Brooklyn Flea

The moment we walked inside the Brooklyn Flea Market, the high ceilings strung with white lights and the cool, slippery floors held a smell that I recognized from long ago.  Somebody's basement.  Old, worn clothes and slow afternoons spent talking on a tattered plaid couch.  Pretending and playing hide and seek.  Making big plans and telling little secrets.  I haven't been there in 15 years but this warehouse took me back there immediately.  

I didn't bring any money- the government is taking it all out of my paycheck.  But I soon realized that I didn't need any money to enjoy myself, and samples were as plentiful as vintage boots so I indulged.  40-year-old cameras - stop signs - beaded lampshades - soap.  Rolling Stones records - winged sunglasses - postcards from the 1920's - and ART and ARTISTS everywhere.  Passions hung on jewelry trees and displayed on shelves.  These people make what they love and they love what they make in turn.  A man from Athens sold Greek yogurt - and Karin fell in love with him.  A woman rubbed lavender scrub on my hands and rinsed them with warm rose water.  An Australian woman with gold eyeshadow and her American husband (who may or may not have been gay) told us everything we needed to know about their wax soaps.  "We both use it to wash our hair every day, see?"  Their greasy hair blindingly shined in our faces.  A man obviously high on caffeine showed us his hand-held espresso contraption, gave us a free sample of coffee, and sent us over to his friend who sold chocolate - said they taste like heaven together.  They did.  The people wandering about wore faded shoes and smiles, linking fingers with their significant others, browsing for knick-knacks to clutter their apartments with.  Lavender on our hands and chocolate lingering on our tongues, we caught the F train home.