Category: Observation Piece

I have been to flea markets since I was a child with my parents on the weekends. I remember waking up very early and wondering how early the small shop owners would wake up at. I don’t know if these shop owners depended on their shops for their livelihood, but it was only a weekend thing Saturday and Sunday. Back home I would wander around and look at all the stands, shops, and things being sold on the back of trucks. Being at a flea market so early was a bit of a drag but being there a couple of hours and walking around aimlessly made it fun.

While being in the flea market I was reminded of the flea markets back home, beyond the language barrier and being in a different country I think the fundamentals may be the same. Livelihood may come in different shapes and sizes, different products, sometimes repetitive, and does uncover a truth underneath. A community relies on things that we can’t see, the sense of being able to join a space to sell and interact with locals is just another way of learning. We may be thousands of miles away from home but there are similarities here with the people even if they are from different countries. This market is not just about selling products or food but sharing culture and language with a mix of human behavior. I may walk around and find the same products, but the people are different, and they all have different stories to tell, and it takes time and a matter of asking where they are from. There has always been an idea that saddens me when I see faces around me, I will never get to know everyone in this world even if I tried. Time limits me to my own string of life. This market will most likely exist far into the future creating more connections. I might be connected to someone in the market down the line of a friend of a friend, but I will never know.

This market alone is a small version of what a city is like, people selling items, people buying, people living and people just looking and the world going on around them.

The day was hot, but the breeze was cool as it rippled around me whenever I stood in the right spot. The market was anything but buzzling, most of the stores closed and the few open were selling things at prices that far outshot my budget. Despite the lack of excitement I continued walking, my feet begging me to stop with every step. The sweat culminating on my brow dripped down to my eye and made it sting. As I turned the corner, rubbing my eye free of the stinging pain, I heard my friends gasp in excitement behind me.

There, right around the corner, was the buzzing market we were promised. Little shanty stands stood side by side with marvelous things sprawled out all around. Shoes, clothes, glass cups, music, posters, and anything else you could imagine was there in front of us. Slowly and observantly, I began walking down the street that was now overtaken by people and items instead of the usual cars. Every vendor sat in their own makeshift chairs and smiled as we approached. We continued down the street, more bummed with each step, thinking that our newfound discovery was coming to an end.  Once we arrived at the corner, we found that the stands extended until the eye could see. Stands of old and new items being sold filled the area and squished me between them. Every now and then people hopped in front of me asking me if I wanted to buy something in French and I would respond with “Perdon, solo hablo español” and then proceed to maneuver myself around them. I walked down one more block before I realized my friends were no longer near me. I had wandered off by myself, too entranced in the commotion of it all to mind.

My attention was caught by a stand that was more so a small shop with clothing racks laid around. I neared the area tentatively and browsed through some of the clothes racks outside. There was an older man with a balding scalp talking to another man who was holding a blue bomber jacket. Not being sure which one was the shop keeper; I mumbled a quick bonjour to both before I made my way into the teeny tiny shop. The smell was overwhelming as I inhaled what I could only assume was years’ worth of dust. The inside of the shop was no bigger than two regular sized walk-in closets smashed together, and it was decked out from top to bottom in clothes, bags, and random country flags. On one corner hung a full-size Louis Vuitton suitcase that had seen better days and on the other corner the matching carryon. The parameters of the store were littered with clothes racks that contained mostly men’s clothes from decades past. It was a quaint little shop that looked like it had stood against the changes of time. Everything memorable in its own way. I saw nothing that I wanted and left that day empty handed, however I did leave with something more precious, a glimpse of history and a lifelong set of memories.

Giselle is a rising senior at St. Edward’s University. She is an Environmental Science and policy major and a political science minor.

Visiting the Saint Ouen flea market was a fun/refreshing experience. After being in central Paris for nearly two weeks, finally seeing price tags that fit my budget was refreshing, to say the least. The flea market consisted mostly of affordable antique items and cool, high-end furniture that I definitely couldn’t afford. While I was there I thought deeply about what a flea market meant for the people. If it’s a market and just a market, or maybe something more. I saw the flea market as a way to spread the availability of goods while producing minimal waste and giving other people the opportunity to give use to these items instead of throwing them away. The flea market made me think about how we go about things in Austin. We have vintage stores that sell overpriced items, and a Goodwill, which gives a similar opportunity to the flea markets in Paris. But the flea markets give off a sense of community. Like a whole collection of people trying to make it as vendors, together in the same area.

We have so much to spend, but when is it time to give? A lot of these items are worn and sometimes completely broken. What’s beautiful about the flea markets, is that it gives people the chance to give new life to these items. Find use out of the useless. I remember seeing a collection of old pocket watches and wrist watches scattered along with a table and I thought about who could’ve owned them, and what kind of person would buy them because they were all broken. It’s cool to see that these useless items still hold some sort of value just because they are old. Visiting the Saint Ouen flea market felt like its own little adventure. With the crazy variety of items and countless individual unique shops, I feel like I might have to visit a second time.

The hot sun beats down on your back as sweat drips down your entire body. It pools around your face as you walk through the cobblestoned roads. Everywhere you look there is something to see. Vendors are on either side of you, with merchants who have crafted the art of selling their work. This is what it is like to walk through the Montreuil Flea Market on a Monday afternoon.

