One beautiful, unseasonably warm winter day, an american, a french/german, an italian, a greek and a serbian/greek ex-Parisian go to the marché aux puces in Lyon. That's me and my friends.
The flea market is not that inspiring. I find a funky pitcher, 2 benetiers and a faience madonna to add to my collection. I am really looking for the perfect commode, a dresser that will fit in the bedroom. I have been looking for 2 years. The sun peeks in and out as we walk around. It feels like almost Spring and voices are high with excitement. We all want to break out.
I keep wondering why I have never managed to live in a warm place. I wonder why I never moved to Marseille or Nice. Lyon, an improvement over New York by far, is still too cold for me. And yet here, this prematurely warm sunny day, I feel intoxicated. We sit in a local café as everyone begins to pack up their wares. We eat poorly, drink a few glasses of unmemorable wine, laugh, tease. Music seeps out of a café nearby and we are like snakes in the sun—immobile, lazy, slow, content. I feel drugged and so good, soaking up those rays, forgetting the long list of tasks I have lined up the week ahead of me. We follow the music and end up inside the local café/bar where the antique dealers wrap up their day. They all seem to know each other. It's a mixed crowd but we still stand out a bit, not locals. The music plays and we can't help but be drawn into the swirl. It's a springtime drug. I'm addicted.