Yesterday as you all know was the last saturday of January, and therefore the day of the foire de la Sainte Paule; and while I didn’t go this year, I have seen it many a time in the past and I thought you might be interested to hear about this strange indigenous custom. It is after all a very froggy-french type of thing. So froggy-french in fact, that it gets boring after a few times. I enjoy it the most when I have a foreign person with me to see them stop and stare in amazement. Basically it’s like a giant outdoor market which takes over the small provincial town of Issoire.It used to be purely a livestock market, but these days have gone now, and although you can buy a hen or a rabbit or a cow there, most people don’t.
Because I didn’t go this time, because I am not an organised person and because writer’s block is crippling me today, I think I’ll make an impressionist description of what I remember of previous years, with little metaphorical brushstrokes. It probably is the best way of doing this anyway, because I don’t believe there is any methodical way you can go about describing (or visiting) the Sainte-Paule. It is mayhem, organised chaos. A maelstrom of smells, bright colours, people, and loud noises. And all of this very french, apart from the market stall of the cake-selling Irish lady.
First of all, let me warn you: you will get lost. Issoire isn’t exactly a metropolis but during the foire, the houses and shops disappear completely behind the flapping awnings of the stalls. And there are so many people: most of the rural population from the surrounding area descend from their villages on the hills and plateaux to eat tripe for breakfast. Yes, I know: tripe. For breakfast. yum. The smell of it hangs over the town all day. It’s inescapable, especially if you’re foreign: you have to try it. My dad will treat you. He likes to take a foreigner and drop them in a circle of béret-clad french farmers talking about cows, agricultural machinery and the weather whilst eating tripe and maybe drinking a few glasses of cheap red wine from a buvette.
That would be the frenchest thing to do, but if you’re not so keen on eating a cow’s stomachs, you can just have a wander around. The way it works at the Ste Paule is you stand on the edge of the crowd for an instant take a deep breath and step into the flow. If you’re small enough, I imagine you could just jump and literally let yourself be carried away by river of densely packed people walking the streets. As you move along you can hear vendors advertising their wares, shouting at the top of their voice, and sometimes making a performance of it. “A massive technological advance ladies and gentlemen! The brand new no-tear, no-wear socks! Look at this: I am now going to take this knitting needle and rip through the sock! A foolish thing, you say, Madame. Well just look! And there. Have a look, no hole, no tear! The sock remains undamaged. There is nothing better when you wear boots on a regular basis. I cannot help but notice Monsieur you are wearing boots yourself now! Have you noticed how boots wear out your socks within a couple of weeks? Well, these times are over! With the new no-tear no-wear socks! The fibres, a special blend of…. ” And the same sort of things for knife-sharpeners, vegetable slicers, saucisson, cheeses… Most of the time, if you’re a girl and smile at the vendor, they’ll offer you a sample and call you Mademoiselle, or Madame if they think you look old. At 23 I look young for my age, so I’m still a Mademoiselle, but I dread the day when people start calling me madame. The first person to call me that will die instantly, struck down by “the look”.
But we’re still quite safe I think, last November I had to show proof of age to enter a wine fair. Back to Issoire. So we were letting ourselves be carried around by the compact mass of foire visitors. Whenever you see a stall you like and want to have a closer look at it, you have to squeeze yourself out from between a pram and an elderly fat lady. It can be so difficult you sometimes can just imagine a popping sound when you finally manage to extricate yourself from the crowd, like pulling a corkscrew.
And while you’re standing looking at things, that’s when people start seeing you. You see, for as long as you’re moving, you just melt into the crowd. It’s when you stop you become visible. People see you as they walk by, like they would look at the scenery from the window seat in a train. And sometimes they’ll recognise you. I’m usually identified as being Julie’s daughter (the one who travels). Both my brother and sister hang out a lot in Issoire, so they’ll be with their friends right now, while I perambulate in the streets alone with a million other people. But my mam is a teacher, and as such, everyone knows her. So even if I don’t stay with her, I still get spotted by a few people, who ask me how I am, what I’m doing these days, and the unavoidable: so you’ve come back to France for a few days? and of course: is your mam here, where is she? ridiculous useless question: unless you tie them up to a signpost, there is no way you can find people at the foire. And even if you do know where they’re supposed to be, you can walk past them a dozen times before you see them, unless you know they’ll be holding a dolphin shaped helium balloon on a string and waving a baguette around (or something noticeable to that effect).
I am aware I haven’t mentioned the traditional mimosa, or the tractors and agricultural machinery yet but all this walking around has left me tired, so I’ll just buy a paper bag full of candied nuts, step out of the crowd and away from the tripe smell and go and wait by the car.