A man lovingly polishes the dust off a mahogany table underneath his tent. It is clear that he has used great detail to create and care for these objects under his tent. Surrounded by what may seem as random and insignificant objects to others, this man has made a living of creating things. He fashions the best furnishings with his handiwork and nurtures them until he can give them to someone who cherishes his workmanship.

A lone dog strolls past the merchants, sniffing the booths of the vendors. Groups of pigeons flock over to eat crumbs off the ground. The shopkeeper shoos them away, protecting his perfectly crafted bureaus. Even the slight brush of a pigeon could ruin his efforts. Maintaining flawless work is a crucial part his job. Finding someone who appreciates his craft just as much as he does is very important to him.

Walking through the Montreuil Flea Market is an experience to be had for sure. Being surrounded by such impassioned people is so inspiring. Seeing the devotion that these shopkeepers have for their craft makes you realize the importance of finding what makes you happy, what gives you purpose in life.

The journey to the Marché aux Puces de Paris Saint-Ouen was long but highly rewarding. Located on the outskirts of Paris, visitors must navigate the maze-like streets to find the flea market – which boasts the title of being the largest in the world. The streets are lined with several stores, each filled with an assortment of treasures, as well as a massive collection of warehouses filled with priceless antiques and the like. 

Before descending upon the sprawling warehouses, there were a few stores to browse, and one, in particular, was hard to ignore. The window display featured mannequins with elaborate and eclectic ensembles: an 18th-century-like orange bodice dress, a hot pink tweed set, a sparkling silver dress. For anyone with even minimal knowledge of fashion, it was quickly apparent that these were rare, highly sought-after designer pieces, which made it impossible to not enter the store and explore further. Inside were racks of evenly-spaced vintage ​​prêt-à-porter, as well as tall display cases filled with gold jewelry and colorful handbags. The clothing ranged in prices from $300 to $5,000 or higher) and was subtly separated by color and season. A few standout couture pieces were displayed on mannequins, including a lustrous, purple Jean Paul Gaultier set from the late 90’s, so ridiculously expensive the price almost didn’t fit on the tiny tag. Many of these pieces were collectors’ items rather than wearable clothing, and obviously in none of our price ranges, but the store felt like a comprehensive exploration into the history of fashion, which made the visit a worthwhile experience.

Further into the market were the connected warehouses, only a select outdoor stores open, each with a niche selection of merchandise. From cartoon plastic face masks to wall mirrors, every single vendor had a unique collection to offer. A single door in the distance led into the inside of the warehouses, which mainly housed antique furniture. That Tuesday marked the beginning of a heatwave that would go on to hit Paris, and the air conditioning provided a reprieve from the stuffy heat. Thirsty, I immediately began a quest to find a drink, which led me down hallways filled with mid-century loveseats and 1970s art and wardrobes that looked straight out of a period film. Coca-cola finally in hand, I let myself become lost amongst the seemingly endless rows of vendors. Each item held a storied past, ones that began to form in my mind. A shag rug that once belonged to an eccentric couple, a tall, metallic lamp that resided in an artist’s studio, and so on. 

The time began to pass quickly as I strung together my elaborate stories, letting the items come to life with a rich history. Flea markets give used items a second chance, but the first one is what usually interests me the most. 

Andrea Cardenas is a rising senior majoring in Communication and minoring in Spanish. 

I’ve always been convinced that other people don’t really exist, at least not until I can see them existing. It’s hard for me to grasp the fact that there are billions of people in the world, not to mention hundreds of billions that came before us. So I guess you could say that exploring the Marché aux Puces de Saint-Ouen was an unsettling and overwhelming experience.  

Walking past an endless row of tarpaulin tents, I was met with remnants of what once was. Boxes filled with lenses and antique cameras, brooches and jewels, undeveloped rolls of film, stamped cards, grainy photographs. I found these booths and their vendor’s more compelling than the luxury boutiques with glamorous articles of clothing, chandeliers and ornate furniture. I just couldn’t quite figure out why. 

I continued to explore the maze of booths and eventually stumbled upon a tray of seemingly worthless trinkets: paper clips, pins, chains, buttons. As I shuffled through the items, I came across a silver pendant with a photo of a woman printed on it, the date 1917 engraved on the side. Although the photo had faded with age, I could make out the young woman. She had thick dark hair pinned up in a bun, a gown with puffy sleeves, and a pearl necklace around her neck.

Who was this woman? What was her name? How was it that her pendant ended up here and now in my hands? Would she ever know that in a hundred years, this pendant would bring her memory back to life?

Unlike a vintage leather Prada purse or Valentino gown, the objects I was fascinated by don’t have much economic worth. But what they lacked in monetary value they made up for in sentiment. Something as trivial as a paper clip or a ribbon has a history we’ll never know, an owner we’ll never meet. These objects symbolize someone who once was and can now only be remembered through them. 

Our possessions are our identities, and one day our entire life will be condemned to items in a box. Perusing through a crowded Parisian flea market, I couldn’t help but think about how for every article of clothing, antique, trinket and photo, a glimpse into someone’s secrets is being offered. And all we can do is piece these items together and create our own idea of what they meant to their previous owner. 

One day, our existence will only be remembered through a rusty locket or a wallet-sized photograph scattered alongside keychains and bottle openers in a tray of a foreign man’s booth.