was thrilling. I half expected
her to ask for their autographs because they were famous by association.
Finishing our breakfast, we said our goodbyes,
and Lulu went to the front desk to ask how to get to the Bastille Market. The employee behind the desk gave her a local
map and told us how to find the nearest Metro station.
***
Lulu flipped her sunglasses up, and we took the
stairs down to the Metro. I worried
about her lack of peripheral vision, so I held her arm until we reached the
bottom, where we managed to figure out how to buy tickets and waited for the
train. The doors opened, and we boarded,
eager for our first ride on the Metro, hurrying over to the only two seats that
were together.
A group of teenage girls huddled together with
foreheads touching. They were whispering
and giggling in what sounded like German. An old woman with a scarf around her head slept with her head back and a
cane in her hands, the bottom of it touching the floor. A thin swarthy man stood against a wall and
stared at me. I patted my waist, where
my passport was hiding inside of my dress. He didn’t look like a human trafficker, but you never could tell . Taking
a deep breath, I tried my hardest not to look in his direction.
The map that was glued on the wall inside the
train helped us find the right stop.
***
A swirl of colors, sounds and scents announced
our arrival at the street market. I'd
never seen so many different kinds of cheese, wine, and produce. Lulu enjoyed
the samples of fromage, and I looked
for gifts to bring home to my friends and family, visiting the tables and
booths packed along both sides of the road, enjoying the rainbows of hanging
dried flowers and homemade soaps.
After wandering for an hour or so, I saw
it: a towering stack of shoeboxes, and
on each top box was a different style of Doc Marten boot.
I hurried to the booth and started
shopping. A pair of “Oxbloods”—a
burgundy colored boot—seemed to wave, beckoning in my direction. I rubbed my thumb over the fabric Air Wair tags that sprouted out of the
back. I had wanted a pair for a
while. They were so terribly punk rock!
I searched for a pair of the elusive
twelve-holed boots, but didn’t find any. There were some with ten holes, which I liked enormously. They would work in the absence of
twelve-holers. Here I am on our first full day and I already accomplished my
mission! The beginning sparks of a
shopper’s high began to tingle within me as I caressed the boots and perused
the other merchandise.
The vendor came over and asked if I needed any
help. He was sort of cute, wearing faded
jeans and a wrinkled button up shirt—reminding me of the boys at the
university: stylish in a nonchalant sort
of way. Long bangs flopped over fuzzy caterpillar
eyebrows.
“ Combien ?” I asked how much the boots cost.
The Oxbloods were seventy-five dollars, and the
tall boots were one hundred, by my francs to dollars calculations. A
pretty good discount of about thirty dollars each . They were beautiful, and my feet cried out
for them. It would deplete most of my
shopping money, but this was all I really wanted, anyway. I'd just begun to get down to business when I
heard her voice.
“Don’t DO it!” Lulu called across the crowd.
My face grew hot, like I had grown an instant severe sunburn.
“Don’t buy those shoes!” She was running to close the gap between
us. In my mind’s eye, the whole event
was happening in slow motion.
“But, Lulu, I want these boots.” I sounded like
André
the Giant, in my reduced-speed moment ( anybody want a peanut? ).
“Don’t you know you have to bargain with
them? They expect you to bargain with them. You can’t pay what they ask. That’s not how they do it here!"
Getting into a sort of tug of war over the
heavy footwear, I pulled them toward my
chest, and she used a surprising
her to ask for their autographs because they were famous by association.
Finishing our breakfast, we said our goodbyes,
and Lulu went to the front desk to ask how to get to the Bastille Market. The employee behind the desk gave her a local
map and told us how to find the nearest Metro station.
***
Lulu flipped her sunglasses up, and we took the
stairs down to the Metro. I worried
about her lack of peripheral vision, so I held her arm until we reached the
bottom, where we managed to figure out how to buy tickets and waited for the
train. The doors opened, and we boarded,
eager for our first ride on the Metro, hurrying over to the only two seats that
were together.
A group of teenage girls huddled together with
foreheads touching. They were whispering
and giggling in what sounded like German. An old woman with a scarf around her head slept with her head back and a
cane in her hands, the bottom of it touching the floor. A thin swarthy man stood against a wall and
stared at me. I patted my waist, where
my passport was hiding inside of my dress. He didn’t look like a human trafficker, but you never could tell . Taking
a deep breath, I tried my hardest not to look in his direction.
The map that was glued on the wall inside the
train helped us find the right stop.
***
A swirl of colors, sounds and scents announced
our arrival at the street market. I'd
never seen so many different kinds of cheese, wine, and produce. Lulu enjoyed
the samples of fromage, and I looked
for gifts to bring home to my friends and family, visiting the tables and
booths packed along both sides of the road, enjoying the rainbows of hanging
dried flowers and homemade soaps.
After wandering for an hour or so, I saw
it: a towering stack of shoeboxes, and
on each top box was a different style of Doc Marten boot.
I hurried to the booth and started
shopping. A pair of “Oxbloods”—a
burgundy colored boot—seemed to wave, beckoning in my direction. I rubbed my thumb over the fabric Air Wair tags that sprouted out of the
back. I had wanted a pair for a
while. They were so terribly punk rock!
I searched for a pair of the elusive
twelve-holed boots, but didn’t find any. There were some with ten holes, which I liked enormously. They would work in the absence of
twelve-holers. Here I am on our first full day and I already accomplished my
mission! The beginning sparks of a
shopper’s high began to tingle within me as I caressed the boots and perused
the other merchandise.
The vendor came over and asked if I needed any
help. He was sort of cute, wearing faded
jeans and a wrinkled button up shirt—reminding me of the boys at the
university: stylish in a nonchalant sort
of way. Long bangs flopped over fuzzy caterpillar
eyebrows.
“ Combien ?” I asked how much the boots cost.
The Oxbloods were seventy-five dollars, and the
tall boots were one hundred, by my francs to dollars calculations. A
pretty good discount of about thirty dollars each . They were beautiful, and my feet cried out
for them. It would deplete most of my
shopping money, but this was all I really wanted, anyway. I'd just begun to get down to business when I
heard her voice.
“Don’t DO it!” Lulu called across the crowd.
My face grew hot, like I had grown an instant severe sunburn.
“Don’t buy those shoes!” She was running to close the gap between
us. In my mind’s eye, the whole event
was happening in slow motion.
“But, Lulu, I want these boots.” I sounded like
André
the Giant, in my reduced-speed moment ( anybody want a peanut? ).
“Don’t you know you have to bargain with
them? They expect you to bargain with them. You can’t pay what they ask. That’s not how they do it here!"
Getting into a sort of tug of war over the
heavy footwear, I pulled them toward my
chest, and she used a surprising
Similar Books
