We took the metro out to Porte de Clignancourt for the world's biggest flea market, as they call it. Over 2,000 stalls, from the most chi-chi with crystal chandeliers and fine art to the most unrecognizable truc (thing) sitting in a box. Our goal was to find that happy medium for my bohomeme space back home at Found on Fremont.
Even the world's largest flea market wasn't enough to loosen these purse strings. Although Andy did tell me, "You're not cheap, you're just very particular." I was flattered.
So we searched high and low for what I was particulating for (yes, that's a new word I coined, it's a verb) and I even participated in bartering, which is something I hate to do, especially in another language.
I'm a little impressed with myself, mostly with the way I've mastered the "dumb nod." You know, the plastered clueless smile while my head bobs up and down and my mind frantically tries to piece together what this old man wants for this old piece of paper? There's an art to it.
My particulating worked out nicerly, see!
The next day, we woke up early and got in line to go down below the streets of Paris and see the Catacombs, where 6 million bones of Parisians, including Marie Antoinette, are stacked in rows upon rows. And don't be mad, but there was a McDonald's (McDo) across the street and we bought coffee to warm our hands while waiting.
After rising out of the bowels of the city 45 minutes later, we walked to Place de St. Sulpice and had lunch in front of the fountain from a little picnic we had packed that morning. The weather, as it has been all week, was perfect.
Andy was hiding down there.