When I woke this morning, my two housemates had already left. I ate my usual breakfast (cereal and toast with Nutella), took a shower, dressed in green, and plotted my morning. One of my professors told me about an open-air book market that opens on the weekends. I took the Metro into an unfamiliar part of town -- where le peuple live. A baker was making baguettes inside the local boulangerie when I passed by. How quaint that a man works on a Saturday morning! Just kidding.

No less than three hours of my own leisure time were spent inside of the book market. I can now understand how historians are able to get so enthusiastic about their subjects. This market had everything that could have been of interest to me (except for stereographs. One of the vendors told me that outside of Paris there is a photography salon, but it is open only for tomorrow. He assured me stereographs could be found there. I am going to see how much train tickets will be.) The vendors at this market had old and rare books, hand-colored maps, newspapers, magazines, advertisements, menus, autographs, postcards, photographs, diplomas, letters, et cetera. They were all incredibly nice to me and I was able to practice my French. Despite the 70-degree week, today was closer to 30 degrees and I was not dressed warm enough. Two different vendors (one of which was a woman) offered me a jacket. One offered coffee and I told him I didn’t drink it. Then he offered a cigarette and I told him I didn’t smoke. He replied: Two for me, then. This is what the French do.” His best item? A book collection on Parisian caricatures and stereotypes.

I found a handwritten record of the monthly price of paper over a period of three years – using Republican dates. (For those who aren’t aware, after The Revolution the Republicans created a new calendar, as well as measurements of volume and time. For example, each week had ten days and each month had three weeks.) It was only 40€, but I practiced excellent self-restraint. Perhaps next time I won’t.

Also found were a portfolio of Dalì’s illustrations for The Divine Comedy, an Art Nouveau photo album, and an original edition of the newspaper that printed Victor Hugo’s “The Man Who Laughs.” I really wanted to buy the Victor Hugo story because the illustration was very familiar to me. For the select few of you who have been told my reoccurring dreams: perhaps you can remember the one about the hanging man or the crows. This illustration looked like it was straight out of my dream, although I don’t recall ever seeing this image before. I have had several experiences similar to this since being here, but those will be saved to become subject matter for a later entry.

I was discussing some political caricatures with Sylvie, one of the vendors, when a man came up who was documenting the market. Apparently the market is in its thirtieth year and he is photographing its vendors for a book. We engaged in an informal interview and I explained to him why I preferred open-air markets to other stores. He thought it was a matter of convenience, but I think it is quite the contrary. It’s not easy to find out about or attend these kinds of markets. Besides the fact that I love breathing fresh air while I shop, I find the common, and often obscure, interests of the vendors and shoppers of a particular market a magical thing. For these vendors, finding and selling these books is a full-time job. They have to truly love their merchandise. Similarly, the average shopper is simply not going to go out of his way early Saturday mornings to attend specialty markets unless they have a genuine interest in that particular good. Also, the vendors develop their own social groups within the market, taking turns between watching the tables and making coffee runs. It’s a social experience that cannot be found at any mall.

I only bought six photographic snapshots (and was given two more) and two 19th-century political caricatures (21€ altogether). On the way back to the Metro, I stopped at a café and celebrated St. Patrick’s Day with a quick shot of whisky (only 2€!). In all honesty, this was more to warm my body from the past few hours spent in the cold than to celebrate the holiday. When asked, one of the vendors replied that today was no holiday. Every day was a reason to go to the bar and get drunk.

All this week, more and more advertisements for whisky (Scottish and American) have been plastered on the walls of the Metro stations. I found this one rather arousing and worthy of posting.

My next stop was Café Percier in the 8th arrondissement, where I presently sit and type after having eaten a croque monsieur and drunk a disappointing glass of Cheverny.

Song: M. Ward - Rollercoaster