Chapter 8: The Market

Page (1/3)
No one believed Pierre, who loved to tease, but everyone trusted the calm and gracious Zoe. This quiet girl, imbued with a strong artistic aura, never told lies. At the same time, this dazzling gem of Lourmarin Village rarely praised others. Was Ronan really as impressive as Pierre and Zoe claimed? Then, with a deeply magnetic voice, Pierre vividly described Ronan’s performance that afternoon. Having just been doubted, he spoke with extra passion, making Ronan’s image seem even more towering. After hearing the account, Carl clicked his tongue in amazement and asked Ronan, “Are you really here to farm?” There had been outsiders in Lourmarin before, but they were all vacationers; this was not their true home, not even a second hometown. But Ronan’s demeanor made him reconsider this young man. Ronan scratched his head bashfully. “Not just farming. I want to truly integrate, to experience all the wonders of Luberon.” “Not leaving?” Alain asked. Were you serious? “I’m reluctant to go. I even want to bring my family here,” Ronan replied with a smile. Where else would he go to boost his happiness? Louis raised his glass excitedly: “Isn’t this worth a toast, friends? To Ronan!” “To Ronan!” “To Ronan!” “To Ronan!” At that moment, the label of ‘Parisian’ was completely lifted from Ronan’s head. He belonged to Provence now. …
The winter vineyard required little effort, giving Ronan ample time to consider his next steps. The vineyard could only provide enough to get by, but Ronan still had a 130,000-franc loan weighing on his mind. Moreover, he couldn’t endure eating bread every day any longer. Firstly, his body protested and refused to intake too little food. Secondly, his happiness growth had slowed; at first, each meal lifted his spirits by 4-5 points thanks to the blue skies and beautiful scenery, but these days it took three meals to gain the same points.

Page (2/3)
He couldn’t keep freeloading at friends’ homes; he had to cook for himself. But the kitchen had been ransacked by thieves; to prepare meals, he needed to buy a complete set of utensils—costly indeed. He arranged with Zoe to visit the village market together; Ronan planned to observe other ways to earn money. …
Early Friday morning.
Ronan arrived at Louis’ doorstep five minutes ahead of schedule. In the leisurely Provence lifestyle, he usually woke after nine, so the chill in the air at just past seven felt piercing. Here, February was the coldest month of the year. Unconsciously, winter had quietly settled in.
Ronan pondered his first winter plan in Provence when Viery pushed the door open, carrying a large box. Behind him came Zoe, also bearing a box, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders. Viery yawned and handed the box to Ronan:
“Thanks, otherwise I’d have to do all the heavy lifting.”
Zoe apologized to Ronan.
“There was more to do this week—usually I manage it myself.”
Ronan smiled as he took Viery’s box and nodded toward the village.
“No worries, let’s go. Are we claiming our spot?”
At the Paris market, merchants would stake out spots the night before.
Zoe led the way, “No need; the spots here are fixed.”
Lourmarin’s market took place at the village’s central square, a short walk away. Along the way, Zoe gave Ronan a history lesson on the markets of the Luberon region.
Provence’s market culture stretched back over 500 years, beginning when the land was under papal rule.
Markets fell into two main categories:
The first was the traditional weekly market. France’s near 100% agricultural self-sufficiency meant these markets mainly sold farm produce. Each village had its unique specialties suited to local conditions—fish in Marseille, fresh flowers in Grasse, candied fruits in Apt, and so forth.
For non-agricultural goods, there were specialty markets too: antiques at Aix’s Verdon Square, flea markets on the Isle of Sorgue…
The second category was seasonal markets, or farmers’ markets, selling only seasonal harvests. For example, Menton’s lemon market every February, Nîmes’ olive market in July, Grasse’s jasmine market in August.
Simply put, anyone living in Provence could attend a different market any day of the year.
Before reaching the square, Ronan spotted numerous stalls.
On the clean cobblestone streets, each stall had one or more folding tables draped with pretty printed cloths, topped with large parasols.

Page (3/3)
Beneath the morning sun, a riot of colors stretched out.
Ronan caught the scents of all things fresh—seasonal vegetables, fruits, flowers formed the market’s melody, but there was more.
One stall, formed by four tables joined together, displayed many Provençal-style cloths adorned with vivid yellow and blue patterns.
Others sold pottery, plates, olive wood cutting boards, and woven baskets.
Near the church, lively street performances and singing groups gathered.
“Don’t be surprised—Provence has plenty of artists,” Zoe reminded, seeing Ronan’s astonished expression.
“I almost forgot—there’s one right in front of me,” Ronan said with a radiant smile.
Zoe’s stall was set up in front of Alain’s bakery.
Folding tables and parasols were stored there as well.
Ronan gallantly took on all the heavy lifting, always rushing ahead whenever Zoe needed to do something.
“You make me feel useless,” Zoe joked.
Ronan carefully arranged ceramic cups and glass plates on the red floral cloth.
“This is a thank-you for showing me the world.”
Zoe busied herself to prove she wasn’t idle.
“If you’ve been to the ‘Golden Triangle,’ you’d know what real sophistication is.”
In 1986, Lourmarin, no matter in scale, popularity, or fame, could not compare to those ‘star villages.’
It was precisely because of this that Ronan caught the opportunities others missed.
If it were the Golden Triangle’s leftovers, he wouldn’t stand a chance.
Ronan shook his head dismissively.
“That’s exactly its advantage.”
The entire Luberon mountain area was compact; villages lay no more than an hour and a half apart.
Now outsiders admired the Golden Triangle, but when tourists flooded all of Provence, the Golden Triangle would envy them.
Tourists disliked noisy, crowded places and sought quieter retreats.
Finding tranquility amid bustle was key.
In the future, Lourmarin’s commercial value would rival those famed villages—and it would overtake them to be named one of ‘France’s Most Beautiful Small Towns.’
The more Ronan thought about it, the happier he became; this investment was truly wise!