Jacques Pervert

This weekend I stepped into an old poem Madame Cabrera, my seventh grade, mole-moving prof de français forced down our throats. “Je suis allée aux marché aux oiseaux.” It was accidental and better than in “Pour Toi, Mon Amour.” Wandering across l’ile de la cité Sunday, I found the weekworkday empty lots filled. Exotic flowers crowded stalls and strange, funny looking birds stared at stranger, funnier looking French and tourists alike. At the market I explored Saturday there were few tourists. Le marché aux puces, flea market, north end of the 4 line, was a riot. They sold everything from head to toe, from sunglasses and shoes to housewares and hookahs. Made conversation and bargained more to see if we could do it in French than anything else. The highlight was when one vender guessed I was Spanish or Italian. J’ai acheté des trucs mais pas pour toi, mon amour.