As was mentioned in the introduction, we didn't plan on attending this market. But upon realizing that the various tube closures that weekend would complicate our journey to Camden and put the "six in six" goal in doubt, we decided to hit this market en route to Portobello. Christmas carolers greeted us as we strode toward the Notting Hill Gate Farmers' Market (brevity isn't really their thing, I suppose). Feeling a tad under the weather, the sight of fruit and vegetables in the morning was refreshing. A sip of apple pomegranate juice (with a hint of beet root) kick-started my morning.
This was, without question, a neighborhood market. The attendees seemed local and knowledgeable, going about their business in brief fashion. We felt out of place browsing, as most went to a certain vendor and left. But having been in London for some time, I felt comfortable enough to wander from fruit vendor to meat vendor to vegetable vendor to Christmas caroler to florist to juice vendor without feeling the shameful, foreign guilt one feels in this city. So what if they found us out? Our small-town sensibilities may only be concealed for so long.
Given the size (or lack thereof) of this market, we devoted little time to it. Its impact was minimal, to be honest. But it was a nice first step on this journey.
As I waited for Lauren to snap a few more photos, I stood contemplating the market's ethnography. A French man behind me spoke to his son -- coaxing the young child into saying "bonjour" to the juice vendor. I smiled. Fifteen minutes and one market into this journey and we had already encountered another group of foreigners. London encapsulated.
This was, without question, a neighborhood market. The attendees seemed local and knowledgeable, going about their business in brief fashion. We felt out of place browsing, as most went to a certain vendor and left. But having been in London for some time, I felt comfortable enough to wander from fruit vendor to meat vendor to vegetable vendor to Christmas caroler to florist to juice vendor without feeling the shameful, foreign guilt one feels in this city. So what if they found us out? Our small-town sensibilities may only be concealed for so long.
Given the size (or lack thereof) of this market, we devoted little time to it. Its impact was minimal, to be honest. But it was a nice first step on this journey.
As I waited for Lauren to snap a few more photos, I stood contemplating the market's ethnography. A French man behind me spoke to his son -- coaxing the young child into saying "bonjour" to the juice vendor. I smiled. Fifteen minutes and one market into this journey and we had already encountered another group of foreigners. London encapsulated.
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