Marché Gloriette was packed this morning even though the weather was cold enough to make my body numb through all my layers of clothing. Almost every vendor's wares were being bought by customers standing shoulder to shoulder while behind them still more waited for their turn.
Having quickly bought my weekly pastries, eggroll, and a kilo of clementines, I contented myself with just watching the whole process unfold. After a few minutes of observing people waiting for their turns to have their produce weighed and pay, I realized what I was seeing: trust. Customers could very easily have slipped their bags of produce into their shopping bags and walked off without anyone being any the wiser.
I felt guilty for having thought this when it seemed to be the furthest thing from the vendors' minds as they rushed to keep up with the never-ending stream of customers shoving bags and money in their hands. And then I wonder: Is it just me?
In addition to the trust I was witnessing here at the marché, I myself have been told "je te fais confiance" twice since my arrival in Nantes - once from a doctor when I was unable to pay him for his midnight visit and once by a professor when she offered to loan me rent money if ISEP didn't put my stipend into my account on time.
And then there's me - slow to love and even slower slower to trust. I come from a country of locked doors and bootstrap myths. Later in my dorm room as I put my purchases away, I realized the truth of this: trust is just as foreign to me as Nantes.
Having quickly bought my weekly pastries, eggroll, and a kilo of clementines, I contented myself with just watching the whole process unfold. After a few minutes of observing people waiting for their turns to have their produce weighed and pay, I realized what I was seeing: trust. Customers could very easily have slipped their bags of produce into their shopping bags and walked off without anyone being any the wiser.
I felt guilty for having thought this when it seemed to be the furthest thing from the vendors' minds as they rushed to keep up with the never-ending stream of customers shoving bags and money in their hands. And then I wonder: Is it just me?
In addition to the trust I was witnessing here at the marché, I myself have been told "je te fais confiance" twice since my arrival in Nantes - once from a doctor when I was unable to pay him for his midnight visit and once by a professor when she offered to loan me rent money if ISEP didn't put my stipend into my account on time.
And then there's me - slow to love and even slower slower to trust. I come from a country of locked doors and bootstrap myths. Later in my dorm room as I put my purchases away, I realized the truth of this: trust is just as foreign to me as Nantes.
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