Love Stories: My Tango in Paris With the Porte de Vanves Flea Market
By Lynn
Yaeger
VOGUE CULTURE February 5, 2015 6:00 am
Sometimes I wonder, as I climb the metro steps and
walk the half-block past the patisserie and the couscous café—what it is about
these tables bearing cracked crockery, these racks of moth-riddled furs that
somehow survived the Occupation, that has such a hold on my heart?
Most tourists (and sadly, though I visit and visit,
for work and for love, a tourist is ultimately what I am) go to the huge Porte
de Clignancourt flea market, which is clear on the other end of town, and this
is what I did for years as well. That massive puce is a special place, and I like
it a lot, but it is the little weekend morning market at Vanves, its upstart
cousin to the south, that I plan my visits around, extending my Fashion Weeks
to include two weekends, so I make it here four times. In fact, I am here so
frequently that I can recite the stations leading up to Porte de Vanves with
the perfect accent of the recorded voice that announces the Metro stops—Gaîté,
Pernety, Plaisance . . .
Perhaps it is the humbleness of the set-up, the
anonymity of the surrounding neighborhood, the fierce un-chicness of the whole
operation, that draws me. Or maybe my obsession with this market—a few hundred
dealers, most of whom I know by now on sight—is tied up with the idea that if
they see me a lot, the sellers will assume that I am French. This is not
because I think that if I trick them about my birthplace I will get a good
price (I shop flea markets all over the globe and I assure you, I never get a good
price)—it’s actually a more elusive, and, OK, maybe pathetic goal. Ever since I
started to come to Europe, as little more than a teenager, I have hoped that
people will think I am an elegant citizen of the world, not a gauche American.
(This ridiculous ambition could only be realized if I impersonated a deaf
mute—the minute I open my mouth, all hope fades.)
Of course, I could pursue this impossible dream of
being mistaken for a local anywhere in France—in a restaurant (though I am
content with a paper cone of frites bought on the street) or a museum (haven’t
darkened the door of the Louvre for 30 years). But I am also a voracious
collector of the kind of weird small things, the leavings of a previous
generation or two, that find their way from an unheated attic, a dreary cellar,
to the tables of Vanves. I have purchased many wonderful things at this market
over the years—well, they seemed wonderful to me, at least when I bought them:
the candy box shaped like a Breton beret (bet you don’t have one of these!);
the memorial plaque commemorating Mon Père; the birds-eye maple box that has
Toujours and Jamais printed in nailheads; the blue-eyed monkey in the handmade
orange playsuit. (The dealer threw in his sad pal, a bear with plaid paws, at
no extra charge.)
I even have a sort of girl-crush on the old guy (in
truth, he is probably my age) who plays songs like “Satin Doll” and “Smoke Gets
In Your Eyes,” on a little keyboard at the corner where the food truck sells
sandwiches and crepes. I always drop two euros in his cup, which is a lot (you
can buy stuff here for two euros!), but he never even glances in my direction.
Perhaps he is afraid of the madame who stands close by and glowers?
But of course, the more I come up here, the more I
feel its absence. As in all love affairs, brevity and impermanence lend
sweetness, and poignance. Given the fact that I actually live 3,600 miles away
(5,794 kilometers!), I liken my trips to Vanves to the conjugal visits
permitted to prisoners. But instead of having sex in a trailer (Happy
Valentines Day!) I am bathed in the glow of Bécassine dolls, broken pocket
watches, homespun linens, and Victorian hairpins, waiting for me silently under
a cold Parisian sun.
Lynn Yaeger is a contributing fashion editor to Vogue.com and a contributing writer to Vogue.
http://www.vogue.com/9799411/love-stories-paris-porte-de-vanves-flea-market/
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário