Boiling my Butte off!

The cool snap is over and it’s hovering around 34 degrees in Paris, which feels stinking to me (a Melburnian deprived of last summer.)  Of course, I don’t have a thing to wear and so, to remedy this, I venture to the annual flee market, held on the cobbled streets of the Butte aux Cailles village, just around the corner from my place in the 13th arrondissment. This once-a-year event goes off! All the locals bring their bricante, bric-a-brac, treasures and general crap out onto the street. What a fab idea! It’s like a car boot sale, only you don’t have to pay for a spot and you don’t need a car boot.

The streets are bulging at the seams with old clothing, broken televisions, rusted cutlery, Chanel hand(me down)bags, scuffed Italian shoes, clogged salt and pepper shakers, broken ornaments, gaudy jewellery, dog-eared books, book-eared dogs and music that no one wants to hear any more. And the people! They’ve appeared from nowhere in their sun hats and sandals and, with sun-rouged cheeks, they rummage, fossick and elbow for a bargain. 

I manoeuvre my way through this stagnant pond of people, breathing in the smell of sweat, dust and musty clothing, feeling the moisture build where my sunglasses sit on the bridge of my nose. I get to practise asking Combien ca coute? (How much does it cost) and I learn to listen carefully for numbers and to the correct pronunciation of euro.  

Neighbours meet on the street and there is an air of celebration, perhaps of summer (apparently it poured with rain last year and just wasn’t the same.) They kiss on the cheek and I listen to their conversations, understanding only every fifth or sixth word, rarely able to piece together what’s being said but loving the music of this foreign language. From an old record player, Dean Martin appropriately crackles and croons, 'Memories are made of this.’

And then I bump into Viviane, a breath of fresh air in this sticky heat. Viv is my new friend, a talented artist, a creative soul who lives in a beautiful light-filled apartment overlooking the roof tops of the Butte aux Cailles. We wander a while, sifting through vintage clothes, bags and shoes. We are drawn to the same stalls (mainly those in the shade!) and, as we meander, Viv seems to naturally connect with people. Every once in a while we bump into her friends and neighbours and she introduces me. They are all as sweet as her and are kind enough to speak English for me.  They include me in their conversations, keeping eye contact, offering smiles and, despite this steamy 34 degree day, I welcome the warmth.

(I brought some spoons and a handbag so, needless to say, I still don’t have a thing to wear...unless I plan to make an odd fashion statement!)

Note: The photo is taken from Viv's apartment, over the rooftops of Butte aux Cailles.