One of the things I love about living in this part of the world is that I buy my bread at the bakery and my vegetables at the market.
Shops have different names and they sell different products. No more sterile shopping in a well lit supermarket aisle, pushing a huge trolley into somebody else’s huge trolley like in some manic game of bumper cars. No bored cashier with a badge at the end of the chain waiting to make my plastic wrapped prize click.
That baker is a charmer. He smiles widely every time I go in and claims his day has just got massively better for seeing me. One time I walked in while the staff were having lunch and they all insisted I join.
The guys in the market sing above their shiny, fragrant, fresh produce. You buy your tomatoes in a whirl of song, laughter, energetic entreaties and colour.
One day I went to the corner shop and didn’t have any change. The owner went out to change my banknote leaving me alone in his shop. Another customer walked in, took a packet of cigarettes from the shelf and left the money on the counter.
Where the shops have many names trust is just one of them.
Eastraveller 