I put down Haruki Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. I'm not done with it but I'm nearly there. Early on in this book, ten days ago, Murakami made a comment along the lines of 'a true gentleman should never discuss his fitness or nutrition habits'. The next two hundred pages or so have been all about his running.
Well, then. If it applies to Murakami, it probably applies to me. Or maybe not. Who knows? Were those dumb posts, about my running or nutrition or fitness? Perhaps ungentlemanly? I can live with ungentlemanly.
I'm not sure what I should do, if anything. Maybe that's the problem, I can't decide. I've read enough. I pick up my wrinkled bag from the corner, roll it up into a ball, and shove it into my pocket.
I stumble down the stairs and out into the cool morning air. Nine-fifteen on a Friday morning feels a lot earlier than it did this time last year. I walk slowly over toward the Hubway bike share rack.
Fortunately, there are a couple of bicycles to choose from. At this hour, sometimes it is completely empty. The commuting habits of my neighbors, that's something new I've learned this year,
Not that it would matter much if I ended up walking, I realize. I'm not required anywhere today. I don't need to do anything. I don't even need to shave.
I free a bike from the rack with my keychain, tuck the cuffs of my jeans into my socks, and pedal off.
The route to Haymarket is identical to the route I took, on foot, each morning to catch the bus. I start by pedaling up Cambridge and make a left turn at New Sudbury. Halfway down the hill is, was, the bus stop.
Today, I go past the bus stop, where one time a bomb-sniffing dog got really excited about my lunch. Keeping the JFK Federal Building on my right, I turn toward Faneuil Hall, onto Congress Street. I rack the bike moments later and head over to Haymarket.
I'm know there is cash in my pocket but I confirm it, anyway. About twenty dollars is all that's needed. It's cash only, at Haymarket. I will not go as far as saying cash is king, here, but debit, credit, or even checks have no purchasing power.
I enter the market over on the north side, by the entrance to the Bell In Hand Tavern. My routine is to walk the entire length of the market, beginning here on Hanover Street. When I reach the end of my walk, I'll turn around and make the same route in reverse, shopping as I move from vendor to vendor. I succumb to habit as I do every Friday morning.
The starting point is a vestige of my original pattern. Last winter, when I first started shopping here, I would buy fish at the end of each trip. Otherwise, I ran the risk of the fish going bad before I walked home. There were also olfactory considerations. I tend to run into people on Saturdays.
The fish market is on my right and the salmon fillets look particularly tasty. At around four bucks a pound, on average, it is tempting, but I ignore the bait. It's Thanksgiving week and I anticipate that my protein 'needs' will be taken care of without any help from cut-rate seafood.
To my left is the first of many vendor tables, all piled with produce, each protected from the elements by giant tarps hanging overhead. The vendors are packed in tight, one next to the other. I imagine the tarps viewed from above make Haymarket look like one long, winding tent, shaped a little like a backward 'C' written by a pen quickly running out of ink.
A little kid, somewhere between six and eight years old, emerges in front of me. Half-crawling, half-running out from beneath a table, he stands and rearranges a couple of bags of red onions with one hand. Any produce item not obviously on the ground is as close to a hallmark as you find here. In the other hand is a piece of lettuce, about the size of a greeting card. He bites into it, chews, and slams the remaining portion into the pavement at his feet.
The action beneath these temporary roofs is a mixture of the sudden and the familiar. For every vendor I recognize by face or by voice- 'get your STRAAAAAAW-BERRIES!'- there is an amused tourist, energized child, or determined senior forcing me to stop, turn, or accelerate subtly to prevent collisions.
I keep my hands in my pockets for now, not to protect against the wind or pickpockets, but to simply take up as little space as possible. My fingers brush the twenty. It's crisp. The wind is a month away and the pickpockets remain a fiction whispered about in the aisles of local grocery stores.
The crowd thins out as I round the corner and start down Blackstone Street. On this initial walk through the market, I observe what is available. Though the food more or less comes from the same place, there is enough variation among the vendors to make tracking the differences worthwhile.
Price, obviously, is one area. I note that bell peppers this week are in the middle of their usual range, about two for a dollar, two for a dollar-fifty in the case of the larger red peppers. Avocados are back, as well, and I see the recent price decline reflected in those vendors offering the 'superfood' at two for a dollar.
Spinach is on offer, at three dollars a bag. Is this also a superfood? It is definitely gluten-free, I think. One bag is a lot of spinach, about the size of my torso. And three dollars is at the lowest end of the usual price range. Spinach is always hard to turn down since it appears about once every other week or so. I remind myself that I am anticipating fewer meals at home than usual. I pass, reluctantly.
As I accumulate mental notes of today's offerings, I arrive at the first stop on my winding stroll. Haymarket Pizza has been open since 1972 or nine o'clock, depending on your point of view. It's still early and I suspect my desire for a slice originates from a Pavlovian response to routine than from true hunger.
At $2.50 per slice, there is no end in sight for this important weekly tradition. Plus, there is practical value in breaking a twenty here, another cash only establishment. Do these places ever get robbed?
