A Slice of Saturday Morning Markets in Nantes

The morning in cities

Nantes, France

Almost any city feels different in the early hours than it does the rest of the day. Somehow, there is a reminder of the natural world as small birds make themselves heard in the pre-dawn light. People move a little more slowly, preparing for the day. All of the dozens of cities I’ve been in before begin to all feel a bit connected before sunrise.

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This city, Nantes, hosts some public market every day of the week. They’re one of my favorite places to go, all moving with a similar rhythm as they go through their routines, creating a kind of bridge, a beginning to the new day and offering a reset from the night before.

In the municipal market, Talensac, small clusters of overdressed teens and 20-somethings blearily march in as the cafes open at 6am. They join the fishmongers over coffee and sweet snacks from the boulangerie that is open from 5am. The awkward clicking sound as high heeled shoes walk like newborn deer over the slick tiles meshes with the steady squeak of rubber boots marching back and forth to trucks. The air smells of a constantly working espresso machine and fresh fish.

Friday night into Saturday morning

It seems to be a regular part of Saturday mornings that while fish sellers in rubber overalls chat near the bleary-eyed club kids, still in last night’s party gear, no comments seem to pass between them. By 7am, the market’s cafes are doing a brisk business in coffee, beer and wine as more and more vendors arrive to set up for the day and the party kids move on.

I’m rarely there that early myself, preferring to show up once the vegetable sellers are set up for the day at 8am.

I arrive pretty much on cue with my demographic, a small parade of middle-aged men in flat caps peruse the fruit and question the butchers. I have become a part of their numbers. They chat with interest over bread and vegetables, gaining insight about the subtleties of apples or some such thing. It’s a peaceful time of day and the sun hasn’t yet risen by 8:30am.

the market stall cafes

The smaller outdoor cafes are open, representing many of the ethnic groups of the city. The Tunisian, Eritrean and Somali folks have stands here serving as weekend community centers - a chance to hear familiar sounds, taste familiar flavors and say hello in familiar tones.

Even the beggars of the market haven’t clocked in yet. One woman I see every week asking strangers for change at entrance was getting coffee and a light snack from the Syrian espresso stand and chatting with the owner over the singing of Fairuz, a singer I have heard in delis, markets and cafes in Tunisia, in Brooklyn and here.

Waiters with trays of small coffees and teas circulate among the stalls. Later, they’ll be needed closer to the shop as the morning rush hits.

The chatter in the market rises as stalls finish filling out and the younger people here now are those who have woken up early, not stayed up all night. In those first few hours, it is as if the market exists only for itself as the small town of vendors settles in. They yell across the parking lots to get in their last bits of conversation before the day gets too busy.

After 10am, the 30- and 40-somethings with families and strollers begin to file in. Strollers begin to appear in large numbers and their slow rolling through the space forces everyone to maneuver around them. The fast movements of the start of the day begin to slow down as the market’s population has doubled in the last hour.

By 11, the market’s population explodes into a winding crowd bumping past each other with thousands of excuse me’s and thanks you’s as everyone works to get what’s on their lists.

The end of the day

After noon is when the bargain hunters and truly late risers arrive. Increasingly deep discounts are offered to recoup potential losses for goods that won’t last over the long weekend.

The market day begins to close up around 1pm, making its last sales of the day so that at least some food won’t go to waste. The police and street sweepers arrive to reset the market to an empty space that is a parking lot for rest of the week.  

The police take their time and the routine seems well established. They grab coffees from the small cafes and chat with the vendors. The Syrian café is typically the last to close and everyone congregates nearby.

By 2pm, the street sweepers start their work and the parade of panel trucks exits the parking lot to return to the docks, the farms, the warehouses, to home.

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