Eastern Market

There was a fire at Eastern Market last night. Nearly everything inside was destroyed. This included the produce booths, the cheese shop, the bakery, the meat and poultry stands, and the lunch counter where they served breakfast and crab cakes. The building, located on the southeast side of Capitol Hill, housed the oldest continuously operating market in the city. Until now, it had retained the same form and function since 1873.

The latest reports I’ve heard say the exterior structure of the building is still intact. In this and other ways, it has been blessed with the most favorable circumstances possible for a disaster: No one was hurt and the outdoor markets will continue without interruption. Hundreds of people immediately demanded its unaltered restoration. I would like to think that in a couple of years it will be exactly the same as it was before.

I lived across from Eastern Market for several years after I first moved to D.C., and it is impossible for me to separate it from the recollections of my daily errands and annoyances. It was a place where tourists from the outer suburbs mingled with people whose grandparents lived in the neighborhood. You could weave past campaign tables for local politicians and buy your groceries, your music, your wall paintings and West African tapestries, and everything else you might need; and you could find many other things you would never need, beginning with the light switch decorations that have been sold for many years on the corner of 7th and Independence. I bought my first kitchen table at the flea market, and my first bookshelves. The Afghan rug that now unfolds down my bedroom hallway came from a man selling everything so he could go back home in the fall of 2001. Always I saw the strangest things outside my window in the morning, like a group of men who would sometimes gather in a circle to perform an English country dance. Other times it was simply an irritation to live someplace that for others was a destination, as I would have to push through endless lines of idling people and ignore solicitations for money just so I could go pick up my laundry.

There is a purpose to the market that seems unique to America, or at least it’s different from certain other parts of the world where competitive salesmen promote their goods as loudly as possible. This is a market in a different sense of the word as a place of exchange, where every sort of person is welcome to engage with others in unexpected conversations and learn something new. It is where you can obtain the best cheeses in the entire city. It is where you can buy Amish cookies. There is no place here for Barnes & Noble or Cinnabon, or Auntie Anne’s Pretzels or Johnny Rockets. They will not be welcome in the future, either. There are plenty of other shopping locations whose function is to divert resources into international business. This market is not for them. It is for us.

Happenstance landed me there on Sunday, as I sought out books, apples, old maps and bright-colored linens. I didn’t take any direct photographs of the building, assuming it was too mundane and familiar a landmark to require attention. Below are some pictures of nearby blocks on Capitol Hill. Since the neighborhood would be unrecognizable without the market, it is essential that the rebuilding proceed with all necessary resources. In the meantime, the merchants will need a temporary location. More information about that is here.

The bookstore I mentioned in the previous entry (below) is across the street from the market hall. In the picture of the shop window, its reflection can be seen on the center left across from the tree.

Comments

[nub]

pretty flowers!

good to see your camera lens seems to have been cleaned off.

i remember that market from when i visited you back in 2000 or 2001. it was pretty cool.