Pause for Purpose

Mark K October 20th, 2008

The largest flea market in Paris is actually located in St. Ouen, just outside of the Paris city limits.  It’s more of a series of markets, located in permanent stalls and shops that wind through tiny lanes or within arcade-like buildings. You can find everything from expensive antiques – paintings, furniture, a marble fireplace to fun junk – postcards, beads, pens, Paris street signs, one of those ancient bicycles with a huge wheel in front and a tiny one in back.  You wander down the lanes, letting your eyes guide you to the next enticing item.Between the Metro station and the flea market are hundreds of gypsy-like temporary stands selling t-shirts, tennis shoes, leather jackets, suitcases – the same kind of low quality mass produced junk you find in an American flea market.  The neighborhood is on the gritty side and the vendors seem to be more recent immigrants than their more well established neighbors in the permanent markets. Music is booming and stands sell crepes and kabobs.As I was making my way through the crowd, a young man on a motorcycle was threading his way through the pedestrians as he passed me going the other way.  It’s common to see people riding motorcycles on sidewalk here – he would gun the cycle a bit and move forward a few feet, dodge some people and then do it again.  He had a cardboard package on the rack on the back of his bike, held in place by some elastic cords.  As he passed a stall selling sports clothing, a young vendor reached out and neatly grabbed the package, grinning to nearby friends, who were in on the joke.  The motorcyclist continued to his stall around the corner, oblivious to what had happened.I couldn’t tell if it was a practical joke among vendors who knew one another, or a theft.  As he parked his bike, the rider discovered that the package was missing and looked around him – telling his friend what had happened.  I was feeling vulnerable, with the thief and his friends only a few yards away, but caught the attention of the victim and, with my back to the others, motioned that his package was around the corner. He walked back and started to ask questions, but no one would let on what had become of the package, which by now had been stashed in the back of one of the stalls.I kept walking toward the Metro stop, looking around me to find out how things were turning out.  Motorcycle man was walking in circles, moving in the same direction, but getting farther and farther from his package.  When we saw each other, I described to him the clothing of the man who had his package and told him where he worked. It’s always difficult to know how to handle a situation like this, and dealing with an unfamiliar culture and language makes it that much harder.It was looking less and less like a practical joke, but my better judgment told me that I shouldn’t get any more involved.  He thanked me and headed back into the crowd, while I made my way to the Metro station.

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