I enter, ready to order my meatball breakfast. On rare occasions in the past, I've gone inside to find no meatball slices in sight. In the case of such an emergency, my policy is to order a slice from the third pizza on the right portion of the front counter. The quality is good enough across the board for such trivial rules to work without issue. My suspicion that today is an average day is confirmed when I observe a full pie of meatball slices.
I leave a dollar tip and go back outside. Slice in hand, I pass Harry's Cheese and Cold Cuts, located directly next door. It's position on my right confirms that I am still on my first walk through the market.
I usually refer to it by the part relevant to me- Harry's Cheese. I have no idea when I last purchased a cold cut. In fact, it's likely I more recently cut my hair, which hung down to the top of my rib cage after my shower last night.
What Harry's does during the week is anyone's guess, unless you are Harry. Then I suppose it's your life.
In any event, if it is like what they do on Fridays and Saturdays I'll assume they are among the most profitable establishments in the zip code. The selection is excellent and the quality is reflected in both reviews and cheese samples. Today, each block of cheese on offer is about the size of my palm, which is standard here. I note that my favorite, smoked gouda, is fully stocked.
I continue past the cheese shop, a landmark signalling the halfway point of my walk. I'll be back shortly. I've stopped there every Friday since February except for those rare weekends when I was out of town for weddings.
I continue observing the different produce options as I work toward the far end of the market. I won't need green beans or broccoli this week. I never need asparagus or cauliflower.
On the other hand, baby carrots, beets, and russet potatoes store well in my shoebox of an apartment, sometimes for over a week. I'll seek these out to have on hand, just in case...what? Just in case they cancel Thanksgiving?
Something like that. Things don't always work out according to plan, unless the plan was to not buy golden beets. As almost always is the case, the elusive product is nowhere to be seen.
By the time I turn onto North Street, my slice is down to crust. I recognize my signal to start shopping. I glance toward Faneuil Hall as I unroll my shopping bag. For some reason, I had the foresight to grab this bag just days before I got sacked from my old job. Non-taxable severance pay. Reusable shopping bags are tremendously useful and always green, though mine is technically black.
I'm fairly certain, actually, that what I carry my groceries home each week in is a tote bag. For the past year it has deputized ably as a reusable grocery bag, though, and when it comes to bags, you are what you carry. Carry the same thing long enough and that's all it is good for.
I begin ambling back through the stalls, retracing my steps, with my slowly disintegrating companion slung over one shoulder. The logo of one of my former employer's clients is on the side. I wonder what the tourists think of this. If they are from New York, likely nothing.
I mentally review my week's shopping list and compare it to my observations from my first walk through the stalls. I immediately buy a bag of onions. I always buy these when I first spot them. A bag of onions, about four or five fist sized ones, always cost a dollar no matter who is selling them. This is because the quality is virtually identical at all stands.
Broccoli works in a similar way and, even though I am not buying those this week, my eye finds them simply out of habit. I spot the other items I intend to buy here and there but, informed by my earlier observations, I walk past what I know I can buy for a better price or a higher quality later.
I think back to my initial surprise about the variety at Haymarket. Peppers, for example, vary in size, color, and ripeness to a degree that I quickly realized I needed to pay attention to. Otherwise, my plan to store them for several days is usually thwarted by slow-moving rot. The same logic applies to potatoes and beets. I've only seen golden beets once so I have no idea what they do.
My notes for today are not all related to quality. In some cases, I just track the cheapest option. This is my standard strategy for blueberries and blackberries since I only buy these to eat on the walk home. Any hidden signal of impending rot built into the low price is rendered irrelevant by my assertive consumption of these...superfoods? But how could a superfood go so bad so fast?
I nearly trip over a fire hydrant. Appropriate timing, really, as nothing symbolizes the tension of the fixed and the changing better. The vendors were crowded a little closer together last year. This morning, the space between tables stationed by the hydrants accommodates any group of tourists who wish to stroll four abreast, snapping photos of cukes, kukumbers, or cucumbers, the spelling revealing who took the sharpie that morning.
I've been told these fire safety measures, likely drafted and approved with automobiles in mind, have forced a few vendors to pack up midday. Folding tables don't have wheels or air conditioning. I wonder what that scene was like and what happened to all the food. The shoemaker's children have shoes, I'm sure.
I regain my footing and march on. The green beans, piled high, defiantly hold their posture as I walk past. They know by now that I won't bother today. Like the spinach, green beans are an item I aim to buy at the highest possible price. The 'premium' is worth it for these items whose spoilage potential is captured by the price level.
Good thing I studied economics in college. I'm smart enough to waste an additional dollar a week on green beans. Who knew that green beans were a Giffen good?
For spinach, I think, I would have figured out this logic on my own. Never justify spinach, I say. Maybe I suspect this because the stakes are high for spinach- if I pick and store the leafy greens correctly, I'll have something to add to a full week's worth of meals. I learn quick when something is on the line.
