Two weeks ago I spent a week in Paris with mon petit ami...it was a milestone birthday celebration that I had been choreographing in my daydreams for months...Paris with a suitcase full of lipsticks and silk stockings. I was prepared to look like “une coquette”....to dress up like a doll in the cafes and museums of my favorite city. Mostly I had been dreaming about the Marché aux Puces, the Parisian flea market at the Porte de Clignancourt. My memories of having been at the Puce five years ago had become romanticized a bit. The market is both a museum and a playground of nostalgia, with aisles and aisles of flapper relics and Parisian slinkiness.
On the afternoon before my flight, I went through all my pocketbooks searching for coins to exchange for cash at the bank. Not sure how many pennies I would be lugging around Brooklyn, but every cent was coming with me to the Marché.
The week in Paris was like being inside my grandmothers jewelry box. We felt so lucky. Art everywhere, museums, wine and cheese. We had perfect weather the whole trip. As it turned out, my only hiccup arose at the flea market. Once I got there I became so flustered by the pressure that I put on myself to buy the right relic. For under $50.00.
What nostalgia could I bring back with me to Brooklyn? A pale crème slip dress with a plunging sweetheart neckline? Trop petite. A pale pink tea kettle with silver polka dots? Trop grand. Pleather white thigh high boots? Très Francoise Hardy but trop chere!
For three hours I just wandered around lost in thought and in my lacy tights. I could not commit, and I really needed a beer. My boyfriend was much more focused...(buying Brazilian music on vinyl is more affordable in Paris than it is in Brooklyn!) We left the market for a while, looked at the liner notes in his albums. We drank and ate and people watched.
When we went back to the market, I decided to focus on jewelry. First, I looked at necklaces, then charms,and pendants. Then seashells and machine parts. Then a small broken doll. She looked like Jackie O! I could wear her! (if I drilled a hole in her head and if I could find ribbons that matched her blue velvet dress.)
In the end, the beer and my flea market attention defecit disorder drove me to become creative. A Bakelite Broach in the shape of an arrow was screaming out to me...”tien” (A banana yellow arrow with a cherry red bow). Voila. I Attached the broach to a string of glass beads...Madame Bakelite took me to a mirror. "c'est genial,” she said. Those words made everything cool. Complemented and anxiety free, I was finally ready to leave the market.
