The Market

It's early Saturday morning and I'm shopping at St. Lawrence Market, the sprawling indoor farmer's market right in the centre of town. Everyone has been up with the sun and is seizing the crisp May morning...along with the lettuce, and apples, and...

I haven't shopped at The Market for quite some time. I had forgotten there were so many musicians. Buskers seem completely in their element at St. Lawrence Market, alongside merchants selling local produce and breads and sausages and salsa.

As I walk into the vestibule of the North Market, I happily toss $2 to a boy who looks about fifteen. He's playing guitar and singing something that sounds original. Then, after I've navigated my way halfway across the crowded building, I spot another busker, a teenage girl this time. (Uh-oh...do I still have any change in my pocket?) She reminds me of me at that age (her sweet voice boosted helpfully by a microphone) except that I didn't have anything near her confidence at that time in my life.

I stop to talk to her about busking...she recognizes me from the newspaper article that appeared in December. I want to connect with her, but realize I'm old enough to be her mother.

She tells me she'd rather do this than any other kind of job.

When I arrived at the Market this morning, I saw a man selling the Outreach paper. I recognized him from a few days ago when I bought the paper outside our nearby Shoppers Drug Mart. He apparently remembered me, too, because he smiled and waved me on, wishing me good morning.

An hour later, I had finished my shopping and had donated to four out of the five buskers I encountered. I know I was being silly about it, but once I'd established a pattern, I figured I had to be consistent.

As I left, I saw the same Outreach salesman again. (I'd said 'sorry' to two other Outreach sellers.)

"There are so many here," I said. "You want to give to everyone."

"You can't," he agreed.