I'm back at the cheese shop, its position on my left a reflection of the reversal of my earlier route. The selection is better than usual this week. Perhaps this is because I am here a little earlier than usual. The smoked gouda, as always, looks good, and I see that there is something new this week- shaved Parmesan. It'll be nice to have something clean shaven in my apartment.
'OK, I'll try something old and something new,' I say, as I point first at the smoked gouda and then at the Parmesan.
'Maybe something blue?' comes the response, a triangle of blue cheese waved in my direction. I chat with this man each week and he is very much aware of my preference for smoked gouda.
'No, thanks.' I laugh.
'Thought you were going for the full progression, for sure.' I hand him a five and he hands me the cheese. I can't think of a clever way to borrow cheese so I leave the comment hanging.
'Cubs fan?' I ask, pointing at his new hat. We chat for a few minutes about the bet he lost, whether the Patriots are any good, Thanksgiving plans. Turns out the cheese shop does better than usual business the week before the holiday, explaining the improved selection I noticed earlier.
As we converse, I notice once more the blue cheese. I tried that one, I realize, two weeks ago, but the tinfoil wrapper made me nervous about biting into fillings. I didn't enjoy it as much as I usually enjoy cheese.
We wish each other a pleasant holiday and I move on. My bag is not full but I'm nearing the end of my short shopping list. The second vendor past the cheese shop is selling a lot of asparagus, at one dollar a bunch, but all I really need is tomatoes.
Asparagus, among a couple of items, is in a group of produce that I've bought in the past but not purchased again. Eggplants are the newest to this category. I bought one eggplant last month that I ignored until I discovered it, last week, halfway through a deflation-like process. That was a true shame. I like eggs and I like plants but, sometimes, one plus one equals less than two. In this case, even less than one.
I'm on the lookout for tomatoes. Anytime I buy onions, I also buy one of tomatoes, zucchini, or summer squash . I usually combine these to saute with the onions. Since zucchini prices are unpredictable and summer squash is not really a favorite of mine, I tend to buy vine tomatoes at about $1.25 per pound, making my move when I see four or five of these that are 'fully red'.
For some reason, I can't remember where I intend to buy tomatoes. The zucchini looks good, though, at the stand I'm walking past.
I stop and take a closer look. One zucchini for two dollars. An unusually bad deal, twice the usual price. Good thing I studied math in college. I'm smart enough to save a dollar on zucchini. If I do that two hundred thousand times...
'Need a bag?' I look up at the vendor.
'Oh, I'm not sure. Not yet.'
'It's four for two, good deal, man.'
Four? I take a closer look. Indeed, my 'one' is unmistakably a four, albeit a bony four, perhaps one- excuse me, four- that recently completed a fad diet or grocery shops here at Haymarket. A produce heavy diet is an unappealing but effective weight-loss regimen. I'm not sure why it is four for two instead of two for one.
'Your four looks like a one, man!' I hear from behind me. I turn to see a vendor behind me. Banter among the vendors is pretty common, especially when they are positioned around those aforementioned fire lanes. The space cleared for the fire hoses prevents tarps from falling between the tables.
I smile at him briefly and move on. I doubt I'll see the 'one' again. I still need tomatoes.
Foods that are essentially the exact same yet vary in price and quality are the toughest to figure out. Usually, it is the prepackaged stuff like blueberries or blackberries, priced anywhere from $0.50 to $2 per container. Baby carrots also fall into this category. Again, the mold moves in quick on the fruits above but I always solve that problem by eating them on the way home. For the carrots, I just have a look at the expiration date printed on the bags. I guess those have a true hallmark. One eye still looking out for tomatoes, I decide a box of blueberries for the walk home is a good idea.
I reach the end of Blackstone, or at least the portion of it reserved for the market. On the corner of the sidewalk is the woman I heard earlier. Two girls, shorter than me, holding those foldout tourist maps, ask her where Hanover Street is.
She looks down at the pair. 'You're ON Haaaaan-ovah Street!' she says, the cadence familiar to us weekly strawberry seekers.
It's true but the girls are confused. They look back and forth. I see what they see, tables and tarps and little old ladies with rolling suitcases. I wonder if they see tomatoes. Home, surely, makes more sense than this. Maybe it's time to go home.
I can't decide. I'm not required anywhere today. I need to do something. I'll need to go home, at some point, to put the food away. Maybe I could write a little bit, then, though I don't know what about. I'm fit, but to write? I can't decide.
I guess I could look for a job. But the odds don't seem very good today. I can't even find a fucking tomato. Did I even see one, earlier? Who knows anymore. I've been looking for a long time. Everything I've seen so far is for someone else.
I walk on. What else is there to do? If I'm going to find anything, it'll be in the last place I look. It's crowded, again, and I put my hands back into my pockets, but I'm still in everyone's way. I feel the bill, still crisp, but different this time. I'm almost out of money.
I crumple it into a ball and shove it further into my pocket. I stumble off the curb and out into Hanover Street. I walk slowly toward the entrance of the market. I start to smell fish. I'm not done yet but I'm nearly there.
