Finding the Magic at Flea Markets

On the day of my departure for Europe, I awakened at 3 a.m., convinced that I’d overpacked.

In a haze, I rummaged in my suitcase and came upon two pair of earrings. I removed one pair and fell asleep.

That aberration was forgotten until the night in Lyon when I put on fancy clothes for dinner at the two-star Leon de Lyon. I found that I had one flat, round ivory (read plastic ) earring with a wooden center, and one bulbous, phony pearl. (The good jewels rarely get to travel--and certainly not on a Eurail romp.)

I scowled at the mirror, trying to decide whether to go bare-eared or wear the mismatched pair and pretend it was nouveau something . As I recall, I compromised and wore the ersatz pearl on one ear, with my hair pulled back on that side.

Another travel ruse to cover a dumb decision.

For that same trip, my husband packed the jacket to his warm-up suit but left the pants at home--an omission he swore was intentional.

“I figured I could save space and jog in my khakis,” he said on that first sunny morning in Italy. “If that doesn’t work, I can always buy sweat pants at the Florence flea market.”

I held my tongue all through breakfast, which is no mean feat.

The last time he announced that a flea market would save the day was in Sri Lanka, when he discovered that his shorts were still in a hotel drawer in Delhi. All I will say is that the search through the shady stalls of Kandy was amusing, and that he found nothing he deemed fitting.

Flea markets should not be approached in desperation or with a shopping list. If you’re seeking a 1920s photo frame, you’ll find only 1950s. If you’ve promised a friend a silken purse, you’ll find only sows’ ears--and pickled at that.

Besides inviting disappointment, you will miss the zany magic of a flea market browse. The jumble of treasures and gewgaws cannot be seen in a rush. Your eyes have to scan the oddments, sorting out the appealing from the unappealing, the known from the unknown, the bin from the has-been. It is a subjective game.

The term flea market was born in Paris in the 1880s when laws were passed to push thousands of street people and scavengers north of the city limits. Near the Porte de Clignancourt, these displaced characters set up a market to sell old bric-a-brac, used books and clothes. Since the ragtag clothing was often flea-ridden, the place was dubbed the Marche aux Puces or Market of Fleas. Bargains were legion; news spread of rare finds--an uncut gem priced as costume jewelry, an Impressionist drawing on the back of a ho-hum painting.

The madcap market at Clignancourt now covers almost 75 acres. Million-dollar windfalls are pretty much a thing of the past. Merchants sell sequined gowns, Art Deco pins, luggage, lamps, chests-of-drawers, antique silver, wooden boxes, hand-painted ashtrays and everything imaginable shaped like the Eiffel Tower. It is a cheery destination for bargain hunters--both travelers and Parisians--each Saturday, Sunday and Monday.

At the Porte de Vanves--at the edge of Paris’ 14th arrondissement (south side, beyond Montparnasse)--is a lively market of 20th-Century castaways, more like an American garage sale. Open Saturdays and Sundays, it is packed with menus, sheet music, beads, belts, paperweights, posters, wine glasses, carafes.

On a flea market stroll, you can glimpse what the merchants are cooking for lunch in the corners of their stalls, and how local women wrap those long and lacy stoles. You can photograph wide-eyed children as they tumble down narrow alleyways, or concentrate on stacking oranges atop a rickety wooden table.

The Florence flea market--the Mercato delle Pulci--is only open on Saturdays and Tuesdays. We set out instead for a popular open-air market on the Piazza San Lorenzo, just behind the noble San Lorenzo church. One salesman was so eager to show off the quality of his silk neckties that he crumpled them up and tossed them into the air. They fell back without a wrinkle, only to be balled up again by this jovial juggler. I bought three ties for the price of two . . . or was it four?

Two rolls of film later, we approached the last stall. My husband glanced up and said calmly, “Oh, there they are.”

We were facing a rack full of sweat pants. Extra long? No problem. Gray or navy or black? He paid less than $7.

You cannot reform a lucky man.