One thing that has become clear to me as I’ve walked the aisles and talked to people over the last few weeks is how much the Market is a second home to many. When I’m there in the late afternoon, I often see the same handful of folks, sitting at the same tables, comfortable in space that has become theirs through repetition and familiarity.
As I walk, I peak into the back areas of stalls, looking to catch the stirfry cook engaged in a private moment or the glimpse the woman who is waiting for her boyfriend to finish making sandwiches so they can walk home together.
Last Friday afternoon, I wandered past the Cookbook Stall and caught a glimpse of a young family sitting on the floor. They were tucked behind the waist high bookshelf, two young parents playing with their baby. I figured that one of them worked there and that the partner had come in a little early to pick them up. The Market was really quiet that afternoon, so they were taking the opportunity to enjoy one another and let the time pass until it was time to go home.
I walked by a couple of times, not wanting to give the impression that I was invading their privacy, but still wanting to witness this little bubble of contentment and family space that they had created on the floor of a stall in a normally bustling public area. I had my camera in my hand but I didn’t take a picture, because I didn’t think it was fair to intrude on them in that way.
I had lunch with Eric Vincent this week, a local music producer who introduced me to an amazing sandwich and who, back in the day, spent some time working a grill at a couple of different stands. He talked about how, in many respects, he grew up in the Market. It was his first job in Center City, but he seems to have been shaped by the attitude of acceptance and respect that was the rule in those days. He said that working at Reading Terminal was a lot like being part of a family. Nobody let you get away with anything, but in the end, they always had your back.
In the last few years, the Market has added some additional seating back behind the Fair Food Farmstand and the Golden Fish Market. In addition to the plastic chairs and tables that fill this area, there is an upright piano.
Most afternoons, you can find someone sitting at that piano, playing for enjoyment and a few tips. Last Friday afternoon, an older gentleman was the one sitting behind the keys. Most of the people sitting in the area surrounding him weren’t paying much attention to the music. The woman sitting to my left was feeding her 14-month-old grandson an afternoon snack, while three girls a couple tables away were scribbling their teenage angst into matching journals.
However, one woman was paying him the whole of her attention. She had drawn the chair that was closest to him up so that she could reach out and touch the back of the piano if she wished. Wearing a long red skirt, short-sleeved white sweater and a light-yellow brimmed hat with a pink fabric flower pinned to the side, she kept uneven time with a bouncing foot. For the longest time, she clutched a five dollar bill in her right hand, as if looking for the perfect time to add it into his tip jar. After he finishes up a particularly rousing rendition of “Mr. Saturday Night,” she shakily rises and drops the five into the mostly-empty jar.
A Reading Terminal employee moves through the area, straightening chairs and evening out the rows of tables. She notices a particularly dirty one and shouts to a coworker to come over and wipe it down. The listening woman turns her head and glares at her, hoping that the dirty look will have the power to return the space to the concert hall she has created in her mind.
Looking around the space again, I realized that while most of the folks seated in ones and twos at the tables aren’t actively listening to the music, it seems to be having a subconscious effect. Writing utensils are tapped in rhythm and the visible stress that the business man across from me carried when he sat down seemed to fade. I am reminded of the magic of live music and feel particularly fortunate to have experienced that reminder while at the Market.
I went over to the Market today in the later afternoon, to take some pictures and hopefully talk to a few people. Despite the beautiful day and the upcoming long weekend, the few individuals I approached weren’t feeling particularly talkative. After several fairly polite responses of, “No, sorry,” I took a seat in the Center Court of the market to watch the people coming and going. I noticed the Duke women’s lacrosse team, in town for the final four games tomorrow at Franklin Field, eating late lunches across several tables. They all seemed like nice girls, but I couldn’t help but think, “I hope Penn wins!” I guess I really am a Philly girl at heart these days.
Several people sat around me, their laptops open on the tables in front of them, taking advantage of the free wireless in the market. It seems like a really fantastic way of spending a workday afternoon.
A middle-aged man sat a few tables away from me, his back to the Tokyo Sushi stall. He had a sketchpad propped up on his knee and an array of colored pencils splayed out in front of him. He continually scanned the room, looking for people to draw. At one point I walked behind him, and noticed that he was using a young woman with bright pink hair as his inspiration. She continued to eat her sandwich and read a book, apparently oblivious to the fact that her likeness was being committed to paper. A group of young teenage girls walked by him and his sketches caught their attention. They swarmed around him and pelted him with questions. He answered every one with gentle patience, giving every girl the opportunity to look at his work close up.
The market has such a relaxed, easy going feel in the late afternoon, after the lunch rush has ended and before people come pelting through in the post-work hour, trying to pick up the bits they need for dinner before the market closes. I recommend spending a little time there during that window if you are able.