I woke up this morning with a crick in my neck so crippling, I could barely get out of bed. Heat, ice, and one French aspirin later, and I was mobile enough to limp to the flea market. I wasn’t limping for the crick in my neck. I wore my slip-on Vans without socks, which I know better than to do. Thirty steps into my journey I said “Uh oh,” as I felt the skin of my ankles peeling off, but I forged ahead anyhow, because I was made this way. Now imagine me with a slight limp, and having to turn my entire body in order to rotate my head, in search of something like this:
I stumbled upon a cute little flea market around the corner from our house on my way to the big famous flea market, significantly further away. I saw a bistro table just like the one I had in mind – one of those cute round bistro tables they have outside all of the cafes here, so I can pretend I’m out in the world when I’m sitting at home. It was 65 euros, so I took note of it and continued on my way, folding the backs of my shoes down to try and stop the chafing.
Upon arriving at the big famous flea market, which took me about forty painful minutes to get to, (P.S. By this time, my loved one was at work, and thus, unable to make me stay home and rest my neck, as had been so wisely suggested that morning), I dodged tourists for fifteen minutes until I finally found the antiques. There they had plenty of pretty little tables. For 300 euros each. I gave it about half an hour and then said to myself, “I’m never doing this again.” So if you visit and you want to go to the big famous flea market, you’re on your own.
I took the metro back, which, by the way, is four short stops from my house.
In what has become my routine, I returned home, drank some water, and assessed my ability to step out of the house once again to most likely accomplish nothing. This time I was sure I didn’t have it in me, seeing as I could move my neck even less than earlier in the day. So I left the house again.
I bought some tomatoes, a lemon, and a baguette, and went to admire my bistro table. It was still there. It looked even better than before.
I returned home, made some pasta, measured the height of the chair that would be used at the bistro table (to measure, I used the “ELENA” belt my dad brought back for me from a business trip when I was ten, because of all of the things I decided not to pack, a measuring tape is one of them). I decided I would march down to the small flea market one more time and offer 40 euros for it, and if the guy didn’t take 40, I’d offer 50 and if he didn’t take that, then I wouldn’t buy the bistro table, and it wasn’t meant to be.
When I arrived, they were all packing up and the bistro table had a new sign: 45 euros! I took out my “measuring tape” and smiled at the guy as he eyed me suspiciously. I offered him 40 euros and he said “Oui,” and I paid, and then I picked up the table, and then I realized that a marble top bistro table with a wrought iron base is unbearably heavy, especially for a girl with a crick in her neck. It was then that I realized why the guy had marked it down so much. He didn’t want to have to lug the thing back home himself. By the power of sheer will, I got the bistro table home, afoot, with people commenting all along the way, offering moral, but not actual support.
When I got it into our building, I collapsed on the entryway floor, thinking, Thank God we have an elevator. It would have been nice if it had fit.
Five floors afoot, which is actually six in France, seeing as the first floor is Floor 0, with a marble top bistro table with a wrought iron base over my shoulder, I am still alive to type the story on the very table itself. And now I am going to take a bath. Forever.