Talk to Strangers VII: Paris

Let me just put it out there: Paris is a dirty city. Lots of dog shit, lots of litter, and yet it’s immensely appealing. Paris has everything you need and a lot that you don’t. If you want a taste of how the rest of world views Americans, visit Paris. The attitude is legendary and exists. Someone I met there told me he was seated at a restaurant to be asked what wine he would be drinking. A non-drinker he responded “Aucun,” not any.

            “Misère, if I had known you were refusing wine I would not have seated you.”

            “Madam, if I had known that wine was required I would not have asked for a table.” The waitress promptly took the menu and walked away.

            ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­And yet this same man adores Paris. It has been his city for over 30 years.

            I love flea markets and food bazaars. There you will find the soul of the city, with people from all around the region selling their wares, often just trying to get by. Le Marche aux Puces, a famous flea market in Saint-Ouen, is huge with over 2000 tiny shops and has “neighborhoods,” just like a little city. There’s an area with newer things. You know – shoes, scarves, jeweler, leather and sports jackets; a shop with just key rings, another with soaps and off brand perfumes. And there are young brown boys everywhere with Gucci bags over their arms or holding piles of polo shirts asking, “Buy a shirt; buy a bag?” All of these are sold from the back of vans, with huge tarps set up. Once the day is done and everything is packed away there will only be a huge empty lot.

            Another area is where the antiques are displayed. This is a more permanent, with low long buildings with rented stalls, each with it’s own flair, it’s own flavor. Some are so full of things that you can hardly walk in and for many you can’t, while others are elaborately displayed with room to browse. I took my time, enjoying every minute. It was, well, so French, with laces, buttons, silver, chandeliers, and white linen. Everywhere you turn you see delicate porcelain dishware and exquisite paintings. I was yelled at and mocked for taking a photo. From then on I asked permission, with a gesture. For over 3 hours I walked and breathed it all in.

I met Joseph at a café in the heart of Le Puce. I thought I was done. My feet ached and my eyes could not take in any more. I was enjoying the best pizza I had ever tasted, thin, oven baked with tomatoes and arugula.  We exchanged a few words, as strangers often do. He told me there was yet another area that I had not seen, with more refined small shops and treasures. He tried to explain but it’s all such a labyrinth. Would he show me instead please? Yes. The answer was yes.

We spent 3 hours more walking together. Joseph has been working in Le Puce for over 30 years and he knew many of the merchants. Speaking in French with a pronounced American accent, he would often get teased. They would laugh together, Joseph and the merchants; there is a lot of respect for him, it was clear. He is incredibly kind. “Do you see anything you like?” he asked.

“Would you like to know what interests me?” I responded, not really intending to buy but enjoying the look, and I pointed to a painting here, a bowl there, a stool, a lamp. And then, in a corner, I spotted it. 24 inches tall, it turned out to be a trophy for a boules – lawn bowling – championship. The date on the front said 1934 and it was every bit art deco, a young man with his arm stretch out in front holding the ball and his back arm and leg in almost a ballet pose. £600 she wanted. Joseph was in his element. £200. No, £300 was the counter. £250 then. No, £275 and Joseph said that was fair. Done. £275 but now how was I to get it home?

It was not to be possible, and in the end I had to give it up. But Joseph was just as much enthralled with “our boy,” as we called him. It is now his and I hope he makes a tidy profit.

Paris made beautiful through the eyes of a Parisian American and a find in a flea market.