally to hook a lock of hair that has strayed into her mouth, but jumps up, dragging her hands down her jean clad thighs, to serve an impatient apple enthusiast. Maria, trailed by two robust pre-schoolers dressed in ‘Fred Bear’, has left her post for the ritualistic Nonna/gelato Monday morning experience. Perhaps I’ll see all three sitting on their usual bench beyond the doors. Her proud little frame, upright and smiling, reveals her secret of family’s love. I’ve seen her pride in other smiles, more prevalent with age. In strangers...in friends...in my own mother’s eyes and in my elderly Chinese friends across the way, whose unspoken friendship is sealed with a knowing smile, saying ‘Bye for now, see you next week’.
Today is different. The market is closed. Today, those celestially heady aromas are replaced by the unfamiliar combination of motor oil and overrripe mangoes. My little bee hive bench sits starkly against the asphalt and hesian shrouded stalls. My lady’s heart is hidden behind a flow of discarded lettuce leaves and broken boxes that trail her walkways. Lights are dimmed. Security shutters, locked and low, hide the harrowed faces of market workers, only their labourious hands visible inside empty aquariums of stainless steel and glass. The market’s arteries pulse and echo with the flourish of preparation. Her heart is hidden, yet her gut is exposed.
Few patrons wander the market. The ‘Closed’sign turns the unseasoned away, leaving the market ‘regular’ to sample and indulge from the obliging few who remain open. So from my nook with the bees, I have an uninterrupted view of her children at work and the undeterred ‘regular’ at play. I am the cultural analyst, the ‘Flaneur’, the participant...the market dweller; even when ‘closed’, I still belong.
‘Carlie, chuck us those boxes... yeah those’ comes from somewhere unseen. And Carlie, briefly returning my gaze, turns away to gather an armful of carboard, her eyes sullen as she lives her ‘dream job’ among the cauliflowers. Her motions are slow and purposeful, dragging out the time she spends in boredom. Talking means effort; she prefers the Who magazine tucked in her bag and fishes for it when there is nothing to do but watch me perusing and scribbling by the bees. She is a minority here and her male siblings are best ignored.
Non-market day is ‘boy’s day’, where ‘Chesty Bonds’ and flexing biceps uniform the sanctioned. Their choice hotrod, the forklift, whizzes through the narrow alleyways with the imagined roar of a Monaro and the gusto of the dragstrip. Each driver enjoys macho antics with levers to push and rotate, asserting rebellious authority by tooting at meandering old ladies. Poor loves...they’ve lost their crown of favour, they’re not customers today, just in the way. The comradic laughter of the revolutionists mutates with lights and rumbling engines, creating a rock concert of cultural rebellion. All that is missing is Metallica.
‘The Three Stooges’ are on their mission to annoy...again. Baseball caps low across their brow, they pester and cojole both workers and market patrons, One rides the side of the forklift like a San Franciso trolley car, tipping off hats as he passes. Another revels in the reaction of old Maria, as his tomfoolery forces her to spit a flurry of Italian, ending with an elaborate ‘Stupida!’ I, the cynic, watch; noting the mischief in their eyes. I am apalled at their antics, internally outraged at their disrespect of the hunched, rotund, little nonna whose weatherbeaten body retaliates against the cultural onslaught of retirement. I unwittingly scowl...until I catch the laughter in Maria’s eyes and glimpse her grey on gold smile. She throws up her hands in mock anger, muttering under her breath in a mixture of Italian vernacular and something resembling English...and my outrage softens. In following visits, I’m to learn that this ritual, - this showy display of relentless teasing and disrespect - always precedes Maria’s crinkled smile and creole mutterings, culminating in a friendly slap on the face. A slap that is just hard enough to smart and remind ‘her boys’ that she still holds the cultural power of age.
Beef straddles an imaginary plank at the market entrance, feigning stern interest in ‘The Three Stooges’ tomfoolery. Twins in stance, their ‘official security’ eyes smirk and turn to scan the empty aisles for more sinister market interlopers. Two of four, the other security guards wander the shadows without guile. A whistle on his lips, a boxing lightness in his step, the younger flexes and parries the imaginary while he plays with time. The lonely edges of the market echo. The light is dim. Chairs are stacked, and his inane frivolity violates the enclosing sadness...GO! Let her recline in solitude. Beyond the light is only darkness and on the air is stale silence; she is alone. Her children’s voices simmer in the distance, humming to the cultural beat of their mother. Compelled, I follow the guards and return to the bees, leaving lonliness behind.
A mystic guards the market entrance, mapping the stars through vegetative signs and incense. My sneeze awakens her from a hypnotic space, willing her to the present. Her shopfront overflows with pagan imagery, wrapped in silks and shiny bits of glass. The gloss on folds and winking friends enliven the heart with a colourful montage of light and fantasy. I’m lost in her aura as she is lost inside herself; lost in a wild tangle of curls framing her freckles and her hollow amber eyes. Maria’s outbursts jolt us to reality, but the mystic drifts again as the ruckus subsides. She is different on Market days, more aware, eager to sell. But today is different; like so much else.
I return to my post and sigh. The forklifts are gone and Maria stands among the studious throng, arranging shiny pyramids of fruit. A disquieting human silence has fallen, leaving the mechanical churn of coolrooms and the echoes of ashphalt in the carpark above to dominate. A bratwurst in hand and soothing coffee to my lips, I close my eyes and savour the memory of her mediocrity. Her sights and aromas - the searing influence of Asia, the clinging tomato vine of the Mediterranean and the heady assuage of South America - each welcome in remembrance. In an act of self-depravation, I prise open my eyes. The bench beyond the bees is encased in a city; a pastiche of colour and lacquer sinking into the void. Tradition sits on her slats, draped in Chinese brown. They huddle and share the sayings of the day with the heart of Asia confirmed on their brow. It’s their plot, their resting place and they nod my way in polite recognition. This Chinese couple, beyond acient, shares my space as flaneur. Old Chinese customs on cities on benches, they sit; blending the cultures of life. His eyes are lost in his grandchild’s toy, tweaking the gizmo of light. She quietly fusses with drawstrings and bags. Her withered hands, buckled by years in the field, work ineptly on the task. Mastering the toy, his smile of accomplishment drags her from frustration and she smiles in return, the folds of paper-thin skin creasing at her gentle chuckle. I’m intruding, yet I cannot look away.
Draining my coffee and savouring the last aromatic remnant, I let my eyes wander and fall to somewhere unseen. I’m not ready to leave. The smooth greasiness of bratwurst is still on my fingertips. The smell of motoroil and overripe mangoes is gone, replaced with the sublety of unripe fruit and plastic. The remaining workers are brooding; lost in yesterday and tomorrow, numbly unpacking, refilling and polishing. Fine strings of yellow gold hide Carlie’s sullen eyes as her head bows to read ‘Who’s screwing who in Hollywood’. She shovels fried rice and Diet Coke, pausing occasionally to hook a lock of hair that has strayed into her mouth, but jumps up, dragging her hands down her jean clad thighs, to serve an impatient apple enthusiast. Maria, trailed by two robust pre-schoolers dressed in ‘Fred Bear’, has left her post for the ritualistic Nonna/gelato Monday morning experience. Perhaps I’ll see all three sitting on their usual bench beyond the doors. Her proud little frame, upright and smiling, reveals her secret of family’s love. I’ve seen her pride in other smiles, more prevalent with age. In strangers...in friends...in my own mother’s eyes and in my elderly Chinese friends across the way, whose unspoken friendship is sealed with a knowing smile, saying ‘Bye for now, see you next week’.