Flea Markets, Bric-à-brac & Knick Knacks
Paris
A world-renown burlesque theater at the foot of a hill, a famous church atop, and stretches and stretches of flea markets nestled behind it. Besides visiting Shakespeare&Company and Laduree Macaroon House, the flea markets of Saint-Ouen behind Sacré-Cœur Basilica stand out the most in my mind.
It was another one of those wandering days; we walked and walked and walked, just soaking in the atmosphere so quintessentially Parisian. No matter, that that day was an uphill trek. We caught our breath outside the church, munched on some savoury crêpes and tuna baguettes for lunch, and listened to breezy live jazz music. The only event that marred the morning was when we were harassed consistently by a horde of African immigrants who wanted to make tourist fare by selling coloured friendship bands. It was rather aggressive, and though Jen & Luki managed to resist the hungry mob, I paid €3 for a sliver of thread (and he had the cheek to ask for €10, mind you!).
After the interlude at Sacré-Cœur, we walked further up in the direction of Saint-Ouen for about an hour, stopping at tiny chocolate pâtisseries and boulangeries. Drifting aimlessly through the tiny street inlets full of beautiful slanted houses and cobbled stone pavement, I didn't realize the gradual change in surroundings. Suddenly, it seemed, we had stepped into the heart of Porte de Clignancourt.
Forget the scenic walks down the River Seine or the thick bohemian air of the Latin Quarter; we have left that side of Paris. Saint Ouen at first glance, is an unruly mass of people, crowded underpasses, and the odd filthy KFC fast food joint standing at street corners. It is the poorer and more real side to the famous city, with large negro families doing their weekly shopping or African immigrants hawking their fake branded goods at roadsides. It is an eye-opener, to say the least, and as we trawled through the noisy crowds it occurs to me that even Paris, in all its elusive magic and grandeur, has its darker sides too.
After getting past the thick band of people, we enter the firsts of the flea markets, which is reminiscent of Singaporean, ah hem, 'pasar malams'. Cheap clothes, boxes of €5 ballet flats and tee-shirt shops. It's not to say that you can't find a couple of treasures (African costume jewelry and bars of lavender-scented Provençal soap, to name a few), but it's the stuff behind all of the fleas we are after; the hectares of Bric-à-brac and antique shops.
It is in places like these where one can get lost, for it's impossible to tell where one stretch of shops end and another begins. They weave into each other like cobwebs, and you can wander into the inner labyrinths of this sprawl, slowly becoming unaware of where you are. The shops are filled with everything, from elaborately gold-leafed teacups to a beautiful leather suitcase nearly encrusted with dust. I remember most clearly, a shop dedicated entirely to the keeping of vintage postcards, photographs and miscellaneous memorabilia, with an almost delicate old man sorting thousands of sheets into small pigeon holes. Double-storey markets like the Marché Vernaison and Marché Antica hold huge collections of art, furniture and 60s records. There you will find the serious furniture and antique item shoppers, and beoccasionally frightened by eccentric shopkeepers who sell eccentric things like (and I kid you not) an elderly couple that sold every kind of 'vintage' farming gear possible. Why miss the chance to own your very own pair of vintage cutting shears, I say!
We didn't buy much from
Les Puces due to their exorbitant prices: only a few knick-knacks to bring home and remember Paris by. Still, it isn't the things you bring back, I believe, but the full-hearted experiences and the stories. Saint Ouen, unlike many faux boutiques out there today, is the true definition of the word 'vintage' and has an untouched and unmatchable classiness, even in its forgotten back alleys.
