The fish market

It’s busy. Crowds of people mill about, some purposeful, others standing in groups, deep in conversation. The natives are dressed in dark warm clothes, the odd tourist standing out like a sore thumb in brightly coloured t-shirt, shorts and sandals. Seagulls shriek impatiently overhead. Small trestle tables line up along each side of the jetty, some shaded from the sun with striped umbrellas. Against the seaward side, fishing boats bob and rock in gentle rhythm, resting after a long night’s toil.

For the fishermen, there’s still work to be done. They are here to sell. Each has laid out his stall with his catch and there’s a huge variety on display. 

Some major in shellfish, piles of blue-black cozze, delicate pale grey vongole and the Sicilian speciality, gamberi rosso, vermillion and translucent. Others have landed multitudes of small silver fish, slender sarde, metallic orato, curled into stiff bracelets, and slivers of acciughe, all ripe for dishes of frito misto. On other stalls, there are alien-looking polpi, their tentacles coiled together in a glossy mass, and prettily speckled calamari. The biggest stalls display great tranches of flesh, blood-red tonno and pesce spada.

One stall-holder, big and tired, his face raddled by sun and sea-water, shakes a shower of ice over his catch. Another shouts his wares, a cigarette in one hand, both hands gesticulating in the direction of a trio of women at the next table. The woman closest to him, without looking, raises her arm in a gesture of impatience or dismissal. He shrugs and turns his attention to another group on his left. On another stall, a transaction is underway. Great handfuls of anchovies are dropped into a plastic bag and weighed using old-fashioned weights and scales. All the while, trader and customer engage in an energetic conversation about who-knows-what - the price of fish? The politics of the day? A family upset? Then money changes hands, hands are shaken and a 'grazie, ciao' exchanged.