A rare and precious place

One of my favourite places to spend my time is local markets. I love the variety of people, smells, random products, and the generally slower and meandering pace these places tend to encourage.

There’s one not far from where I live which I find particularly unique. More often than not, you can find me there each Saturday, wandering the aisles, checking out new offerings, and chatting with regulars and randoms alike. There’s a lot to love at this place, and it exemplifies many values which I think make Canada truly unique.

It’s called The Western Fair District Market, in London, Ontario.

Not much to look at from the outside…

So, what’s it like? Well, it’s about as far from a big box store shopping area, or modern mall as you could get. If that one line sounds enticing to you, then I’m willing to bet you’re the type of person who would love this place.

There are no chains. No booths selling cheap phone cases. No big clothing brands to be found.

What you will find, are locally sourced produce, local butchers, small scale preserves, and food vendors whose menus are build upon family and cultural traditions. You’ll find artists painting, happy to tell you about their art and how they developed their craft, and even happier to sell you one of their beloved creations at a very reasonable price. Hand-made Persian rugs harken back to a time when each meticulous detail was developed with skill and patience. Prints, shirts, and maps all celebrate local culture and history.

What you’ll hear are voices of people from all walks of life, all cultures, and all backgrounds. You’ll hear live music performed by local artists – from seasoned professionals to brave souls willing to perform in public as they hone their skills. Chatter and laughter all around, as friends and strangers all enjoy each other’s company and the pure present moment.

What you’ll smell? Freshly made food, fruits and vegetables – many which were in the ground not long ago – flowers arranged by the vendor themselves, along with old books, candles, soaps, and countless other smells all linger in the air.

Put them all together, and you have an experience which would be common in many parts of the world. Here in North America, though, these kinds of places are quickly becoming few and far between. Whenever one does crop up, gentrification rears its ugly head, and a Starbucks appears, signalling the cultural death of the area.

A quieter section on the second level.

I used to wonder how this place managed to keep such an authentic human (?) vibe. After all, it’s always busy, and there’s a lot of money changing hands; I would have thought a chain or two would have slimed their way in long ago.

Well, I’ve spoken with the market administrators, and it seems they are the gatekeepers protecting this precious example of the Canada that I love. You see, they don’t allow just anyone to set up shop. They work to ensure vendors are as good a fit for the venue as the venue is for them, and it’s working.

Vendors and artists submit applications, then the administrators will sit down with them to get a sense of who they are and what they’re trying to do/sell. If it’s not a good fit, then they are wished the best of luck and sent on their way.

This place could make a lot more money if they wanted to. Money, however, doesn’t seem to be a primary goal of the market administration – even though vendors do need to make a profit, of course. The primary goal of the place seems to be to create a place for entrepreneurs to make some extra money on the weekends, and for local people to gather, bump into each other, and support vendors who share that sense of Canadian community.

This is a place where differences are celebrated, where the arts are cherished, and where hard work and entrepreneurialism is rewarded.

This is a place where your salary carries no weight, where patience for others is on full display, and where typically urgent notifications can wait.

This is a place I love.

I am grateful to those who have built and maintain this place – and places like these.

Edit: Sometimes it’s wonderful to have a terrible memory. I’ve written about this place before (here), but I’m glad I forgot — writing this was fun.