Friday morning in Leuven is market day. These are events I’ve enjoyed since childhood, and I can still remember walking through the ones here with my mother. That was when it was still held in the Oud Markt, as opposed to the more expansive square in front of the library. My mother would point out the various vegetables and herbs. “This one is thyme,” she informed me. And the gentleman beside us, turned his wrist to look at his watch and give her the time. I remember her laughing softly at the gracious misunderstanding.
The market here carries everything from fruit to meat to underwear. Chickens spin on rotisserie built onto the back of trucks, pastries and breads are laid out on white trays on long counters, and baskets of foil-wrapped candies wink in the light. Men and women put on shows about the latest cleaning cloths, brushes and shower heads. Plastic legs model pantyhose and socks and lace tablecloths wave in the wind.
I purchased a half kilo of ripe, plump cherries, hawked by the seller as the sweetest. They accompanied my open-face sandwich lunch quite delectably.
And my watch tells time once again.
In Belgium 