Flea Market

When you think of flea markets do you think of a long drive to a remote location where vendors have little tents set up and shoppers wear those umbrellas attached to their heads? I used to.

It's not the case in New York. There are many many corners in this city where there is a weekly gathering of flea market vendors. My favorite one, largely because it was close to my old apartment, was absolutely incredible. There were tables upon tables of designer sunglasses, jeans, and shoes alongside the mirror man and the junky old shoes guy. An Italian ice vendor stood at the entrance and the rug vendor sauntered sketchily toward the back. My personal favorite, however, was the fancy dress tent. That's where I got my prom dress. Among the hoard, there were other women just like me trying on sparkly dresses over their jeans (or better yet, removing them first).

Yesterday I discovered that in Chinatown, they don't bother setting up a defined block of space for these things. Guys with broken cell phones, busted boots, and packages of fresh Fruit of the Loom line the sidewalks fishing for visitors. I can't say I took the bait.